The Slave Market of Mucar (5 page)

"We go out here," he said. "But not tonight. A friend of mine once told me about this passage."

The two new prisoners exchanged triumphant glances.

"I told you this place had paper walls!" the dark-haired man exclaimed.

In the warden's office, Saldan stood looking at the dying sun staining the rim of the desert with bands of blood-red and gold.

The senior prison officer, a hard-faced individual with a square jaw, stood at his elbow.

Saldan was the first to break the silence, clearing his throat ponderously.

"Tomorrow at this time they'll be out," the officer said, "The last for some while, Larsen, unfortunately."

Larsen smiled sardonically.

He went over to join the warden at the window.

The two men stood watching the daylight die over the desert.

Larsen smiled again.

"More merchandise for Mucar," he said.

The two men silent and both engrossed in their own marched back inside again to allow another group of men to thoughts, watched the last of the light disappear across the rim of sand.

Page 21

CHAPTER 4

ENTER THE PHANTOM

Colonel Weeks's normally impassive face had a fiery flush on it. He sat back in his armchair at Jungle Patrol Headquarters and stared stiffly at Ricketts and Coates as they stood before him.

"What do you mean, nothing?" he said angrily. He felt in the drawer for his pipe and scrabbled about for the metal scraper. His eyes regarded the two men steadily.

"I'm waiting. The warden can't have just said nothing. What did he tell you about the escapes? And his ideas for preventing future breaks?"

"He just talked a lot of hot air," said Ricketts. He felt aggrieved at the colonel's attitude as he stepped forward to explain in greater detail.

"He didn't want any interference. He just kept repeating that his prison was understaffed, the men underpaid, and the security system obsolete."

"He said his prison record was no worse than others," Coates broke in, glad to take the heat off his brother officer.

Weeks put the pipe in his mouth so violently that he almost speared his throat. He bit on it so savagely that the two men in front of him thought that the stem would snap between his strong yellow teeth. Weeks took the pipe from out of his mouth as though it were choking him. He glared at it and put it down on the desk. Then he got up and started walking about the office, deliberately keeping his temper under control.

"Did he explain why-of all the dozens who've escaped from Masara in the past few months-not one has ever been seen again?"

Ricketts shook his head.

"He didn't go into any detail, sir," he said. "My impression was that he felt the criticism to be unanswerable and was trying to cover up by ranting."

Weeks smiled suddenly arid stopped his pacing about. He came to a halt in front of Ricketts and Coates.

"Aral I'm not helping by ranting in my turn," he said gently. "Point taken, gentlemen. Please sit down."

The two junior officers drew up their chairs as Weeks went back behind his desk. He picked up his pipe again, scraped the bowl, and busied himself in stuffing it with tobacco from an oilskin pouch. The fan cast fretted shadows across his face as it went tirelessly round on the ceiling. When he had lit up and the pipe was drawing to his satisfaction, he seemed relaxed.

"Well, now, Tim," he said, glancing across the desk. "Where were we?"

Page 22

"We were commenting on Warden Saldan's inefficient prison as I recollect," said Ricketts. "The problem is, where do we go from here? I'm afraid Joe and I didn't make much of an impression on the warden. He's a hard character."

Weeks's eyes flashed as he took the pipe out of his mouth. He discharged a noxious mouthful of blue fumes at a squadron of insects which hovered between floor and ceiling.

"Exactly," he said. "Which makes the record of his establishment entirely incomprehensible to me."

He sat smoking silently for a few minutes more, his eyes searching the young officers' faces. Eventually, he made up his mind.

"Well, from what you say we won't get much help from the governor either. There's only one thing for it.

Masara Prison is outside the Patrol's jurisdiction. I must go direct to the commander of the entire Patrol.

Dismissed!"

The two young men jumped to their feet, put on their helmets, saluted, and went out.

In the corridor, they paused.

Coates looked puzzled. He turned to his companion.

"What did the colonel mean by 'The Commander of the Patrol'?" he said. "I thought he was the commanding officer."

"So he is," Ricketts explained. "But we also have a supreme, overall Commander of the Patrol."

He smiled at the other's expression.

"You're new here, Joe; you'll get used to the setup eventually. No one knows the identity of the commander. And no one asks."

Back in the office, Weeks sat moodily smoking his pipe. Presently, he got up and went into a small inner office where he kept radio equipment and top-secret papers. He paused before a strong, steel wall-safe. He sat down at a Morse key and tapped energetically for several minutes. There was no reply. He sighed and got up again.

He left his office with a scribbled message on a sheet of notepaper. A sentry saluted as he went up the central staircase. On the flat roof the night breeze was welcome; it was even cooler in the great concrete shelter on the roof. The soft cooing of pigeons came from the cages within. Weeks tripped a light switch and stood blinking in the sudden glare. The soft murmur of the birds seemed to soothe his earlier anger.

"The pigeons are for emergency use only," he said to himself quietly. "Well, this is an emergency use."

He selected the small plastic container with its clip and inserted the message. He screwed on the top and walked past the racks of cages, looking for a particular bird. He stopped by a cage near the end, aware of the beady stare of the pigeon inside. He scratched the back of the bird's head. It arched its back and started shuffling along the cage. It looked like an old-fashioned vaudeville comedian playing for a laugh and Weeks couldn't repress a smile.

"Hullo, Samantha," he said absently. "I've got a little job for you."

Page 23

He reached inside and cupped the bird in his hand. He attached the plastic cylinder to its leg with the clip and took it outside. It cooed contentedly as he held it in both hands and gently stroked it. It exploded upward with a sudden beating of wings as he hurled it into the air. It soared into the evening sky, circled the roof three times, and was then a faint speck against the last of the sunset. Weeks stood, staring after it until there was nothing else to see, before making his way heavily downstairs to his long-delayed dinner.

It was before dawn in the Bangalla jungle. The Deep Woods were asleep. Hardly a palm frond stirred. The forest would be silent until the faint, dawn wind shivered the grass blades and sent ripples across the pool.

The tiger had ceased its nocturnal hunting and had returned to its hidden lair to sleep out the heat of the day while the kakar and the langur and all the more timid beasts of the forest briefly slept, conscious that the perils of the night were over.

The hush was broken by the solitary cry of a bird and the cry was taken up by another and then another.

Faint shapes flew against the dying starlight; wings flapped uneasily, beaks gaped open. It was time to eat.

Down by the pool, ripples indicated where big fish lay. The first pallid finger of daylight crept across the water, and slowly grew.

The red fiery disc of the sun appeared above the rim of the sea; light spread rapidly across the sky. The blackness of the impenetrable jungle grew less dense and changed to the pale green that would never grow any lighter, no matter how long the day.

With the light came the heat; mist started rising from the ground. Soon quivering heat would change the atmosphere, even in the deepest woods; farther out, toward the sea and the desert, the trees were less impenetrable and brilliant shafts of sunlight stippled the leaves, turning them to liquid fire. Animal noises joined those of the birds. The jungle was coming to life.

A faint speck appeared in the western sky, grew larger. The beat of wings sounded; a tiger looked up curiously, while pausing to drink at a forest pool. On the pigeon flew, farther and farther into the Deep Woods, where only the stoutest-hearted ever ventured. Soon Samantha was flying over the territory of the dreaded Bandar, the pygmy tribe whose noxious poisons and lethal blowpipes were among the most feared aspects of the jungle. Samantha was on the way to the unknown Commander of the Jungle Patrol.

The pigeon was soon circling above a place where outcrops of rock thrust up out of the green of the jungle.

Here there was a sheltered glade, one end of which led to sweeping uplands and then to a sandy valley blocked with tall cliffs. The pigeon settled on a branch and looked about. Opposite was a towering rock face and from it stared the delineation of a massive skull, created by the natural formation of the tumbled stone.

Two caves in the crumbling cliff above formed eye- sockets; below, a fall of rock in some earlier time had left a ruined gash which looked uncannily like the remains of the nose; the entrance below, black within, slashed with bars of sunlight without, made an enormous, open mouth.

The pigeon took off again with a flutter of wings, its flight describing a curving arc against the golden light of the cliffs. Samantha flew beneath the cave entrance and over fine white sand into the dim interior.

A few seconds later, it had traversed the length of the natural rock tunnel into an enclosed area where light from burning torches showed the way. At the end of the tunnel was a massive circular cave which was

Page 24

ablaze with light. Modern radio equipment, looking incongruous against the rough stone walls, was in this cave.

The pigeon had obviously been here many times before, for it never hesitated, but flew straight to a nest of metal homing boxes, which were lined with straw. Metal troughs set along the front of the cages contained seed and trays of water. The pigeon cooed contentedly as it thrust its beak forward to drink the cold, clear water.

The beating of its wings had aroused the attention of a massive figure who sat brooding like the spirit of Skull Cave on a huge, throne-like carved chair at one side of this strange apartment. He was an extraordinary sight. His powerful form was well over six feet in height when he was standing erect. The face was craggy, broad, and good-looking. Strong, square white teeth flashed as he smiled on noticing Samantha's arrival. His eyes were covered with a small black mask, and his massive torso with a close-fitting jerkin of some thin material under which his pectoral muscles stood out sharply.

Whenever he moved, the iron-hard muscles of his upper arms rippled under the light-colored material. The jerkin was in one piece and rose to a close-fitting hood fitting tightly to his head so that it was impossible to see the color of his hair.

His legs and thighs were encased in similar material and his feet in thick black riding boots. Two revolvers in black-leather holsters dangled at his hips. Around his middle, he wore close-fitting shorts of a thick striped cloth and over that a massive black leather belt. On the front of this was a triangular motif which bore a tiny skulk symbol in the center. The effect should have been bizarre and sinister, but it wasn't.

This was the Phantom, the man superstition whispered could never die, of whom a thousand legends were circulated over as many miles of jungle. He was the very spirit of these Deep Woods of the Bengalla jungle, a man of tradition, whose life was dedicated to overthrowing evil. Men said he had lived for hundreds of years; that he could never be killed, and the sight of him in this strange place would have convinced any watcher that the legends were true, so durable and eternal did he look, sitting at ease on the lofty throne, as though carved of bronze.

But there was no one to see other than the pigeon and the equally striking figure at the Phantom's elbow.

This was Devil, the mountain wolf, the Phantom's constant companion in the Deep Woods and one of his most loyal friends. Devil's yellow eyes blinked sleepily beneath the lights of the cave and his red tongue lolled over his white, razor-sharp teeth as his master's hand scratched roughly but affectionately in the fur behind his ears.

"We have a visitor, Devil," said the Phantom, getting to his feet. His voice was deep, resonant, and commanding and it seemed to stir the echoes beneath the high, domed roof of the cave.

"It would appear that the Jungle Patrol has an emergency for our attention."

Electric energy seemed to emanate from his tremendous form as he crossed the cave to where the row of boxes stood. Devil sat licking his fur for a moment longer and then strolled languidly over to the Phantom's side to see what the fuss was about. The Phantom gently lifted Samantha from the perch and deftly undid the clip from the pigeon's leg with his strong, capable fingers.

"It's the first message from them in a long while," he said.