DOC SAVAGE: THE INFERNAL BUDDHA (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage) (22 page)

“With what, you fuzzy lunk?” said Ham.

“What if we go down? What happens then?”

Startell Pompman answered that. “The thing in the box could conceivably gorge itself on the entire Pacific Ocean.”

“Nonsense!” returned Ham Brooks.

Monk looked to Mary and Mark Chan.

The latter responded. “Every time the Buddha of Ice drinks, it grows in volume. The greater it grows, the deeper its thirst. The larger it becomes, the more water it can consume.”

“It could drink the entire Pacific,” intoned Mary Chan. “Drink it down to the last drop.”

“Holy cow!” Renny exploded. “Could that be true, Doc?”

At the controls, the bronze man offered no opinion. It was better not to say anything. He had never felt so apprehensive about any cargo he carried in his supremely eventful and dangerous life.

Instead of speaking, Doc grimly advanced the amphibian’s throttles.

THEY REFUELED AT Saigon, in French Indo-China, and again at Hongkong, where the British authorities showed Doc Savage great deference.

They also wished to know what business the bronze man had in China. They were polite about it. “Veddy” much so. But it was plain that they expected straight answers.

Doc Savage told them, “We are searching for a generalissimo named Wah Chan.”

Which was the truth. Just not the entire truth, of course.

The British bluejackets were not completely satisfied with that explanation. Then Doc produced the Chans.

The half-caste twins told a story of fearing for their father’s life, going as he did from bandit chief and leader of the dreaded
Hung-Hutz
, to a nationalist fighter of Japanese.

That, the Brits understood.

“We want this bounder, Wah Chan,” they said. “To whom do you presume to turn him over?”

“Wah Chan will be dealt with according to his just deserts,” promised Doc.

That seemed to satisfy the British authorities. Vague as his words were, the bronze man was trusted by the Crown. He had done the British monarch many a past service.

Doc next asked for any information they had.

“At this moment, we have none,” he was informed forthwith.

Then Doc asked about a radio report he had heard during the flight from Saigon to Hongkong.

“A Japanese cruiser is said to have been discovered drifting in the upper South China Sea,” Doc related. “Reports are that no hands were found on board.”

“That is true. The boat was boarded, and found deserted. A jolly new
Marie Celeste
mystery, wot?”

“What disposition was made of this vessel?” asked the bronze man.

“None. It was allowed to drift away. It is a Japanese problem.”

“I would like to search that vessel. Can you provide its present location?”

WITHIN the hour, they were back in the air and hammering over the vast wrinkled expanse of the South China Sea. It was littered with fishing junks and sampans, as well as other coastwise merchant traffic, their delicate sails resembling floating moths.

In back, Startell Pompman was bestirring himself. He had avoided all conversation with the Chans, and they had likewise returned the favor.

But now he was overflowing with talk.

“In Solar Psychology,” he began, “the sign of Gemini is known as ‘The Twins.’  That is because those born under the auspices of Gemini are often duplicitous of mind. They possess sharp tongues and are given to prevarications.”

No one commented upon this casual utterance.

Pompman went on, “I am not asserting that all Geminis are thus afflicted. Nor am I impugning the good natures of twins. I am just pointing out plain facts as the ancients have handed them down to us.”

His meaning was clear, however.

Renny recast it into plain English.

“If you’re trying to convince us that the Chans here are speaking with forked tongues, you can stow it,” he rumbled. “So far, all you have contributed to the proceedings is a load of hot air—none of it valuable.”

“Tut-tut, my dear sir,” clucked Pompman, waving his plump, womanish hands in the air. “Pish-tosh.”

Ham interjected, “If you’re still trying to convince us that Mark and Mary Chan tried to gyp you out of the thing in the box, the Buddha’s Toe, save your breath. That is not the story that they are telling.”

“Let me remind you that I sought out Doc Savage in the first place, flying at great expense from Shanghai to Manhattan for that noble purpose,” Pompman said flatly.

“And they had roughly the same idea,” grunted Renny. “It was their bad luck to run on to Dang Mi and his cut-throats.”

The plump plutocrat eyed the big engineer with one eyebrow cocked superciliously. “Are you certain of that, my good man? How do you know they were not in league with that blackguard, and simply had a falling out over the Buddha’s Toe?”

Renny folded his map. He had been doing the navigating, assisted by radio bearings which Ham had taken.

“I like their story the way they tell it,” he snapped.

Pursing his lips, Startell Pompman fell silent. He steepled fat fingers over his portly paunch, and a deep frown descended upon his heavily-jowled face.

Mark Chan picked up the conversation at that point.

“Having failed to achieve his unworthy aims, this man thought he could induce Doc Savage to assist him,” he said pointedly.

“Perhaps he feared we might do the same,” chimed in Mary, “and simply raced to beat us. A fast China Clipper would make the Pacific crossing more rapidly than we could in our little plane.”

Forward in the cockpit, Doc Savage was monitoring his compass, while Renny called out bearings.

“Should be coming up on that drifting Jap cruiser any time now,” the big engineer remarked.

Not fifteen minutes later, Doc Savage reported, “There it is.”

Throwing the laboring amphibian into a slanting dive, Doc set the plane down. The Pacific was well named at this point. It was a very smooth landing, owing as much to the state of the seas as Doc’s landing skills, which were considerable.

Doc asked Monk to accompany him. They set down a pneumatic rubber raft and sculled over to the becalmed cruiser. It flew a Japanese ensign—a solar disk radiating red rays against a white field.

“Looks like a big blood-soaked ball,” muttered Monk.

They ascended via the Jacob’s ladder and worked through the abandoned vessel.

The story of what must have happened was simply read.

From pilothouse to stern, the cruiser was deserted. Evidence of dry tea leaves in small porcelain cups, and half-smoked cigarettes told that the ship had been evacuated in a violent hurry.

Here and there, a boot was left behind.

“Whatever happened, they couldn’t be bothered to stop and grab their kicks,” Monk mumbled. He looked worried.

Doc Savage examined one boot. The leather was dry and horribly distorted, laces the consistency of punky wood. He handed it over to Monk, whose simian face frowned heavily as the boot sole crumbled under examination.

Doc next opened up the bilge and shone down a light. It was as dry as an empty water tank.

Next he examined the boilers, and their oil supply. What oil had been in the reservoirs had turned to a gummy substance resembling hardened tar.

“Blazes!” squeaked Monk, whose chemical knowledge told him that such a thing was virtually impossible.

“It is evident that this ship was attacked by a vessel bearing the greater portion of the Buddha of Ice,” Doc decided.

Monk eyed the surrounding ocean. It was the hue of blue jade. Without stooping, he absently scratched a knee.

“You figger the crew got overcome by the same thirst that hit us, and jumped into the brine, Doc?”

Doc nodded. “It is reasonable to assume that in their blind panic, they would seek relief in any water at hand. No doubt they drowned.”

“Or sharks got ’em,” suggested Monk. “Say, Doc, what if the raiders come back?”

“They will not. No doubt they have sailed farther north to seek more Japanese warships.”

There being nothing more to discover, Doc and Monk scrambled down to their raft and made their way back to the waiting amphibian.

Back on board, they related their tale.

“That sounds like the work of my father,” said Mary Chan. “He despised the Japanese.”

“What sort of craft was at his disposal?” asked Doc.

“A junk of war,” she replied.

“An armored junk,” elaborated Mark. “With bow and sails marked by the sign of the Red Dragon.”

“The Red Dragon is the symbol of the
Hung-Hutz
,” echoed Mary. “My father is a power among them.”

“The
Hung-Hutz
are a bandit organization also known as the Red Beards,” Doc imparted. “They have been operating in the north of China since the days of the Red Terror revolution. They are no better than gangsters.”

Mark and Mary Chan looked uncomfortable, but declined to contradict the bronze man’s stated opinion.

“That junk won’t be hard to identify, if we can spot it from the air,” Ham suggested.

It was brave talk. Even in this time of conflict, the South China Sea was busy with maritime commerce. Spotting one junk among the many plying open water would take luck as well as skill.

That obstruction seemed not to bother the giant Man of Bronze. He ordered the hatch closed and began snapping ignition switches back to life. The still-warm motors crashed into a bawl of synchronized sound.

It was an easy take-off. There was only a modest amount of suction that had to be overcome in order to lift the big bronze bird off the water’s surface.

Bearing north, Doc offered a thought. “Assuming they did not hove into port, the junk would not have gotten far in the day or so since the attack. We will head for the northernmost point they could conceivably have reached, and fly circles until we spot it.”

As Doc flew north, he engaged the Chans in further conversation.

“Back at Pirate Island, you said that there was talk about what happened to the monk called Tang, in the Gobi Desert. What kind of talk?”

Evidently, the bronze man was interested in the origin of the Buddha of Ice, even if it only consisted of hearsay.

MARK CHAN considered his words a long time before offering speech.

“It is said that, in its original state, the Buddha of Ice was discovered in an arid part of the Gobi, where no water existed, and it rained but once or twice a year.”

Mary Chan inserted, “Tang claimed he had found a piece of jade the color of mare’s milk, which summer winds had uncovered from the sand. He believed it to be valuable and, having some skill in the carving of minerals, began to cut and polish it as a stonecutter would.”

“The claim is that he took over a year to work it into the form of a sitting Buddha,” said Mark.

Mary frowned. “But Tang’s mind wasn’t pious. He carved the body of a Buddha, but when he got to the head, he made it over into the semblance of a dog-eared devil. Or so my father told us.”

“Tang was able to do this safely?” Ham wondered, curious.

“At the time, the Buddha of Ice was not yet awake,” explained Mark. “It was dead, inert.”

“Or perhaps slumbering,” offered Mary.

“Preposterous story!” Startell Pompman exploded. “Utter rot! Listen to them spin that sorry tale.”

“You shut up,” Monk growled.

Spittle dribbled off the plutocrat’s plump lips. “Pshaw! Mineral substances do not harbor spirits! Every educated man knows this.” Pompman’s derisive laughter shook his globular belly.

“So says the esteemed astrologer,” Renny grunted sardonically.

The merry man’s mouth abruptly snapped shut like a steam shovel. He went about polishing his pince-nez spectacles with fuming intensity.

“Continue,” invited Doc, voice carrying above the faint drone of the three speed-cowled engines.

Mark Chan took up the tale.

“After Tang the monk got the Buddha in the shape and semblance he desired, he set out for China in an attempt to profit by it,” he related.

“What his plans were at that point are locked up in his wicked mind,” seconded Mary. “But during his journey, it chanced to rain.”

“Uh-oh,” muttered Monk.

“Only a few drops fell, but it roused to life the evil spirit that slumbered within the Buddha,” said Mark.

Mary continued, “Tang was carrying the Buddha and he lifted his mouth to the sky to drink of the falling precipitation. But a curious thing happened.”

“The more he drank,” Mark said, “the thirstier he felt.”

“When the rain stopped, he remained thirsty,” Mary intoned.

“And when he looked at his arms, they were shriveled horribly,” revealed Mark.

Mary nodded. “The Buddha had tasted its first earthly water. Its prodigious thirst was awakened. Since then it has known only thirst—as do all who come into contact with it.”

Ham touched his throat as if the memory stung. Monk made tasting sounds with his suddenly-thick tongue. But neither made a move for water, for fear that it would be needed later.

Doc Savage said, “The properties you ascribe to this Buddha are not properties of jade. Nor of any known substance.”

“We do not know where the material that constitutes the Buddha originated,” Mark admitted.

Mary nodded. “Tang never spoke of that. He did not know.”

Methodically polishing his glasses, Startell Pompman spoke up confidently.

“I know. I know exactly where the Buddha came from. That I do.”

“Yeah?” said Renny skeptically. “Where?”

“From the stars, of course.”

“Hah!” scoffed Monk. “More astrology.”

“Nothing of it, sir,” Pompman said huffily, gesturing with his beribboned pince-nez. “Do any of you gentlemen recall the comet that passed near the earth some three or four years ago?”

In the cockpit, Doc Savage’s trilling began to sing. It drifted up and down the musical scales, seeming to fight the engine drone for supremacy. After a while, it became the dominant sound. Or so it struck the ears of all who were within listening range.

“The comet Giacobini-Zinner,” said the bronze man, “passed by the earth in the latter months of 1933. One of the most dramatic Draconid meteor showers on record followed.”