The Invisible Destroyer!
The Black Menace swoops on
its prey. New York City
crumbles to dust. A million tons of dynamite could not have accomplished the
ruin from which CAPTAIN JUSTICE,
Gentleman Adventurer, rushes to save young Midge
Complete by MURRAY ROBERTS
From The Modern Boy magazine, 30
June 1934; No. 334, Vol. 13. Contributed by Kieth Hoyt, digitized by Doug Frizzle, April 2013. Part 6 of 6. Part 1 is here.
"The Airship's
Haunted!"
THE mysterious cloud of
dense, light-destroying gases, from
outer Space—the Black Menace—held the Earth in thrall of total darkness, shrouding the sun and plunging all humanity into blind
helplessness.
The progress of civilisation
had been brought to a standstill, and approaching famine reared its ugly head
amid the groping, terror-numbed
peoples of the Earth.
But Marcus, the mysterious would-be Emperor of the World, chuckled contentedly in his black beard
as he sat in the control-room of the
Flying Cloud, the giant airship that
was until recently the joint
property of Professor Flaznagel, the
famous inventor-scientist, and Captain Justice, the
Gentleman Adventurer.
Marcus had good reason to
feel satisfied. Fortune was favouring him and his ambitious scheme to gather riches and power by looting the treasure-houses of all the
great cities of the world under
cover of the Black Menace.
The darkness had no terrors
for him. It was indispensable to his plans, and the
longer it blotted out the sun, the moon, and all forms of light, the greater his chances of complete
success.
It was by trickery that he
had obtained possession of the
Flying Cloud and stolen from
Professor Flaznagel the secret of
one of his latest inventions—the
infra-orange ray, an invisible beam of light capable of penetrating even the Black Menace.
The giant dirigible would
enable Marcus to travel to the four
corners of the Earth in search of
plunder, and he had only to rise to a certain altitude to emerge from the
zone of darkness to where the sun
still shone and the skies were clear
and cloudless.
At the
moment the
airship was cruising at the height
of seven thousand feet. The powerful motors, that could work continuously for
months on end, droned smoothly. An indicator told Marcus that he was being
carried through the air at the dizzy speed of three hundred and twenty miles
per hour.
Below stretched the hidden, sullen waters of the
Atlantic Ocean. Ahead was the continent of North America, and far behind
reared Titanic Tower, the
amazing, mid-ocean headquarters of Captain Justice—a gigantic metal structure,
designed and built by Professor Flaznagel, that lifted its head over a mile
above sea-level.
"Titanic Tower!"
Marcus spoke the words with a kind
of greedy relish. As he now owned the
Flying Cloud, so he hoped eventually to possess and establish himself in the colossal tower that was almost a city in itself,
complete with every necessity and
luxury that man could desire, besides being almost impregnable in its strength
and superb isolation, far from all
shipping routes.
"Yes, I'm afraid our
friend Justice will have to find fresh quarters in the
near future!" said Marcus boastfully. "He can either get out or be kicked out. It's high time the cocksure fire-eater had his comb clipped. I've taught him one lesson. Perhaps he
and that doddering old fool Flaznagel will know better than to oppose me a
second time!"
The big, black-bearded man
with the steely eyes was something of a fanatic. Wealth and power were the gods he worshipped. He was confident that he was destined to become Emperor of the
World. He had yet to learn that in crossing Captain Justice's path he had made
an enemy of the one man he should
have shunned and avoided.
Marcus lit a cigar and
studied a luminous chart that showed the
airship's exact position. He did not fear pursuit, but he was pleased to note
that over eight hundred miles of sea now yawned between him and Titanic Tower. He turned his dark head, frowned
at sight of an empty table, and punched one of many ivory buttons set in an
ebony panel.
"You rang, chief?"
Marcus glared sourly at the man in uniform who had appeared in the narrow doorway leading to the
interior of the great dirigible.
"I thought I told you to
bring me some hot coffee and
sandwiches. You're a long time about it!"
The man stared bewilderedly.
"Coffee—sandwiches! Why,
I brought 'em along twenty minutes ago."
"You did, did you? Well,
where are they?"
The man peered at the empty table and swept a glance around the control-room.
"Bust if I know,"
he growled defensively. "I stuck 'em down on the
table. You must have eaten 'em and forgot all about it!"
"Don't talk like a
confounded idiot!" roared Marcus. "Do you think I'm losing my memory?
You're either a liar or a fool!
Where's the plate and the cup and saucer? Are you suggesting I've eaten them as well?"
The steward's jaw dropped.
"Well, this is a
knock-out!" he blurted. "I'll take my oath I brought a tray along and
left it on that table. Sandwiches there
were and a jug of coffee and—"
"Beat it!" snapped
Marcus contemptuously. "You've either
been dreaming or drinking! I want something
to eat, and if it's not here in five minutes, by thunder, I'll want to know the reason why!"
The steward hurried from the
cabin, shaking his head and muttering puzzledly under his breath. He knew
beyond any shadow of doubt that he had already placed one tray of food on the table just behind the
pilot's seat. What had happened to it was an utter mystery so far as he was
concerned.
"Old Marcus has got a
touch of the heeby-jeebies!" he
decided disrespectfully. "He must have scoffed the
grub and flung the crocks out of the window. And then
he has the sauce to—Hallo, wot's biting
you, Albert?"
Albert, the alleged, cook recently installed in the Flying Cloud's neat all-electric kitchen, waggled
a greasy finger, and accusingly demanded:
"Where's that 'am?"
"Ham—what ham?" inquired
the steward.
"A whole busted
'am!" raved the cook.
"Just out of the refrigerator—
'adn't been cut. It was on that table not ten minutes ago. I turned me back,
and the next thing I knew it was
gone—clean vanished. Come on, no
tricks! What about it?"
"What about what?"
snarled the steward, still smarting
from his recent interview with
Marcus. "You accusing me? What d'you think I want with a whole perishing
ham?"
"Well, where's it
gone?" grumbled the cook.
"It was right there on that
table when you went to answer the
chief's bell. And there's 'arf a
pound of cheese done a disappearing trick as well. I ask you!"
The steward rubbed his nose
and shrugged his sloping shoulders.
"If you ask me," he
said solemnly. "I'm beginning to think this blessed airship must be swarming
with starving mice. There's a dozen sandwiches evaporated from the
chief's cabin, and now you've got a whole ham and a slab of cheese on the 'missing' list. Mice—that's what it is."
"Mice your grandmother's ear-trumpet!" scoffed the cook. "There's two tins of sardines and a
pot of jam hopped it as well. If this goes on much longer, I shall begin to
think the blessed airship's
haunted!"
The Face in the Metal Plate!
BACK in the control-room,
Marcus lit a fresh cigar, and cocked a watchful eye at the
altimeter. It registered eight thousand feet, and the
dirigible was still climbing.
The darkness through which the craft was streaking seemed less intense. The man
switched off the lights. A cold,
greyish luminosity filtered through the
observation windows. It increased to a blinding, dazzling glare as the airship suddenly lifted herself above the black clouds, and emerged in a world of sunshine
and clear blue skies.
Marcus craned forward in his
seat, peering down at a sea of blackness that stretched as far as eye could see
in all directions. He was now above the
Black Menace. Beneath him was the
belt of mysterious gases that only the
beams of Professor Flaznagel's infra-orange ray could penetrate.
"And I," mused Marcus proudly,
"am one of the few men who
possess that ray. Unseen, but seeing, I shall be able to travel from country to country, and city to city, reaping a
golden harvest of now unguarded treasures. The entire wealth of the world is mine to seize—to hoard and hold until
this darkness is past, and the light
of the sun is again visible on
Earth."
It was the
dream of a madman, yet a dream that might possibly come
true. Marcus had everything in his favour. The longer the
Black Menace endured, the greater
his chances of success.
"First I shall visit New York—one of the richest cities in the
world," he smiled. "And then
on to London.
What a city to sack! What a—"
He suddenly broke off, his
hands gripping the arms of his seat,
his dark head thrust forward from
between his broad shoulders.
Straight in front of him was
a bright metal plate, clamped to the
main column of the automatic steering-gear. In this shining surface was
reflected his face, strong, arrogant, sable-bearded.
Now, suddenly, there were two faces—his own countenance, and another
face, visible over his shoulder, peering from
some distance behind him.
It was a round face, smothered in freckles, adorned with a snub nose,
twinkling blue eyes, and somewhat prominent ears. But its most conspicuous feature was a
bristling shock of flaming red hair, that reacted on Marcus like a crimson
cloak flaunted before a mad bull.
A succession of impressions
flashed to his brain like Morse signals.
Midge! Captain Justice's
young assistant; the impudent,
carroty-headed boy he had kidnapped, exchanged for the
Flying Cloud, and left locked in a cabin aboard his yacht when he had taken
possession of the surrendered
airship, and soared away into the
black heavens!
Impossible! scoffed Marcus' common sense. It couldn't be the
boy—not here in the same room where he was seated, or anywhere else aboard the dirigible.
Midge was hundreds of miles
away, back at Titanic
Tower in all probability,
retailing his experiences to Captain Justice and the
rest of his friends.
It must be an illusion, or a
chance resemblance to a face caused by some,
distorted reflection in the metal
plate.
Marcus closed his eyes, and
opened them again. The face was
still there, peering mockingly over
his shoulder. Even as he watched, the
mouth extended itself from ear to
ear, and a hand came into view. The thumb applied itself to the tip of the
snub nose, and the fingers spread
out, waggling in a derisive gesture.
The spell was broken. With a
roar like an enraged tiger, Marcus bounded from
his seat, spun round, and flung himself across the
cabin.
There was another yell, a heavy thud, and a crash of broken
crockery. The steward, who had entered the
room with a fresh supply of
sandwiches and coffee, was sprawled in the
centre of the floor, plastered with the remnants of his burden.
But there
was no sign of the owner of the face. Marcus glared furiously around, his teeth
bared in a snarl of bewilderment.
"You—what the dickens do you mean by sneaking in here and
staring-over my shoulder?" he blared, glowering at the
unfortunate steward, ready to blame anyone for his own strange behaviour.
But he knew that this
accusation presented no explanation to the
incident. The steward bore no resemblance to the
person he imagined he had seen.
"Did you meet anyone as
you were coming along the passage?" demanded Marcus, grabbing the man by the
shoulder and yanking him to his feet. "Anyone resembling that red-haired,
freckle-faced cub we left aboard the
yacht for Captain Justice to collect?"
The steward shook his head
blankly. He hadn't met anyone. There was no one about save the cook and himself. The rest of the crew were at dinner. He hadn't seen anyone with
red hair or any other colour hair.
Marcus thrust him out of the cabin and slammed the
door. Shaking his head, the steward
limped back to the kitchen to inform
the cook that the
chief had gone clean off his rocker.
For the
moment, Marcus had faint doubts as
to his own sanity. Locking the
controls that enabled the Flying
Cloud to keep her own course, he searched every square inch of the pilot-house. But he failed to find any possible
explanation of the face that he had so
clearly seen in the metal plate.
It was no longer visible.
Only his own dark, bearded visage stared back at him from
the square of polished tranzelonite,
the metal of which the airship was constructed. Suspecting a trick, he
made a second search, but discovered no trace of a cunningly concealed
television screen in which Midge's face might have been projected by wireless
from Titanic Tower.
Yet Marcus was not satisfied.
His nerves were on edge. He had left Midge imprisoned in a cabin aboard his
abandoned yacht. The door was locked, and Captain Justice had held the key. It seemed utterly impossible that the boy could have transferred himself to the Flying Cloud or would have done so, knowing that
his friends were waiting to release him.
He was not to know that Midge
had escaped from the cabin and, ignorant of the
fact that his friends were aboard the
yacht arranging his release, had climbed aboard the
Flying Cloud, not realising until too late that the
airship had exchanged hands! But Captain Justice had discovered that the youngster had exchanged one prison for another and was aboard the
airship.
Crossing to the radio apparatus, Marcus called Titanic Tower
on various wavelengths, until finally he got a reply. It was the curt voice of Professor Flaznagel that answered
him across hundreds of miles of space.
“Marcus speaking from the
Flying Cloud," announced the
black-bearded man maliciously. "I thought you might be interested to know
that the dirigible is behaving
perfectly. She is a magnificent craft—a credit to you, professor. I trust you
don't regret having parted with her?"
"Not in the circumstances," answered Flaznagel, referring
to the fact that the great airship had been surrendered in order to
secure Midge's release.
"It was a poor exchange,
from your point of view?"
suggested Marcus, cunningly angling for the
information he sought. "I trust our own young friend is none the worse for the
brief period he spent as my guest?”
"Bedad, I've had him
washed and disinfected, and there's
no fear of him having caught anything from
a poisonous skunk like ye, Marcus!"
boomed the great voice of Dr. O'Mally, Justice's Irish
second-in-command. He didn't know
what was behind Marcus' question, but he was certainly not telling the man that Midge was aboard the
airship.
"And here's a message from Captain Justice," he added. "He'll be
seeing ye soon! The world's a big place, and 'tis dark as the pit at present, but ye'll have to be travelling
a long way to escape what's coming
to ye, ye kidnapping spalpeen!"
Marcus laughed contemptuously
and switched off. He had learned all he wished to know. Evidently Midge was
back with his friends. They would not have spoken so lightly were he still
missing after they had been forced
to surrender the Flying Cloud. It
was, he told himself, some trick of the eyesight that had led him to imagine he had seen
the reflection of the red-haired youngster's face peering at him from a corner of the
control-cabin.
He glanced at the luminous chart and the
array of dials and indicators that registered the
airship's position and progress.
"New York in another
six hours!” chuckled Marcus, rubbing his big hairy hands together. "New
York in utter darkness, with a fortune to be had for the mere trouble of carrying it away. And then on to London— Paris—Berlin—"
Cities he was never to see!
Heading for Disaster!
MIDGE consumed the last of the
sandwiches originally intended for Marcus, and hewed himself a thick slice from the
ham that had so mysteriously disappeared from
the kitchen of the Flying Cloud.
"Good job I know the way about this blinkin' gasbag!" he
muttered. "I wouldn't mind betting I could play hide-and-seek with Marcus and
his bunch for a month of Pancake Days and they'd
never nail me!"
Mechanically he helped
himself to a second slice of ham and washed it down with a swig of cold coffee.
It took a lot to damp Midge's spirit, especially if there
was any food about. By rights he should have been so concerned with the awkward predicament he was in that eating would
have been out of the question.
But Midge continued to eat,
with the fierce hum of motors
dinning in his ears and the hiss of the wind slapping and complaining
against the sleek hull of the great dirigible.
Every second increased the distance between himself and his friends at Titanic Tower, which was only a name to Midge.
He had yet to visit and explore the
myriad marvels and mysteries of Captain Justice's new headquarters.
Marcus would have been
interested and astounded to learn that he and the
red-headed youngster were separated from
one another by no more than five
eighths of an inch of tranzelonite. That was the
exact thickness of the ceiling and
walls of the control-room where Marcus sat tracing the
course of the Flying Cloud.
Midge knew every corner and
cranny of the great airship as well
as a skilled surgeon knows the veins
and arteries of the human body.
There were a hundred and one safe hiding-places where he could have concealed
himself; but he preferred the
cramped compartment right in the nose of the
craft, and just beneath the shaft of
the great turbine screw that enabled
the Flying Cloud to develop such
great speed.
It was filled with noise and
vibration, but it had compensating
advantages in the shape of an
observation window just above the
control-room, and numerous passages
leading to all parts of the ship,
into which he could dive like a rabbit into its hole at the
first sign of danger.
It was from this refuge that Midge had sallied forth on his
foraging expedition, to raid the
ship's larder and collect such provender as might enable him to appease his
appetite. He had been lucky in securing the
ham, cheese, and sardines without being spotted by the
cook, and the filching of the coffee and sandwiches was an even simpler
matter.
But he had come dangerously near betraying his presence when he
had ventured to apply the Q-ray,
which rendered the airship's
tranzelonite hull transparent, to a section of the
wall, thus creating a transparent panel through which he had amused himself by
watching Marcus operating the dirigible's
intricate controls.
“Suffering weevils, that was
a narrow squeak!" mused the
redheaded youngster, watching a narrow beam of sunshine playing on the remains of the
ham. It was the first sunlight he
had seen for many days, and he had felt like standing on his head and cheering
like a lunatic when the Flying Cloud
had first thrust herself above the
clinging darkness of the Black
Menace. "I was forgetting old hogsbody might spot my reflection in that
metal casing. Crumbs, it didn't half give him a shock!"
Midge grinned at thought of the manner in which the
black-bearded despot had leaped from
his seat and hurled himself across the
room in search of the elusive, mocking face.
Then the
snub-nosed youngster suddenly became serious. His lips tightened and his blue
eyes clouded. He had a lot to think about. Clenching one fist he deliberately
landed himself what he would have described as "a hefty sock on the jaw!”
"Take that, you blinking
chump!" he muttered fiercely. "My hat, you're a bright youth, aren't
you? A nice mess you've landed yourself in this time. 'Properly gummed up the works and put the
tin hat on things!' It certainly was entirely Midge's own fault that he was now
trapped aboard the Flying Cloud,
instead of being back at Titanic
Tower with Captain
Justice and the rest of his friends.
But he was not to know, when
he had been a prisoner in Marcus' yacht, that everything had been arranged for
his release, and that Marcus had set the
price of his freedom as the surrender of the
Flying Cloud.
The youngster had been
carrying out his own plan of escape, and had succeeded in leaving a locked
cabin via an air-shaft in the
ceiling. Spotting the Flying Cloud
hovering directly overhead, and moored to the
yacht, he had immediately swarmed up a dangling ladder and boarded the craft.
Too late he had discovered
that he had jumped out of the
frying-pan into the fire. The
dirigible had already been handed over to Marcus and his men, and before Midge
could rectify the ghastly blunder he
had made, the mooring-hook was
released, and the great craft had
shot up like a rocket, leaving Justice and the
rescue-party grouped on the yacht's
deck, fondly imagining that Midge was still locked in the
cabin beneath them.
It had been a bitter moment for the
snub-nosed youngster, and he didn't like to think of it.
Four hours had elapsed since
he had boarded the airship and thus
delivered himself back into Marcus' hands. But the
circumstances were now different. Actually he was still a prisoner, unless he
chose to don one of Professor Flaznagel's aero-life-saving jackets and hurl
himself into space.
But he was free to wander
where he would within the confines
of the huge dirigible, and, so far,
his presence was completely unknown
to the enemy.
Midge had not been idle. He
knew that he would have to play a waiting game, and the
element of surprise was in his favour. An opportunity might come when he would be able to spring a staggering
surprise on Marcus and his crew.
In the
meanwhile he had collected a modest store of provisions, a number of blankets
from one of the
cabins, and miscellaneous articles from
Professor Flaznagel's private workshop. These included a small, portable wireless
transmitter, that had run out of juice when the
youngster was in the midst of
broadcasting an S O S to Titanic Tower, informing his friends where he was, and
how he came to have smuggled himself aboard the
Flying Cloud, unbeknown to Marcus.
He doubted if the message had been received, for the transmitter was faulty. Later, he hoped to be
able to sneak into the dirigible's
wireless-cabin and make a more successful attempt at communicating
with Captain Justice.
With a sigh, he crawled along
the side of the
droning turbine-shaft to the
observation window in the nose of the airship. All he could see was the blue sky overhead, with, below, an illimitable
ocean of inky-black clouds that stretched emptily in all directions.
"I could do with a spot
of real fresh air," decided the
red-headed youngster, emboldened by the
hearty meal he had made. "Wonder if there's
anyone knocking about up on the top
deck. No harm in having a scout round."
THE interior of the great airship's envelope was honeycombed with a maze of shafts and tunnels, that
afforded inspection of the numerous
gas-containers in case of leakage. Midge knew every inch of them. Like a human mole he burrowed his way through the gloom,
twisting, turning, and finally emerging on the
promenade deck at the extreme top of the
vessel's hull.
It was deserted—flooded with
bright sunshine that was in striking contrast to the
abysmal darkness below.
It was like emerging from the
depths of a coal-mine. Midge sniffed hungrily, filling his lungs with cool,
fresh air, and feasting his eyes on the
clean light of day. The deck was screened. There was scarcely a breath of wind,
despite the tremendous speed at
which the Flying Cloud was cleaving
her way through space.
But it was bitterly cold in the thin, rarefied atmosphere, and Midge had
discarded most of his outer garments when he had made his unfortunate escape from Marcus' yacht.
"Suffering snowballs, I
shall have to grab some more
togs!" He shivered, and went sprinting along the
deck in vest, shorts, and a pair of highly coloured fancy socks. “Never thought
it was going to be as parky as this up here. Feels as if we're getting somewhere near the
blinking North Pole."
In the
look-out cabin, perched like a wart on the
airship's nose, there was both comfort and warmth. He entered, closed the sliding door, switched on an electric radiator,
and swaddled himself in a fur rug he found in one of the
lockers.
"That's better!" he
grunted, and sat down to think about things.
He wished he had some idea what Marcus' plans were, and where he was
likely to find himself when the
Flying Cloud reached her journey's end. Already the
airship must have covered close on two thousand miles. His chances of rejoining
his friends at Titanic
Tower were growing more
remote every minute.
"The odds are they don't even know where I am,” muttered the plucky youngster. "And if they do, they
don't stand much chance of finding the
Flying Cloud in this blinkin' black fog. No, this is a one-man job. I've got to
handle it meself. It's up to me to dump Mr. Bloomin'
Marcus and his gang a couple of hundred miles from
nowhere, and fly the old Cloud back
to where she belongs."
Midge knew the uses of most of the
intricate electrical apparatus with which he was surrounded. He had spent many
hours in the look-out cabin, getting
the hang of Professor Flaznagel's
weird and wonderful devices. Now he seated himself at a switchboard resembling
a miniature telephone exchange, and confidently slapped a plug in one of the terminal sockets.
Instantly the loudspeaker just above his head was connected
with a microphone in the control-room. Clearly he could hear the
drone of motors, the click-click of the automatic
steering-gear, and the sound of the two voices, one of which belonged to Marcus
himself.
Evidently he was speaking with
his wireless operator. Midge pricked up his ears and listened intently. He
seemed to have plugged-in at an opportune moment.
"It's all
nonsense!" snapped Marcus contemptuously. "I'd be a fool to pay any
attention to a message like that. Why should that old fool, Flaznagel, study my
interests? He has his own reasons for wanting me to alter my course. It's a
trap of some kind."
"I'm only repeating the message exactly as I received it," answered
the other
man sullenly. "The professor fellow urged me to warn you that you'd be
heading for disaster if you held to your present course, and went anywhere near
New York. It's something to do with
that infernal black fog down below. He was dead serious, chief."
"You bet he was!"
scoffed Marcus. "But the old
fox can't bluff me. If there was any
danger knocking about he'd be glad to see me run smack into it. The Black
Menace can't affect us. We can travel above it, as we're doing now. And I'm
keeping straight on. We'll be over New
York in another
half-hour."
"Well, I don't like the sound of things," said the wireless operator uneasily. "That black fog
gives me the creeps. It may not be the same in all parts of the
world. We may be running into a belt of poisonous gases that'll wipe out the whole lot of us."
"And wouldn't that give
Flaznagel and Justice a pain in the
neck," chuckled Marcus derisively. "If there's
any poisonous gas blowing about, can't you imagine him warning me to steer
clear of it? Forget it, Cooney. Hop back to your radio, and if the professor gets through again, tell him I'm not
biting. Tell him that as soon as I've cleaned up New York
and London, and a few other
cities, I'll be coming back to boot
him out of Titanic
Tower and put my name on the door!"
The conversation suddenly
ceased. All Midge could hear was the
scrape of a match as Marcus lit a cigar, and the
click of the controls.
Tumbling to Pieces!
MIDGE had gleaned astonishing
and interesting information, but it left him puzzled and bewildered.
As Marcus had remarked, why
should the professor concern himself
with his, Marcus', safety? If there
was any real danger, why trouble to warn the
man who had robbed him of the Flying
Cloud in order that he could institute a reign of terror throughout the darkened world?
"My hat, it certainly
doesn't sound reasonable," muttered Midge. "I can't imagine old
Fitzwaggle going out of his way to stop Marcus from
biting off a chunk of real trouble, unless— Suffering salamanders!"
An inkling of the truth suddenly flashed into the youngster's mind. It was his safety that the professor was concerned with. His warning was no
vain one. He knew that Midge was aboard the
Flying Cloud, and that the airship
was threatened with disaster if she continued on her present course.
Only by warning Marcus could
he safeguard the red-haired
youngster, without actually betraying the
fact that Midge was a stowaway in the
great dirigible.
And Marcus, naturally enough,
was ignoring the warning. He was
continuing blindly on his way, contemptuous of an imaginary peril that really
existed!
"Crumbs, this is a
blinkin' fine fix to be in!" A shiver of uneasiness ran down Midge's spine
as he jumped to his feet and stood rubbing his snub nose helplessly. He
suddenly realised that he was utterly on his own. His friends were hundreds of
miles away, and without the Flying
Cloud they were powerless to come to his assistance.
The professor's desperate
ruse had failed. There was nothing more he could do to detract Marcus from his purpose. It was only a matter of minutes
before the airship would enter the danger zone mentioned in Flaznagel's message.
But what was the danger that lurked below in the Black Menace? What hideous, unmentionable fate
lay in store for the Flying Cloud
and her occupants?
Poisonous gases! That was the only thing Midge could think of— swift, sudden,
life-destroying gases, peculiar only to that particular zone of the Black Menace that hung over certain parts of the United
States.
There would be no escaping them once the
dirigible reached her objective and dived into the
sinister black depths below!
Midge came nearer to losing
his head. It was the fear of the unknown that poked cold fingers into his
shrinking ribs. Pluckily he conquered his panic, and peered down into the gulf
of Space below.
It was different. There was a
distinct change in the appearance of
the Black Menace. It was no longer
of a dense blackness.
The dark vista stretching
beneath, the Flying Cloud's skimming
keel was shot with streaks and patches of livid green, dull purple, and angry
crimson, running and gleaming like oil spilled on a wet, black road.
"By gosh, I'm bust if I
fancy diving into that!" gasped Midge uneasily. "Mebbe Marcus will
have enough sense to remember the
professor's warning and keep the old
blimp above the clouds. Anyone can
see there's something
wrong down there, with all those
different gases swirling about together
like the fumes of a lot of
smouldering chemicals. Great cats, what was that?"
The airship suddenly quivered
and jumped, as if a great fist had thudded against her sleek, tapering hull. A
moment later the
muffled vibrations of a terrific crash of sound came echoing up from below, following the
violent displacement of air that had tossed the
Flying Cloud upwards like a feather.
Boom!
Boom! Two thunderous detonations, coming from
a great distance, set the drums of
Midge's ears tingling painfully. It sounded as if the
very world were tumbling to pieces thousands of feet below.
But Marcus held stubbornly to
his set course. He had throttled down the
motors. The dirigible was travelling at no more than a hundred miles an hour.
Soon she swung round in a wide circle, dipping her nose as if preparing to
plunge headlong into the darkness.
SHE sank lower, her gleaming
length tilted at so steep an angle that the
floor seemed to slide away beneath Midge's feet. Suddenly the airship's powerful searchlights were switched
on, the invisible beams of the infra-orange rays stabbing downwards and boring
twin tunnels in the dense, blackish
fog.
"We've arrived!" boomed Marcus' voice, transmitted by the microphone in the
control-house. "We're right over New
York. Now we'll see what the
greatest city in America
looks like after thirteen days in total darkness!"
Midge had not the faintest desire to see what effect the Black Menace had had on New York, or any other
city. He was thinking only of Professor Flaznagel's disregarded warning. A
sense of impending danger and disaster burned in him like a bright flame as he
skidded across the cabin, wrenched
open one of the lockers, and dragged
forth a queer-looking leather garment
festooned with buckles, straps, rubber tubes, and metal cylinders.
"Good egg!" muttered Midge. "One
of old Flashniggle's giddy life-saving overcoats. Going to come in blinking useful if I want to leave in a hurry!"
The professor's
aero-life-saving jacket was a remarkable device. Once its rubber lining had
been inflated with a certain gas a hundred times lighter than hydrogen, it
could lift a weight of sixteen stone to a height of ten thousand feet, and keep
it suspended there for forty-eight
hours.
Each jacket was equipped with
water-bottle; iron rations, first-aid kit, a knife, compass,
and oxygen apparatus that was just as serviceable as a gas-mask.
The kit that Midge proceeded
to don was several sizes too big for him. By the
time he had fastened the numerous
buckles and clips there was little
of him to be seen save his feet and his tousled red head. To inflate the jacket all he had to do was to connect the valve to the
nozzle of one of the gas-compressors which were distributed about the airship.
The operation of inflation
took no longer than the blowing up
of a toy balloon. The youngster would have been lifted clean off his feet and
flattened against the ceiling had it
not been for the lead ballast
weights hooked to his belt.
Midge was glad he had thought
of the life-saving jacket. It was
warm, and it gave him a certain sense of security. He was not compelled to remain aboard the
Flying Cloud when she plunged into the
ocean of black fog below.
At the
first suspicion of poison gases, all he had to do was to clip on the oxygen-feed, step out on deck, unhitch his
ballast weights, and shoot back into upper Space. It might be only prolonging the agony; but if it came to the
finish he would sooner face death in the
sunshine above than wrapped in the
clammy embrace of the Black Menace.
The Flying Cloud was now
swooping like a hawk. Midge blinked uneasily as he watched the ugly, streaky blackness rushing up to meet the diving dirigible.
"I'm blinkin'
windy!" he admitted candidly to himself. "But I'd certainly like to
see what it's like down below, and find out what caused those awful crashes a
while ago. Sounded as if a couple of skyscrapers had fallen to pieces!"
It was the
truest guess Midge had ever made, but he did not know it at the time. Pluckily he stood his ground, knowing that
he might be hurtling to certain death.
With droning motors and
screaming screws, the great
dirigible continued her mad plunge. One minute Midge was bathed in blazing sunshine, the
next he found himself submerged in pitch darkness, that gradually gave way to an
eerie, yellowish glow as the
infra-orange rays cut wide, slashing swathes
in the black vapours.
Down—down—down! Fascinated,
Midge peered through the window,
carefully testing each breath of air before he filled his lungs. The earth began
to take shape beyond the veil of
shifting gloom. He caught a glimpse
of open sea, the winding River
Hudson, and a checkerboard of lines and squares that was New York City. It limned clearer as the distance was reduced.
Boom!
There was a tremor of sound below, and a grey splodge like the smoke of a bursting shell. Another—and another,
followed by deep, sullen rumbles. Midge rubbed his eyes and snatched a pair of
binoculars from the rack beside him.
"Suffering cats!'' he
yelled an instant later. "The whole place is tumbling to pieces! There's
no city left. It must be a blinkin’ earthquake!"
Never had he seen such a
scene of ruin and devastation as was revealed to him in the
cold, clear glare of the searching
infra-orange rays. The proud city of New
York, with its massive, imposing buildings, was almost
levelled to the ground.
Of its numerous great
skyscrapers, no more than half a dozen were still standing. The rest lay prone,
shattered and broken, flinging great mounds of rubble and twisted girders across
the smaller structures that they had crushed to dust beneath their fallen bulk.
It was an incredible
spectacle, that increased in horror and clearness of detail as the Flying Cloud swept down and straightened out at
a height of fifteen hundred feet.
Binoculars were no longer
required. Midge could hear Marcus roaring in amazement and dismay as he viewed the cluttered ruins of the
city he had hoped to sack and pillage. Its millions were beyond his reach;
buried beneath hundreds of thousands of tons of wreckage.
NEW YORK no longer existed. Some
mysterious, destructive force had wiped it off the
map. All the familiar landmarks were
gone. Of Brooklyn
Bridge nothing remained
save the piers that had supported the huge arches—protruding from
the river like broken fangs.
Ruin—chaos—utter
disintegration, that a million tons of dynamite could not have accomplished.
"Crumbs, it must be a
dream!' gulped Midge. "A blinkin' nightmare!"
But he knew that it wasn't.
He was only too wide-awake. Was this, he wondered, the
grave danger of which Professor Flaznagel had warned Marcus, and urged him to
avoid? But how could it affect the
Flying Cloud, and in what manner could the
mysterious elements of the Black
Menace have caused the destruction
of thousands of houses, scores of skyscrapers, and a gigantic metal structure
like the mighty bridge across the River Hudson?
Even as he watched, another skyscraper crashed in ruins. It simply subsided
as if its foundations had melted away beneath it. Great ships in the docks were crumpling and vanishing, in the same mysterious manner. Yet there was no indication of earth tremors; not a
ripple on the smooth surface of the river.
"Blinkin' uncanny!"
muttered Midge, and was almost flung off his feet as the
airship gave a violent jerk and seemed to shudder from
stem to stern. The motors had stopped. Somewhere
below the startled youngster heard
yells of alarm, and a hideous grinding and groaning of tortured, straining metalwork.
The Flying Cloud seemed to be
writhing in agony like a stricken monster! Her sleek hull rippled and wrinkled,
and before Midge's horrified eyes a section of the
deck gaped open, to expose the
bulging, quivering gas-bags beneath.
The great airship was falling
apart—crumbling to fragments like a mummy suddenly exposed to the air! She commenced
to sink, her lights snapping out, her gas containers exploding one by one!
Midge had never known such ghastly
fear as he experienced in the next
few seconds. Marcus was screaming and raving like a lunatic. With a dull roar, the lower part of the
hull split open, sending motors, dynamos, and yelling men spinning into Space.
Relieved of their weight, the
doomed dirigible lifted again, and
slowly commenced to turn turtle.
Face to face with death, Midge suddenly snapped into action. He flung open the door, fumbling to unhook the
lead weights at his belt.
The darkness was closing down
as the last infra-orange ray
flickered and faded, and the Black
Menace swooped on its prey, its mysterious, corrosive gases eating like acid
into the crumbling metalwork of the Flying Cloud, in the
same manner as they had destroyed the steel-framed skyscrapers of New York, the Brooklyn Bridge, and every metal with which they came in contact.
From
an open hatch loomed the huge figure of Marcus, his eyes bulging, his
black beard bristling in terror.
It was Midge's last
recollection of the Flying Cloud, as
he loosened his grip on the heavy
lead weights, and felt himself soar into the
air like a suddenly released balloon.
But the
last thing of all that he actually remembered was a long period of darkness, a
blinding burst of sunshine, and a sensation as if his brain had exploded into a
thousand pieces!
Flying Cloud the Third!
“BEDAD, I think the young spalpeen's coming
round, at last. 'Tis lucky he is to have a head like a chunk of teak!"
said Dr. O'Mally.
"A remarkable escape,”
agreed Professor Flaznagel, polishing his big horn-rimmed spectacles. "I
wonder the boy didn't fracture his
skull."
"It certainly was a
nasty crack," said Len Connor. "I'll never forget seeing him shoot up
out of the darkness and slam
straight into us. Gosh, I thought he was going to drive a hole clean through
our side!"
"You're sure he'll be
none the worse for the blow, doctor?" asked Captain Justice
anxiously.
"Not a bit of it,
captain. He'll be as right as ninepence in a couple of days."
Midge peered cautiously from a corner of one eye. It was no dream. But it was
all very puzzling. There was a bandage wrapped about his aching head, and a
pleasant murmur of powerful motors. "What I want to know," said
Midge, opening his eyes wide this time, "is, where am I, how did I get
here, how are all you blokes, and who threw that brick?"
He lay on a divan in a bright
room that was strangely like the main saloon of the
Flying Cloud. Blue sky was visible through the
windows.
“Hallo, Midge, old
scout!" greeted Len Connor warmly. "How are you feeling?"
“Blinkin' hungry!"
answered the red-haired youngster
bluntly. "But where the dickens
did you fellows spring from, and
what ship's this?"
"Flying Cloud the Third—sister-airship to Flying Cloud the Second," explained Captain Justice.
"And a nice dance you've led us! But it's all over now, and the Black Menace has gone—disappeared overnight,
just as suddenly as it came! And Marcus has gone as well. You know that?"
Midge nodded soberly. He
would never forget the manner in
which the would-be Emperor of the World had plunged to his death amid the crumpled wreckage of the
great airship.
"We were hot on his
trail," continued Justice. "Only a couple of hours behind him all the way across the
Atlantic from Titanic Tower
to the States. We knew you'd made a
hash of things and were travelling with Marcus, long before Connor picked up
your wireless message. Flying Cloud the
Third was actually on her way to headquarters when the
professor surrendered her sister-airship to Marcus. That was the surprise-packet he had up his sleeve for the scoundrel—and for us as well.
"The professor knew that
there was a cloud of corrosive gases
hanging over New York
that were gradually eating away every scrap of metal they
came in contact with. The city was tumbling in ruins. He tried to warn
Marcus—thinking of your safety—but the
fool wouldn't listen."
"How did I get this conk
on the dome?"
asked Midge, tapping his bandaged head. "And how the
dickens did I land here after I did a balloon ascent in the
professor's jolly old life-saving jacket?"
"Sheer luck,"
smiled Justice. We had just arrived over New
York when you shot up out of the
clouds like a rocket and ran smack into our tail. You were knocked-out, but it
was an easy matter to get you aboard. You've been unconscious for twelve hours.
Good job we had a doctor aboard."
"Doctor! Huh!"
Midge was himself again. He sniffed contemptuously. "That bald-head! What
does he know about doctoring? He couldn't mend a wooden leg!"
“Or a wooden head, bedad!"
agreed Dr. O'Mally placidly. "When the
captain said ye'd been senseless for twelve hours, begorrah, he flattered ye!
'Tis senseless ye've been ever since the
day ye were born, ye snub-nosed, insignificant, red-headed weevil!"
Justice smiled and switched
on the Q-ray, flooding the whole airship with sunshine. There was blue sky
above and blue sea below. Not a trace remained of the
sinister black cloud that had recently wrapped the
world in darkness. The Black Menace had fled!
Captain Justice and Co.
start a New and even more Thrilling Series of Adventures Next Saturday—pitchforked
neck-and-crop out of Space into the
middle of an unknown African jungle; empty-handed and without food, weapons, or
hope! .... Sounds promising, doesn’t it? AND IT IS!
"Listen, Chink . .
."
