The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack. H. Bedford-Jones

he needed all his wits now. Everything had opened up with a vengeance! He discounted entirely the promise to spare him. Tuyok the Hound would never let him reach the world again to tell what he knew.

      “Naturally, I want to live,” he said quietly.

      “Then write out a letter in your own hand to the president of Stratolines, saying that you find it impossible to arrange matters here, and advising that, since a new franchise will not be granted by the government, Stratolines accept any settlement that may be proposed.”

      Duane had no objections. Such a letter would be regarded with derision, especially in view of his disappearance, but Tuyok was far from realizing this.

      “Then a settlement is to be proposed?”

      he questioned.

      Tuyok smiled in his thin way. “It is. Another air line will buy Stratolines out—cheap. The profits will run into millions, largely to my benefit.”

      “Very well. Give me pen, ink, paper, and dictate the letter.”

      “A pencil will do. You’ll find all you need in that leather chest by the window.”

      A Chinese trunk of red leather was there. Duane opened it, found writing materials, and took the letter dictated by Tuyok. It went on to mention that he had gone on a hunting trip and would return later.

      The Mongol stood, took his hands from under his robe, and showed a pistol in one.

      “I admire your discretion, Mr. Duane,” he said, taking the letter. “You see, I was educated in America; you were wise not to try any tricks in this writing. It will be countersigned by Mr. Lawton and his sister, and sent in. Good day.”

      He stepped swiftly out of the room; the lock clicked.

      * * * *

      For two days, Duane remained a close prisoner. He saw only the Mongol who brought his food twice a day; but from his barred window he had a glorious view of the mountains, which was poor compensation. He tried the bars of his window. They were new and solid; but the rubble of the wall was poor stuff. Not that it would do him any good to break out, at this height from the ground.

      Early on the third morning Tuyok the Hound reappeared, accompanied by two other red-robed lamas. He seemed highly affable.

      “A. little surprise for you, Mr. Duane,” he said. “Lift up the rug from the floor.” Wondering, Duane complied, and laid bare an iron ring. At Tuyok’s order he lifted on the ring; a foot-square section rose from the floor, to show him the room below. He looked down, and a sharp cry broke from him. Standing in that room, gazing up at him, was Agnes Lawton.

      The two lamas came forward. The little trap-door fell into place. A padlock was attached to it, a heavy padlock.

      “You see, I too am a wizard of the air,” said Tuyok, chuckling. “You are safe; she is safe; the work is ended. Perhaps I shall have need of you both, later. Meantime, you remain as hostages. See that you are docile, Mr. Duane—or she will suffer with you. Good day.”

      He swept out with his two companions. Far from relapsing into docile despair or acceptance, Jim Duane suddenly wakened to savage energy. That Agnes Lawton had been brought here by plane, he could well understand; that she stood in acute peril, was only too certain.

      Duane fairly wore himself out that day—tinkering uselessly with the padlock, trying to signal by tapping the floor, even calling from his window, which had bars but no glass. All was vain. He spent the next day working at the rubble of the wall, around the window bars; here he accomplished a little. He had nothing to work with, except his belt buckle; the metal tongue made a pitiful tool, but achieved a faint progress.

      He kept at it, day after day. He was unshaven, unwashed; his bleeding fingers made the work bitter hard, but at least it was something to do. And he gained headway around the window bars. The Mongols who brought his food never looked at anything. It was taken for granted that he was helpless. He strained his eyes watching for planes, for a helicopter, but none came.

      He knew that Wang would not have abandoned him willingly, but after all Wang was no person to depend on in this pinch. Probably the pilot, too, was in prison, he thought.

      Now began a labor grim and great, labor by day and night, with every thought and energy concentrated upon the one end. The window was his sole hope; the massive door was solid, and whenever it was opened, Mongols waited outside while his food was brought in. Tuyok came no more. The padlocked trap-door was never opened again.

      He burrowed at the rubble around the bars. Day succeeded day; he burrowed with belt-buckle, with fingertips, with coins, with anything that would scratch. Deeper grew the holes; a night came at last when he tried one bar and felt it give slightly—with full effort he could tear it free. He concentrated now upon the others, with feverish intensity.

      Also, from one end of the tattered rug, he unrove a weft of cotton which gave him a long but flimsy cord. To this he tied a scrap of paper and the pencil, first writing the one question: Are you well? He lowered it, in the sunset light, from his window, greatly fearing lest it be noted from somewhere on the ground below; he jiggled it in the air, called down—and all in vain. Either Agnes Lawton did not see it, or she was no longer in the room below. He gave up at last, and utilized the pencil as a digging tool, ultimately shattering it to flinders against the rubble.

      Hostages! He knew what that meant. For himself it did not matter; but the thought of Agnes Lawton at the mercy of Tuyok the Hound was maddening. And that man would have no mercy.

      Duane lost track of the days. From his window he could see red-robed monks, or visitors to the monastery with ponies and carts; twice he saw cars or trucks down below. Of nights it was different; he could hear things. The long, raucous-voiced twenty-foot trumpets were blown, or huge gongs sent brazen vibrations through the air to carry the sound of chanting voices. At night the place was alive, but moribund by day.

      He kept on doggedly with the labor. One end of a second bar was cleared, and he went at a crossbar. With those three gone, he could get out—out above the gaping void, if that would do him any good! No one, without plenty of rope, could escape this way. Still, Jim Duane knew what he was about. That glimpse into the room below had maddened him, but had also inspired him.

      The moment came, toward noon, when it was finished; a stout heave, and those bars would come away. He sank down on his pallet and dropped his bearded, haggard features in his hands, relaxing. A little dirt smeared around his work, and it would keep till night.

      He slept most of the afternoon. Toward sunset came his supper—one Mongol bringing in the food, while two others waited s outside in the passage. The empty bowls from his morning meal were taken, the full ones were left; the door clanged shut.

      He sprang up, darted to the window, and caught hold of a bar, putting all his weight into the wrench. A heave—another—at the third, one end came loose, the other was bent and forced out of the rubble. A weapon at need! The second came away. So did the third, with red sunset light flooding over the mountain gorge below.

      Duane gobbled his food, forcing himself to wait for full dark. He attacked the tattered blankets of his bed. The thin, stout iron bar, nearly two feet long, was tool enough; he ripped the blankets into strips. Time and again he had called to mind that glimpse of Agnes Lawton in the room below, estimating the distance from floor to floor. In the last, gray daylight, he knotted the strips of blanket; he had enough. About a remaining bar in the window he made one end fast, and let the makeshift rope drop out.

      Clouds were piled into the sky. The stars peeped forth and then were veiled; the blackness was intense. Duane tucked the iron bar securely under his shirt, pulled the leather trunk under the window, and went at the job of getting through the opening. It was a stiff task, but he made it, inch by inch, gripping the remaining bar and wool rope. When he let himself go, his clutching hands were smashed cruelly against the stones—but he was free, dangling over the void—free!

      Now he was gambling everything on what would meet him. Unless a window were there, he was lost. He got the rope between his legs and let himself down,