On Top of the World

On Top of the World!

CAPTAIN JUSTICE, from his vantage point higher in the sky than any building has ever reared-before, wages his battle of Wits and Science with the would-be Emperor of the World!

By MURRAY ROBERTS

From The Modern Boy, 16 June 1934 No. 332, Vol. 13. Serial of the story, The World in Darkness, part 4 of 6, part 1 here. Contributed by Keith Hoyt; digitized by Doug Frizzle, April 2013.

With the speed of a projectile, the strange monocar, with Justice and his comrades aboard, shot up and around in gigantic, dizzy circles. (Picture 1)

"Wonders Will Never Cease!"

“IT'S a pity I didn't arrange for you fellows to join me before the Black Menace arrived!" said Professor Flaznagel, in self reproach.

Captain Justice, the famous gentleman adventurer, Dr. O'Mally, his second-in-command, and Len Connor, the young wireless expert, nodded hearty agreement.

"If I had, this situation would never have arisen," the professor went on "Midge would not have fallen into Marcus' hands, and we should not now be forced to negotiate with the scoundrel for the boy's release!"

"Bedad, 'tis no use crying over spilled milk," muttered O'Mally,

"Not a bit," agreed Justice. "The great thing is, professor, that we're united again, and on our way to Titanic Tower, your headquarters. From there we'll be able to fight this fellow Marcus, and it'll be mighty strange if we can't put a spoke in his wheel!” His jaw jutted aggressively as he spoke, in a manner that boded no good to the man who had captured red-headed young Midge and was holding him to ransom.

"H'm!" grunted the elderly scientist dubiously. "Marcus’ terms are bound to be harsh ones, you know. He plans to take advantage of the Black Menace—this black fog that has descended from outer Space and plunged the whole Earth into total darkness. He has stolen the secret of my infra-orange ray—the only light that can pierce this confounded darkness—and, armed with that, plans to pillage the cities of the world, stealing their gold and treasures. And he demands that we assist him in his scheme to become emperor of the world."

"He would be a fool to do that,” flashed Justice. "We could never adhere to such a compact. But I can understand Marcus' eagerness to obtain your support. Imagine the vise he could make of Titanic Tower as a place of refuge and a depository for the world's gold he hopes to seize!"

He glanced through the transparent side of the subaquaplane—the strange vessel (combination of submarine, tank, and hydroplane) in which Flaznagel had come to their rescue when Justice's yacht Electra had been wrecked on a desolate island in the darkness—towards the colossal tower looming ahead in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

The professor laughed scornfully.

"Titanic Tower is invulnerable," he boasted. "Its defences are proof against any form of attack. No ship or plane can approach within miles without my permission. Marcus knows that; otherwise he would have attempted to storm the place long ago. We shall be quite safe once we reach the tower."

"Bedad, but Midge won't," blurted O'Mally. " 'Tis the boy's safety that concerns us—not our own."

The professor's beard bristled, his eyes blazed behind the big, darkness-piercing goggles he was wearing. The comrades were wearing similar goggles.

"You mean that Marcus may demand that we hand over the tower to him in exchange for Midge's release? The idea is preposterous! I could never consider such terms. Abandon my headquarters, and all it contains, to that fanatical scoundrel! Why—”

"It may not come to that," interrupted Justice soothingly. "Let us wait until we hare heard Marcus' terms. The final decision will rest with you, professor."

Flaznagel shrugged his shoulders resignedly. He knew very wall that if it came to a crisis he would willingly make any sacrifice rather than the missing Midge should suffer any harm.

"There are more ways of killing a cat than one," said Len Connor. "Perhaps we can find a means of rescuing Midge without having to dance to Marcus' tune."

"Sure, the boy's shrewd enough to give him the slip and find his own way home," agreed O'Mally, more cheerfully. "Marcus may soon be regretting the day that he ever set eyes on the red-headed young rapscallion!"

Len Connor gripped the edge of his seat as their strange craft gave a sudden lurch and reduced speed. Their journey was almost ended. Close now loomed the four widespread legs that supported the main column of Titanic Tower.

It was a grand and impressive sight. Justice's brain swam as he tilted back his head, seeking to trace the upward course of the colossal structure that thrust its peak into the darkness thousands of feet above.

For the first time Len Connor realised that the four sides of the square of water forming the base of the tower were confined within towering metal walls, that stretched from pylon to pylon, rising to a height of several hundred feet.

The subaquaplane was hurtling straight for one of these formidable barriers, like an infuriated bull charging the side of a house. Dr. O'Mally uttered a yell of dismay and closed his eyes in anticipation of the crash that seemed certain to come.

Bingley, the pilot, crouched over the controls, made a gesture of reassurance, and gave a gentle forward thrust to the steering column. Justice felt the floor tilt beneath his feet as the craft ducked its sharp bows like a diving seal, and plunged smoothly beneath the surface, with no sound save the purr of the motors, and the hiss of foaming waters against the vessel's sides.

"We have submerged. There is no cause for alarm," said Professor Flaznagel calmly. "A craft of this type saves the trouble of opening the gates to the inner harbour. That is only done to admit big ships."

FOR no longer than it took to count up to twenty, the sub-aquaplane continued her downward plunge towards the ocean bed. Then she straightened out to a level keel, lifted her nose, and commenced to ascend.

She broke the surface, bobbing up as buoyantly as a cork. Bingley throttled down the motors and discarded his infra-orange ray goggles. They were no longer necessary, and the comrades and Ham Chow, their Chinese cook, followed his example. It was almost as light as day. A soft, golden glow shone through the tranzelonite hull of the turtle-backed craft, which was rendered transparent by the Q-ray. Captain Justice was struck speechless with amazement as he jumped to his feet and stared wonderingly around.

They were afloat in a basin of calm, clear water that covered an area of a square half-mile. It was bounded on all sides by the lofty metal walls that joined up the four spreading pylons, like flying buttresses, that supported the main structure of Titanic Tower.

There was ample room for hundreds of ships to lie at anchor. Wharves, piers, and spacious quays were built out from the inner sides of the towering walls that screened the harbour from the open sea. Justice noticed all the paraphernalia of a busy seaport—electric cranes and winches; overhead carriers, grain elevators, lines of storehouses, and huge oil-tanks.

Almost within a stone's throw, two big cargo boats were warped alongside one of the piers. Out in the centre of the basin lay a handsome white yacht, almost a sister ship to the ill-fated Electra. There were numerous other craft scattered about, including a whole flotilla of lean, speedy-looking subaquaplanes, similar to the one in which they had made their journey across the dark ocean.

Illumination was provided by an ingenious system of concealed floodlighting that projected soft, clear, infra-orange rays to all parts of the harbour. There were no shadows. The impression of sunshine was faithful to a degree.

O'Mally's eyes bulged as he lumbered to his feet, glaring wonderingly in all directions.

"Faith, 'tis a miracle ye have worked, professor!" he gasped.

"By gosh, it's a knock-out!" agreed Len Connor.

"I will admit it is a fine harbour," the professor smiled. "Ships can enter in all weathers. There are electrically controlled gates in each of the four walls, through which the biggest liner afloat could pass. What do you think of your new headquarters, Justice?"

The captain laid a firm hand on the old scientist's shoulder.

"A great achievement, professor!" he said warmly. "You have created a new world; something that we have never seen before. I shall appreciate its wonders when our party is complete, and we have disposed of this fellow Marcus. You understand—"

"To be sure—to be sure! The boy, Midge. Yes, he must be our first thought. We will be in communication with Marcus within the next few minutes."

Flaznagel snapped a curt order to the pilot, and the subaquaplane skimmed like a water-beetle to a landing-stage at the base of one of the four great pylons.

"Keep your goggles handy," warned Flaznagel, as they left the boat and crossed the landing-stage. "You will need them in a few moments. Later we will be able to dispense with the infra-orange ray entirely."

He slid open a door, revealing a spacious lift that ran up one side of the latticed pylon.

"Bedad, wonders will never cease," muttered O'Mally, as he stepped inside and plumped himself down on one of the rubber-cushioned seats. "And who would think that we were right out in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, submerged in darkness that covers the whole of the world?"

"My hat, I'd almost forgotten the Black Menace," admitted Len Connor, as the professor pressed a button and the lift shot up wards.

"The Darkness is Lifting!"

THE lift stopped on a level with an open platform that formed the roof of the harbour. It was the aeroplane landing-stage the professor had spoken of—a vast level expanse supported by the four converging pylons at a height of five hundred feet above sea-level.

Big hangars at each corner provided accommodation for scores of aircraft. Half a dozen small scouting helicopters were grouped about a huge air-liner. There were wind-indicators, floodlights, and a wireless directional station.

The professor allowed them only a few seconds to take in this further evidence of his state of preparedness for all emergencies. Then they continued their ascent to the point where the four pylons met, joining together to form the main column of Titanic Tower that now reared above them, straight and graceful as a sword-blade.

Here they left the lift, stepping into outer darkness that demanded the use of their infra-orange ray goggles. Though they had reached an altitude of over a thousand feet, the Black Menace was as dense as ever, ringing them with a wall of darkness.

"We'll take the outer route," said the professor briskly. "It is just as quick, and will prove more entertaining."

"Entertaining, bedad!" muttered O'Mally. "And what the dickens does he mean by that? And what kind of a contraption is this?"

Directly outside the lift stood a queer-looking motor vehicle, with a saloon body and seating accommodation for a dozen passengers. It was mounted astride a single metal rail, raised three feet from the floor of the platform jutting out from the sides of the gigantic round tower that lost itself in upper Space.

Glancing overhead, Justice observed with astonishment that the platform was unending, sweeping on and upwards in the form of a spiral runway, that wound round and round the sheer, tapering sides.

The platform was wide enough for a couple of ordinary motor-cars to drive abreast. At the outer edge was a metal parapet, four feet in height, beyond which loomed a dizzy gulf of empty Space.

The whole lay-out reminded Len Connor of a helter-skelter lighthouse, such as he had seen at fairs and fun cities. But instead of slithering down a spiral course, seated on rope mats, they were about to be transported to the top of the tower in the professor's strange mono-rail car.

"Begob, I'm game to try anything once," declared O'Mally, wedging his bulky form in one of the narrow seats that had not been built for a man of his size. "Sure, 'tis a queer way of travelling, like a fly climbing up a corkscrew, and I hope ye'll be remembering to put on the brakes when we reach the top."

There commenced one of the strangest journeys Justice and his companions had ever made. Scarcely had they taken their seats when the professor jerked a lever, and the mono-car shot upward and round the first curve with the speed of a projectile.

Up, up, and up. Round, round, and round in dizzy, narrowing circles, with the sheer wall of the tower on one side and a hideous drop to the sea below on the other.

The winding ascent seemed unending. Thousands of feet of space piled up beneath them as they mounted higher and higher into an infinity of darkness.

" My gosh, this gives you some idea of the height of it all!" gasped Len Connor, wedging himself securely in the padded seat, with his eyes fixed on the professor's hands at the controls, "We must be nearly a mile above sea-level. Get a wonderful view from here on a clear day, I should say."

A slight jolt as the car swung round another bend suddenly dislodged the infra-orange ray spectacles Captain Justice was wearing. Instead of replacing them, he sat for a moment rubbing his eyes and blinking puzzledly around, while a look of astonishment spread across his face.

"By James, it's getting lighter!" he exclaimed at length. "The darkness is lifting! I can see without these goggles. Look! If that isn't the sun over there I'm a Dutchman!"

HIS hand indicated a huge luminous sphere, like an illuminated orange, that loomed faintly through the curtain of black gloom that enshrouded the earth below.

It grew brighter and clearer as the monocar pursued its flashing, spiral ascent. A sea of golden flame spread slowly across the darkness that gradually faded to sullen grey, shot with patches of pale blue.

Then, with a suddenness that dazzled their eyes, and wrenched a gasp of pain from Len Connor's lips, the darkness seemed to drop away beneath them, and they emerged in broad daylight, like a train roaring out of the blackness of a long tunnel.

Justice clapped his hands to his face, protecting his eyes from the unaccustomed glare that seemed to sear right into his brain.

"By the beard of St. Patrick, sure and the blessed sun is shining again!" boomed the elated voice of O'Mally. "Justice, my boy, we're sitting right on top of the world!"

The monocar had stopped. Len Connor opened his eyes and stared round like a blind man miraculously restored to sight. Beneath him was a rolling, tumbling sea of inky-black clouds that spread from horizon to horizon, covering the earth like a sable mantle.

Overhead was blue sky—clear, cold, and cloudless—in which the sun shone, bright and warm.

Professor Flaznagel leaned against the parapet of the wide platform that encircled the superstructure of Titanic Tower, rubbing his hands together and chuckling in his shaggy beard.

"Yes, we have reached an altitude that is beyond range of the Black-Menace," he declared, adjusting his big horn-rimmed spectacles that had been substituted for the infra-orange ray goggles. "We are now considerably above the belt of impenetrable darkness that is still wrapped about the Earth. Here we can enjoy the light and heat of the sun, while our less fortunate fellow beings are still plunged in gloom."

Despite their long journey through thousands of feet of Space, they had not yet reached the extreme top of Professor Flaznagel's amazing edifice. The platform on which they stood encircled the exterior of a dome-shaped building with many windows, and a diameter of fully thirty yards.

From the centre of its roof there projected still higher a metal mast, at the top of which floated proudly and bravely the huge, silvery shape of Professor Flaznagel’s wonderful airship—the Flying Cloud!

"Bedad, 'tis a treat to be seeing the old gas-bag again," remarked O'Mally, gazing affectionately at the great dirigible.

Then, reminded of the missing member of their party, he stared grimly at his friends.

"And now that we're here, what'll wc be doing about young Midge?" he demanded fiercely. "Sure, and there'll be no rest for any of us till we've rescued the boy from that spalpeen Marcus!"

"Midge shall be back with us within the next hour," declared the professor confidently. "Marcus' ship can't be many miles away. It won't take me five minutes to get in wireless communication with the man. Whatever his demands, they will have to be met!"

Captain Justice nodded as he peered down into the sinister depths of the Black Menace, where Midge was held to hostage by the would-be Emperor of the World—Marcus the Mysterious.

They were safe; but the diminutive, red-headed youngster was in great danger. Any sacrifice that had to be made in his behalf would be willingly undertaken.

News of Marcus!

CAPTAIN JUSTICE hung over the rail at the top of Titanic Tower, staring moodily into black Space. A storm had sprung up since their arrival, and great waves were hurling themselves impotently against the base of the gigantic edifice.

The roar of the raging sea came only faintly to the captain's ears. It was doubtful if he heard it at all. He was thinking of Midge, wondering how long it would be before Flaznagel and Connor established communication with Marcus.

O'Mally was pacing restlessly round and round the platform.

Suddenly a door in the rounded wall snapped open. Len Connor stepped into view, his fair hair tousled; a tired, disgruntled frown on his tanned face.

"I managed to get in touch with Marcus," he said, in answer to the captain's quick, eager question. "The howling cad had the nerve to send a message saying he was busy just at present, but he'd attend to us in ten minutes' time!"

O'Mally snorted indignantly, and Justice smiled coldly. There was no mirth in the quirk of his tight lips.

"So that's the fellow's attitude," ho said grimly. "He thinks he can make us dance to his tune, confound him!"

"And so he can—up to a point," declared Len Connor meaningly. "He holds the whip hand. We can't take the aggressive so long as he's got Midge with him. Otherwise it wouldn't take the professor long to blow him and his ship to blazes!"

"He's in a position, to dictate terms, but he can't make us eat dirt!" snapped the captain, with a flash of his old dauntless spirit. "Marcus is top dog at present, but when it comes to a final reckoning I'll have him yelping like a yellow cur with a tin can tied to its tail."

O'Mally nodded his bald head approvingly. Justice on his mettle was as dangerous to deal with as a stick of dynamite!

"Justice—Connor! Where on earth have you fellows got to?"

It was the querulous, impatient voice of Professor Flaznagel. The old scientist sat alone in the vast, circular chamber at the summit of his gigantic tower, surrounded with strange instruments, machines, and electrical apparatus that enabled him to control and command powerful, almost uncanny forces that were known only to himself.

"Kindly close the door behind you," requested the professor, as Justice and his companions crowded into the strange room of mechanical marvels that was the ears, the eyes, and the very brain of Titanic Tower. "I have succeeded in locating Marcus' ship," continued the lanky, bushy-bearded scientist, polishing his big, horn-rimmed spectacles, and balancing them astride his prominent nose. "It is riding the storm ten miles due south of here."

"Bedad!" exclaimed O'Mally, staring curiously at the speaker. How, he wondered, was Flaznagel able to determine the exact position of a vessel in the pitch darkness that enveloped the world below?

"You shall see for yourselves," invited the professor. "It will give you some idea how I discovered the island where your yacht, the Electra, was wrecked. My telatoscopic radio refractor, worked in conjunction with the infra-orange ray, has a visual range of over fifty miles, with magnification up to twenty diameters. In daylight, both would' be considerably increased."

With a wave of one hand he indicated a queer object in the exact centre of the room. So far as Len Connor could gather, it consisted simply of an opaque crystal sphere, five feet in diameter, poised between two pointed metal fulcrums, one rising from the floor, the other rigidly suspended from the ceiling.

These two points formed a perpendicular axis, on which the dull glass ball slowly and constantly revolved. From the upper arm of the supporting axis numerous branches of insulated cable spread and radiated to various parts of the domed roof.

Click! The professor pressed a switch, plunging the room into total darkness. The movement of another lever produced a low, soft humming, like the drone of a swarm of bees. Gradually the big crystal sphere became visible, glowing like a full moon looming through a passing bank of cloud.

It seemed to be floating in midair, a luminous, silver globe, in which faint shapes and shadows appeared and disappeared, like ghostly fish in an illuminated tank. With the effect of a desert mirage reflected in the sky, a miniature scene suddenly formed in the cloudy depths of the crystal globe.

In the midst of an expanse of bleak grey sea, a lone ship rode gracefully. She was a queer-looking vessel with a sleek, slender hull and turtle-back bows. She was bare of funnels. There was a squat, round deckhouse supporting a lofty, screened bridge. She showed no flag, and her name, if any, could not be seen. Yet Captain Justice recognised the craft at once.

"The ghost ship!" he exclaimed. "The boat we saw anchored off the island where the Electra was wrecked!"

"Bedad, you're right!" exploded the big Irishman.

"Marcus' yacht!" explained Flaznagel, with a dramatic gesture. "The craft in which our young friend Midge is held prisoner. I should know her well enough. She was built to plans and specifications stolen from me by one of Marcus' rascally agents."

Len Connor gave a low whistle of astonishment as he watched the tiny craft gliding through the sea, a white wake spreading behind her stern.

"And you mean to say that boat's ten miles away—down below, wrapped in darkness? And we can see her from here?"

"Yes—thanks to the telatoscope and the infra-orange ray," declared the professor proudly. "It is a form of television that dispenses with transmission. The invisible light beam picks up distant objects, which the telatoscope receives, magnifies, and reflects in this opaque sphere."

"Begorrah, 'tis a wizard ye are '" blurted O'Mally.

"Surely to goodness you can put one over on that fellow Marcus, professor," said Len Connor eagerly. "You have your fleet of subaquaplanes, your squadron of helicopters, and the Flying Cloud—all of them equipped with infra-orange rays. What chance would Marcus' boat stand against that bunch? He couldn't possibly escape."

"Only by blowing himself, his yacht, and its occupants sky-high," answered Flaznagel grimly. "And he's desperate enough to do that!

"No," he added. "We dare not take the offensive, for Midge's sake. Much as I should like to teach Marcus a lesson, we must wait until the boy is back with us before taking action. And we shall soon know the price Marcus demands for Midge's release."

Connor bit his lip. It was becoming increasingly obvious that Marcus held the whip-hand. He was using the kidnapped Midge as a shield to protect himself, while he enforced his own terms on Justice and his companions. He knew that they would refrain from taking any drastic steps that might jeopardise the red-haired youngster's safety.

A buzzer suddenly sounded, and the scene in the crystal sphere faded and disappeared as Flaznagel disconnected the telatoscope, and switched on the lights.

"You shall hear Marcus' terms for yourselves," he promised gravely, indicating a six-foot square television screen set in one wall of the room. "That was his signal. He is just about to address us. It should be an interesting interview."

Marcus’ Terms!

THE cold white television screen was becoming animated with light, life, and movement. The effect was more substantial and vivid than the telatoscope, for there was no suggestion of intervening distance.

The frame of the screen might have been an open doorway leading into a handsomely appointed ship's saloon, where lights were blazing, and a man in immaculate white uniform was seated on the edge of a desk, staring straight towards them, with a microphone held in one hand and a half-smoked cigarette in the other.

Marcus presented an impressive figure with his square-cut, blue black beard, his powerful beak of a nose, and his fierce eyes, hard and glittering. His voice, when he spoke, was softly guttural, like the purr of a great cat.

"I am sorry to have kept you waiting, gentlemen," he greeted, showing his white teeth in a mocking smile as he faced a duplicate television screen, in which the figures of Professor Flaznagel and his companions were projected through ten miles of Space. "Delighted to see you, Captain Justice! I trust I shall find you more reasonable and less pig-headed to negotiate with than our worthy friend, the professor."

The man's arrogance brought an angry warmth to the captain's cheeks. He lit a match, puffed the end of his cigar to a crimson glow, and blew out a thick cloud of smoke that veiled the chagrin in his eyes.

"Cut the cackle, Marcus," he said brusquely. "If you've got anything to say, we're prepared to listen. But it must be to the point. You think you've got a pull over us because you've kidnapped one of my boys; but that remains to be seen."

"Exactly," agreed the bearded man, with an ugly smile that was faithfully reproduced by the televisor. Many things remain to be seen, my dear captain. There are millions of people in the world at the present moment who would be glad to be able to see as far as the end of their noses."

"Bedad, and what's the hairy spalpeen gibbering about?" growled O'Mally impatiently. "Faith, there's only one thing I'd like to be seeing—the impudent face of young Midge himself. Where is the boy, and how are we to be certain that this whiskered half-brother to a bandylegged baboon knows anything about him at all?"

The big Irishman was forgetting that his words and gestures were audible to the distant man. Marcus' swarthy face darkened as he raised one great fist and shook it menacingly in the direction of the doctor.

"The boy's here, aboard this boat," he snarled. "And I'd give quite a lot of money to have you here as well, you bloated, duck-footed, bladder-headed Irish monstrosity. I'd soon get some of that fat off you—by James, I would!"

O'Mally turned purple, and looked as if he were about to charge headlong at the mocking reflection in the screen. Justice's firm hand restrained him.

"Hallo, Irish! How do, blokes? Crumbs, you look like a funeral group out of the old family portrait album!"

It was Midge's voice that came clearly and cheerfully from the loudspeaker. Marcus had stepped to one side, revealing a doorway through which came strutting the diminutive, red-haired youngster, closely followed by a burly ruffian armed with a pistol like a small cannon, that hovered threateningly in the vicinity of his prisoner's right ear.

"Midge!" shouted Len Connor delightedly. "How are you, old son?"

"Not so dusty," was the airy reply. "The grub's not half bad in this dump, but this guy with the heavy artillery's a bit of a nuisance. Follows me about like a blinking lost dog. How's the pow-wow with old Black-beard the Pirate going? He wants to swop me for a couple of secondhand razor-blades or someth—"

"Hold your tongue!" snarled Marcus. "Another word from you and I'll have you gagged!"

"Who—me?" inquired Midge indignantly. "Don't be silly! Crumbs, there's old Fishgoggles! Hallo, professor! My hat, you are a stranger! And how's the old Tower? I'll be along to see you and give it a look-over as soon as old Blackboard gets tired of my company and boots me out."

A brutal buffet sent the youngster staggering back into the arms of his gaoler. Justice paled, and winced as if he were the pained recipient of the blow. O'Mally gulped, making an impulsive, helpless move towards the screen.

"The—the howling cad!" panted Len Connor thickly. "Captain, I can't stand it! We must do something—”

"Take the brat away!" rasped Marcus, shooting a malevolent glance in the direction of the visionary spectators. He was acting to plan. His harsh attitude was partly bluff; but it might enable him to make his own terms with Justice and the professor.

THE red-haired youngster struggled furiously as he was grabbed and dragged bodily from the saloon, beyond visual range of the television.

"So long, blokes; I'll be seeing you," he shouted pluckily. "Don't you worry about me, and don't you let old Blackboard bluff you into making a swap. He won't dare keep me here. I shall be—"

His voice died away in the slam of a closing door. Justice swallowed hard on a lump in his throat. Midge was as game as a pebble. He had done his best to dissuade his friends from making any supreme sacrifice in order to secure his release. He was prepared to take his chance rather than have them submit to Marcus' extortionate, crippling demands.

Marcus looked not unlike a shaggy black wolf as he resumed his perch on the edge of the desk and bared his strong white teeth behind his dark heavy beard.

"Well, you have seen for yourselves that the boy is safe—up to now!" he said meaningly. "I wish him no harm. His safety rests with you."

"Don't beat about the bush, Marcus!" spoke Justice sternly. "How much do you want for the boy's release? What are your terms?"

"I'm not quite certain," answered the man blandly. "It is not a question of money, captain. I shall be a millionaire a hundred times over before very long. No doubt Flaznagel has told you of my scheme. How would you like to join me in carrying it out? You are a man after my own heart. We would have the whole world at our mercy. Riches—power—"

"No!" said Justice bluntly. "'You can put that idea out of your mind, Marcus. I am still waiting to hear your terms! I warn you not to insist on me joining you in your crazy enterprise as the price of Midge's release. You would regret it. I should deal with you as a mad dog, at the first opportunity."

"Not if you gave me your word to adhere to our compact?" suggested Marcus cunningly.

"Certainly," said Justice frankly. "I should be justified in breaking any agreement made under duress."

Marcus frowned. The captain's candour defeated him. He felt a sudden respect and fear for the gallant adventurer. It was more than he dared do to draw Justice into his ambitious quest of fabulous riches and world power. He would be conniving at his downfall—putting a noose round his own neck. Far better to meet the captain as an acknowledged enemy than as an uncertain accomplice.

"You're a fool to refuse my offer," Marcus said sullenly; and suddenly addressed himself to Professor Flaznagel. "I want the Flying Cloud," he demanded bluntly. "You will hand over the airship to me in exchange for the boy. Those are my final, unconditional terms. Take them or leave them. You have one minute to decide. We have wasted enough time already."

It was a staggering request. Justice stiffened with a low exclamation of dismay.

"Suffering Alexander! So it's the Flying Cloud he's after!" breathed Len Connor in consternation. "It can't be done. He's asking too much!"

"And what if we refuse to accept your terms?" asked Captain Justice.

"You won't do that!" retorted Marcus confidently. "I know you, Justice, and I know the affection you have for the carroty-headed little whippersnapper I'm holding aboard this ship. It's the brat's life against the Flying Cloud. Refuse to hand the airship over to me, and—you'll never see the boy alive again!

"That's no idle threat," he added. "I mean every word of it. If you don't agree to the exchange before my time limit expires, Midge dies! That's final!"

Justice was silent, stunned by the sheer horror of the situation. Had the Flying Cloud been his to barter with, he would not have hesitated for one moment to agree to Marcus’ terms. But it was not. Strictly speaking, it was the property of the old professor.

It was for Flaznagel to say whether or not the airship should be used to save Midge's life.

He knew that the giant dirigible was one of Professor Flaznagel's most cherished and jealously guarded possessions.

It was the last word in modern aircraft, with a speed of close on five hundred miles per hour, and a cruising range that would permit it to travel several times round the world without necessity to recharge the storage batteries or to take aboard great supplies of provisions and water.

And this was the ransom that Marcus demanded in exchange for Midge's life and liberty! It proved his ability to strike a shrewd bargain. Once in command of the Flying Cloud he would have no difficulty in flashing from continent to continent, visiting the great cities of the world, and looting and pillaging to his heart's content under cover of the terrible Black Menace!

The Flying Cloud—or Midge? That's the terrible choice Captain Justice has to make. His decision and its startling outcome is Next Saturday's Murray Roberts Thriller!
 Part 5 here.

The Emperor of Darkness

For the Beginning of this serial, part 1 of 6, see here.

The Emperor of Darkness!

In the great World-Darkness, with Civilisation blinded and at a standstill, a Master-Mind is planning to make himself Ruler of all the Earth—and to make CAPTAIN JUSTICE & CO. his unwilling tools!

By MURRAY ROBERTS

From The Modern Boy, 2 June 34. This appears to be part 2 of 6 of the story, The World in Darkness and follows the beginning, Marcus the Mysterious. Digitized by Doug Frizzle April 2013.

Searching for Midge.

CAPTAIN JUSTICE was the first to reach the extreme end of the little South Atlantic island on which his magnificent all-electric yacht, Electra lay wrecked. The island tapered to a rugged spit of rock and sand, and climbing to the highest point of the promontory, the famous Gentleman Adventurer watched Dr. O'Mally and Len Connor converging towards him as they worked their way along the shelving beach, with the stranded yacht looming gauntly in the background.

They were all wearing strange-looking glasses specially designed by Justice's old friend and scientific adviser. Professor Flaznagel, to enable them to see in the awful blackness that had descended on the world, completely blotting out sun, moon. and stars, and destroying all light.

Justice found the cold, yellowish glare of the darkness-piercing glasses trying to the eyes. But he could see, and that was the main thing.

Beyond his field of vision solid walls of darkness hemmed in the sea, giving it the appearance of molten metal at the bottom of a vast dark crucible.

Flaznagel was the only man who had foreseen and prepared against the coming of the Black Menace, as the world-wide black-out was called. But Justice had no idea what those preparations were. Flaznagel had mysteriously disappeared six months ago, and just as mysteriously he had reappeared about an hour ago, coming aboard the stranded yacht and greeting them as casually as if the world was just as usual, and he'd popped in for breakfast. He had brought with him sight-giving glasses for each of the comrades.

Where and how he had come the comrades did not know. All he had mentioned was his headquarters, which he had vaguely referred to as Titanic Tower.

But all his casualness had vanished when Justice mentioned a mysterious ghostly ship that had dropped anchor off the island some time before. Now that ship was nowhere to be seen. Instantly the professor had connected it with a mysterious individual named Marcus, who, he declared, was seeking to take advantage of the universal darkness and make himself Emperor of the World!

Marcus had endeavoured to obtain Flaznagel's aid in his criminal scheme and had been scornfully told off. Now he was trying to locate Flaznagel’s headquarters—already he had stolen the secret of the darkness-piercing glasses.

Flaznagel was now impatient to return to his headquarters with Justice & Co. But red-headed young Midge, the third of Justice's staunch band of supporters, was missing. He had stolen away from the stranded yacht's control-room before the professor's arrival, intent on groping his way below in the terrible darkness, reaching the yacht's larder, and satisfying his terrific appetite.

Not a trace of him was to be found aboard the yacht, and now Justice, O'Mally, and Len were ashore, searching for him, leaving Flaznagel to repair the yacht's broken wireless, whilst Ham Chow, the Chinese cook, prepared a hasty meal.

"Any luck?'' called Justice to O'Mally, as his portly Irish second-in-command came nearer.

O'Mally shook his head gloomily.

"Not a sign of him," he replied. "Faith, it begins to look as if the poor lad must have wandered into the sea in this darkness, bad cess to it, and been drowned!"

He reached the captain's side and waited for Len Connor to join them. The young wireless operator had halted some distance away, and was ranging the narrow strip of beach like a hound seeking the lost scent of a fox.

Suddenly he shouted, waving his arms, and brandishing some object he had found close to the water's edge.

Justice raced to where Len was standing, O'Mally puffing and panting at his heels.

"Begob, 'tis young Midge's hat!" gulped the big Irishman, recognising the crumpled peaked cap that dangled from Connor's hand. "Faith, and where did ye find that?"

"Right here," replied Len, indicating the patch of sand beneath his feet. "And—look! Here's the mark of a boat's keel, drawn clear of the water, and several sets of footprints. They're comparatively fresh. They can't have been here very long."

Justice's lips tightened as he dropped to one knee and examined the stretch of trampled, moist soil that fringed the edge of the sea. He was a born scout. He could read a trail with the skill of a black tracker, and the message conveyed by the marks was as clear to him as a printed newspaper.

"You're quite right, Connor. A boat was beached here less than half an hour ago!" he exclaimed sharply. "The tide has ebbed since then, and here's the line of her keel. She carried three men or more, who landed at this point and walked inland. Here are their footprints, going and coming. Two wore rubber-soled shoes; the third had boots with pointed toes."

LEN CONNOR nodded. He could picture the scene—a strange craft creeping up under cover of darkness, to land her occupants on this bleak, barren island. But with what purpose? Who were the mysterious trio? Whence had they come, and where had they gone?

"They must have come ashore from the ship that was anchored off here an hour or so ago," muttered Justice, half to himself. "Now she's clean disappeared."

"And so has Midge," said Len Connor, in a strained voice. "But here's his hat—right on the spot where those fellows landed!"

O'Mally clenched his big fists. His eyes bulged behind the grotesque goggles that obscured the upper part of his round face.

"Faith, d'ye suppose the boy's been kidnapped? Are you certain that it is his hat?"

Len Connor was more than certain. Dumbly he held out the crumpled cap. Tucked away in the lining was a packet of chewing-gum, a piece of milk-chocolate, and a slab of toffee.

"Midge's iron rations," he said huskily. No further identification was necessary. It was the missing youngster's hat sure enough. He always had something in the way of food hidden away either in his hat or in his numerous pockets.

O'Mally swallowed hard, and made an unnecessary fuss of blowing his nose. The sight of the sticky chunk of toffee, so typical of the absent boy, brought a big lump to his throat.

It was impossible not to connect Midge's baffling disappearance with the mysterious strangers who had recently landed on the narrow strip of beach.

Justice stared grimly at the trampled sand, where he now read signs of a desperate struggle that would account for the hat Connor had found. His troubled gaze roved to the empty sea. and swept the barren expanse of the island that they had searched from end to end.

He knew that it would be useless seeking farther. Cold fury surged up in him at the thought of Midge helpless in the power of an unscrupulous enemy, whose motive in kidnapping the red-haired youngster was as vague as his identity.

Instinctively he was reminded of the professor's story of the sinister unknown man—Marcus the Mysterious— who was planning to terrorise and pillage the great cities of the world under cover of the Black Menace.

Was it Marcus whose ship had lain off the island? Was it Marcus into whose clutches Midge had fallen? Such were the questions that drummed in his mind as he squared his shoulders and met the puzzled, uneasy looks of his two companions.

"Bedad, and what d'ye suppose has become of the poor boy?" demanded O'Mally dejectedly. "And what are we going to do about it, captain?"

"We must consult the professor!" snapped Justice.

The words had scarcely left his lips when a wild howl of excitement drew their attention to the distant yacht. The lean figure of Professor Flaznagel was poised high in the bows of the stranded craft. His ragged beard was blowing in the breeze as he stood flourishing his long arms and beckoning frantically to his companions. His voice came faintly to their ears, but it was impossible to hear what he was saying.

"Faith, and what's bitten the old fellow now?" exclaimed O'Mally. " ‘Tis a fine stew he's in, capering about like a cat on hot bricks."

"May be news of Midge," suggested Len Connor eagerly. "I expect he's got the radio working, and picked up some sort of message."

"Or it may be an urgent call from his headquarters," jerked Justice, scrambling up the shelving beach and making a bee-line for the yacht. "Pick up your feet, you chaps!"

Len Connor frowned puzzledly as he pocketed Midge's cap and broke into a run. It had suddenly struck him that, though they had searched every yard of the island, they had discovered no trace of the conveyance— boat or plane—that had brought the professor from his secret base in mid-Atlantic!

How had he succeeded in reaching the island. He hadn't told them yet. It was only one of the many mysteries that remained to be solved, and which were to be revealed to Justice and his companions within the next few hours.

Clutching Fingers!

MIDGE was quite unaware of Professor Flaznagel's arrival on the wrecked yacht. It was some time before the old scientist's sudden and mysterious appearance out of the darkness that the red-haired youngster had succumbed to the demands of his appetite and decided on a foraging expedition into the black depths of the yacht.

"I've got to get hold of some grub!" was his determined conclusion. "If I don't have a meal very soon I shall be too blinkin' weak to eat anything at all. If I can't find my way down to the kitchen, I'll eat my blessed hat."

Despite, the pitch darkness that filled the control-room, he had no difficulty in locating the hatchway that led below decks and descending the rubber-covered steps.

The snoring of Dr. O'Mally, and the subdued voices of Justice and Len Connor faded in the distance. Midge chuckled to himself as he reached the foot of the shaft and turned in the direction of the main saloon. The utter blackness had no terrors for him. The pleasing aroma of a grilled sausage would have lured him through a dense African forest, infested with snakes, savage beasts, and bloodthirsty cannibals. For the sniff of a fried egg he would have cheerfully braved the horrors of a catacomb full of vampire bats and grinning skeletons.

He could smell no sausage; but his imagination pictured scores of them, plump and brown, sizzling and spluttering in a frying-pan as big round as a wagon wheel.

Festoons of hams, stacks of cheeses, and mountains of tinned foods swam before his vision as he groped his way along the passage, avoiding the cabin doors that opened on either side of him.

"Pity I didn't tackle this job long ago," he muttered confidently, "Just a question of using one's nut, and—”

Bump !

"Suffering cyclones!" A million stars danced before Midge's, eyes as his red head came in violent contact with some unexpected obstacle. Either he had grown considerably since he had last visited the saloon, or the ceiling had dropped.

The latter was the case. Rafters and girders had been crushed downwards when the yacht had been thrown with shattering force on the rugged island. The walls bulged outwards, and the floor was littered with debris. As Midge made his way across the dining-saloon where he had enjoyed so many luxurious meals, draughts of icy-cold air whistled through the yawning rents in the yacht's hull, numbing his ears, his bare hands, and the tip of his snub nose.

The youngster was half-inclined to regret that he had left the warmth and shelter of the upper turret. Finding his way to the kitchen was not such an easy task as he had imagined. He barked his shins, twisted one ankle, and came within an inch of dropping through a hole in the floor that gaped suddenly beneath his feet like a hungry mouth. Submerged in the clinging darkness, he eventually managed to locate the door he sought, leading to the cook's quarters.

But the door was jammed. It was a crushing blow to Midge's hopes. His heart seemed to sink down into his boots as he twisted the handle, and applied his shoulder to the stout panels that intervened between him and the means to satisfy his increasing hunger.

Finally he remembered that the door opened in the opposite direction to that in which he was directing his efforts. He uttered a cheer as it swung back on its hinges, and his snub nose was greeted with the familiar aroma of coffee, haunches of bacon, and recently cooked food.

"My hat, that smells good. Now we shan't be long!"

Midge was in his element, and the darkness was no longer a handicap now that he had reached the kitchen. Many a time he had raided the larder in the dead of night, fearing to switch on a light in case he should betray his presence to the watchful Ham Chow. But there was no danger to be feared in that quarter. The Chinese cook was safely out of the way. With the uncanny sixth sense of a somnambulist, Midge threaded his way between electric stoves, plate-washing machines, and other labour-saving devices that were bolted to the floor and had not been dislodged when the yacht had struck.

But the big electrically-cooled provision store was in a state of chaos and confusion. Goods were scattered all over the place. The floor was strewn with foodstuffs in tins, packets, and cases. Midge was entirely dependent on his senses of touch, taste, and smell.

"Like a blinkin' lucky-dip!” he muttered, foraging about in the darkness. "Here's a loaf of bread. That'll be something to go on with. Butter—cheese—my hat, some sort of a pie! Three rousing cheers! Sardines! Whoopee, what's this? Feels like a jolly old ham or a leg of mutton!"

The youngster proceeded to minister to his hunger.

"Feel a bit better now," decided Midge presently, loosening his belt a couple of holes. "Can't say I'm struck on eating in the dark, but it's a blinkin' sight better than not eating at all!"

Then he rested for a while, feeling very pleased with life, though a trifle distended and uncomfortable. The turret seemed a very long way off, and so far there was nothing to denote that his absence had been discovered.

"Nothing like a spot of grub to pull a chap together," he mused drowsily. "Wonder if old Flashnozzle's turned up yet? S'pose I ought to rustle some prog together and hike it upstairs. Be a bit of a surprise for 'em when I waltz home with the bacon and tell 'em what a slap-up feed I've had!"

Wearily Midge hoisted himself to his feet, and groped his way towards the exit from the store-room. It was at that moment that the stranded yacht gave a slight lurch as it settled more firmly on the rocks.

Midge felt the floor tilt, as it a giant foot had disturbed its level. There was a rustling noise in the darkness overhead. The red-haired youngster uttered a wild yell of alarm as some weighty object swooped down on his shoulders, and he was flattened to the floor with a grip of huge, hard, cold fingers fastened on the back of his neck!

At least, they felt like fingers; the finders of an enormous, clutching hand. Midge was not to know that it was merely a bunch of bananas, hung up to ripen, that had been dislodged from the roof, to drop squarely on top of him.

He was quite convinced that he had been attacked by some huge and ghastly monster—a denizen of the desert island—that had sought shelter in the wrecked yacht under cover of the weird world-darkness.

The snub-nosed youngster never moved quicker in his life. The touch of the ponderous, icy fingers on the nape of his neck stimulated him to action like a galvanic shock. On hands and knees, with hair on end, and his vocal organs paralysed with horror after that one wild yell, he scuttled into the darkness, neither knowing nor caring where he was going.

He encountered numerous invisible obstacles, bruising his limbs and bumping his head painfully. Presently he became aware that the weight was removed from his back and the giant hand no longer clasped his neck. The bunch of bananas had dropped off and lay where it had fallen in the middle of the kitchen.

Mysterious Strangers!

PANTING and breathless, half-ashamed of his blind panic, Midge came to a halt, squatting in the dense gloom while he slowly collected his scattered wits. There were no sounds of pursuit. All he could hear was the muffled pounding of his own heart.

Fright passed; common sense reasserted itself.

"Blinkin' idiot, that's what I am!" muttered the youngster disgustedly. "Scared of my own shadow! Something dropped on top of me from one of the shelves. Might have been a string of sausages or some chunks of frozen meat. Hand be blowed! Crumbs, it felt mighty like one, though! Eugh!"

Midge shivered, and fondled the back of his neck. The only injuries he had suffered were sundry bumps and abrasions collected in the course of his mad flight. He felt a sudden desire for the shelter of the turret and the company of his friends. The sooner he rejoined them the better.

HE scrambled to his feet, and it was not until that moment that the youngster realised he had lost his bearings. He had not the vaguest idea where he was. He was completely lost in the black depths of the wrecked yacht.

"Suffering cats, this has properly put the lid on it!" Midge sucked in his breath in a gulp of dismay. He was not afraid, but he knew that he was in a tight corner. He might wander about for hours without being lucky enough to find the narrow shaft and stairs leading to the control-room on the upper deck. And the more he wandered about the more likely he was to get trapped amid the debris, or topple through some hole in the floor.

"Steady! Keep your nut, my lad!" he muttered stoutly. "No use getting windy. If only I can find my way back to the blinkin' kitchen I shall know where I am. I am sure to run up against something that'll be a bit of good to the jolly old bump of locality. Here goes!"

With groping hands, he commenced his exploration of the immediate darkness. He ran up against many things that failed to give him any clue to his whereabouts, but added several painful protuberances to his baffled bump of locality.

"Crumbs, I shall be all blinkin' bumps by the time I've finished," he grunted, as he banged his head for the tenth time against some unseen projection. "I never knew there were so many passages and steps in this blessed ship and doors that won't open."

Most of the doors and bulkhead communications had become hopelessly jammed when the yacht had struck the rocks, crumpling and crushing her slender hull like an eggshell.

The next twenty minutes were like a nightmare to Midge. He had lost all sense of time and everything else. He seemed to have been wandering about for hours, encountering nothing save walls, barriers of twisted ironwork, and invisible obstacles that tripped his feet and ripped his clothes. Finally he slithered down a flight of steps, and knew by the mingled smells of lubricating oil, rubber, and fused insulated cables that he had blundered into the engine-room, with its compact but powerful electric motors. They were out of action, but the possibility of running up against a live terminal that would reduce him to a cinder in a fraction of a second was not a pleasant one.

"Suffering snakes, this is no place for me," he decided uneasily. "I've taken the wrong blinkin' turning. I ought to be going up, not down."

He sought the stairs, but they eluded him. Attracted by a current of cold air, he suddenly stepped into space and realised, with a shock, that he had walked through a gaping hole in the yacht's side.

There was a sickening sensation of falling, and a violent shock that jarred every bone in the youngster's body and drove all the breath from his lungs. But Midge was unharmed. He knew that he had not dropped from any great height.

He was lying on a bed of cold, damp sand that had helped to break his fall. The darkness was as thick as ever, but he sensed that he was no longer in the yacht. He was in the open air, with an invisible sky overhead and a soundless sea lapping the fringes of the island where the Electra had run aground.

"Crumbs, I've fallen overboard!" was Midge's wondering remark as he sat up, stretching his arms and legs to make certain no bones were broken. "Well, I do know where I am, and that's something to be thankful for. Blinkin' sight better to be out here than crawling about inside the old barge like a blind beetle. All I've got to do is to climb up on deck and I— Jumping jellyfish, what's that?"

There was a stealthy rustling in the surrounding darkness, a harsh rasp of breathing, and swift, swooping movements of invisible bodies that descended on Midge like a human avalanche.

He had no time or chance to utter a sound. A big muscular hand, tough as leather and strong as steel, clamped itself over his mouth. Other hands, dozens of them it seemed, attached themselves to all parts of his body, gripping his arms and legs and lifting him clear of the ground.

Midge was as helpless as a roped steer at a western rodeo. There was no glimmer of light, yet he sensed fierce eyes glaring down at him and was amazed to hear a deep voice exclaim exultantly.

"Ha, here's a stroke of luck. It's Captain Justice's precious cub—the red-haired brat!"

"Midge!" jerked another voice. "We couldn't have made a better haul, unless it was Justice himself. This kid'll be easier to handle than young Connor, or that fat slob, O'Mally. Off you go! We want to get clear of this place before the professor trims up. The stubborn fool's got a big surprise coming to him."

Midge's brain was spinning with bewilderment as he felt himself swung in midair and borne jolting away across the slippery rocks and patches of wet sand that surrounded the stranded yacht. Who, he wondered, were those mysterious strangers? Why had they taken him captive, and—queerest point of all—how had they managed to detect and recognise him in this black fog that had blinded the whole world?

They were invisible to him. Yet they walked surely and certainly in the darkness, without falter or stumble as they negotiated the rugged ground, and neared the beach. There they halted. The keel of a boat grated harshly on sand and shingle.

Suddenly, Midge remembered the silent, sinister ship, glowing with a ghostly radiance that he and his friends aboard the Electra had seen drop anchor off the island shortly after the yacht had struck!

He commenced to struggle, writhing and twisting like a wildcat. A blow with clenched fist knocked the hat from his head and set his ears ringing. Roughly he was dumped down in the well of the boat.

An electric motor commenced to vibrate with noiseless power. Midge lay dazed and silent in the darkness as the craft sped away across the tide.

"My aged Aunt Agatha, I haven't half landed myself in a mess this journey!" thought the plucky youngster. "If I hadn't gone down below to scout round for a bit of grub, this wouldn't have happened.

"I wonder where the professor's got to? I wonder what the captain'll say when he finds I'm missing? And I wonder who these blighters are, and what sort of a queer game they're playing?"

The Man at the Chart-Table!

 "BLESSED if I can understand it at all!" said Midge, with a puzzled shake of his red head. "It's got me absolutely beat. What with this awful darkness, and Professor Flaznagel hiding himself away in some sort of thumping great tower in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, and the Electra wrecked on a desert island, with Captain Justice, Len Connor, and Dr. O'Mally aboard her, I thought we had quite enough trouble to go on with. And now this has happened! Suffering cats, it's enough to send a fellow off his rocker. What's it mean? What's it all about? What am I doing here? That's what I want to know!"

Midge glared fiercely around. There was no reply to his words, and no reason why he should expect one. He was talking to himself. He was alone in the tiny ship's cabin, with its grey, steel walls, chromium-plated metal furnishings, rubber floor covering, and a light fixture suspended from the ceiling that emitted a queer, yellowish glow.

The narrow door was locked and bolted on the outer side. The round porthole, set in one wall, was too small for even him to utilise as an avenue of escape. In any case, it was securely screwed shut, and all that could be seen through the thick plate-glass was utter darkness, like a circle of dull ebony.

Midge tramped up and down the twelve feet by eight of confined space with his hands jammed in his pockets, and a black scowl on his freckled face.

He had no idea why he had been taken prisoner, or who was responsible for the fact that he was a prisoner. The men who had effected his capture were completely unknown to him.

There was a great deal of sound sense stowed away in Midge's red head. He could always face an emergency. The fact that he was now a prisoner did not alarm him in the least.

But he was curious to learn where he was, why he had been kidnapped, and who was responsible for the operation of separating him from his friends aboard the Electra.

If he worried about anything at all, it was the natural bewilderment and anxiety that would be created when it was discovered that he had disappeared.

"They won't know where the dickens I've mizzled to," mused the youngster. "And they won't be able to search the yacht, unless old Flaznagel trickles along with some sort of light."

There was a sense of motion—a continuous, gentle vibration, and an occasional tilting of the floor beneath his feet—that told him the mystery ship was under way, ploughing through the darkness like a sleek, searching hound of the seas.

"Blinkin' body-snatchers, that's what they are," growled Midge, referring to his unknown captors. "I'd like to get a crack at the brutes. The first one that shoves his face in here'll get a sock in the jaw he won't forget in a hurry. I'll show 'em. I'll jolly well—"

He suddenly pricked up his ears, scowling and clenching his fists as a key rasped in the lock, bolts slid back, and the door crashed open.

"My hat!" Midge's eyes bulged, and his jaw sagged in consternation as he caught his first glimpse of his mysterious kidnappers. The man who loomed in the doorway, filling it from side to side, was one of the biggest and ugliest ruffians he had ever set eyes on. He had the chest and limbs of a gorilla, and the battered face of a retired pugilist. Any attempt to sock him in the jaw would be an act of suicide.

The newcomer grunted and glared. He wore blue uniform and a sailor's cap. In one huge hand he held a tray with covered dishes. In the other was a black automatic, thrust within a foot of Midge's snub nose.

"Here—look slippy. Take this!"

"Eh? Oh, I see. Much obliged-old bean." Midge made a snatch at the pistol, but the man was too quick for him.

"None of your tricks!'' he snarled, jerking the weapon away. "Try to be funny with me and I'll take you to pieces. Grab hold of this grub. Eat it."

"Grub!" Doubtfully the youngster accepted the tray. "What's wrong with it— poisoned?" he asked suspiciously. "Here, half a tick—"

The man withdrew, slamming and bolting the door.

"Talkative sort of bloke, I don't think!" muttered Midge, placing the tray on the folding table, and lifting the covers from the dishes. The sight was a pleasing one.

Midge's eyes glistened. At least, his captors did not intend to let him starve. He was touched by this kindly consideration for his appetite; if it was intended as such. It was unlikely that there was anything wrong with the food. If his kidnappers wished to dispose of him there was no necessity to use trickery or subterfuge. The human ape that had just visited him could have wiped him out of existence with a single blow of his great fist.

"Crumbs, not half a bad spread," commented the youngster, sampling the soup with great gusto, and transferring his attentions to the rest of the meal. “Strikes me they do themselves pretty well in this old hooker!"

It didn't take him many minutes to polish off the meal that was as welcome as it was unexpected. Then he started again to wonder what his friends were doing aboard the stranded Electra, and whether the professor had as yet made his promised appearance in order to conduct them to his mystery headquarters in mid-Atlantic. Midge could expect no help from them. How were they to know that he had been kidnapped under cover of the darkness, and forcibly removed to the strange ship that had lain at anchor off the island?

Even if they guessed the truth, they would find the ship missing when they came to search for their absent chum.

"If I'm going to get out of this blinkin' jam, it's a dead certainty I've got to do it off my own bat," decided the youngster, with a determined jerk of his red head. "And it's going to be a tough job!"

It was going to be a tough job. Any glorious and ambitious ideas Midge may have had of overcoming the crew and capturing the vessel single-handed, were immediately dispelled as he remembered the gigantic, gorilla-like ruffian who had visited him. If he was a fair specimen of the gang that held him prisoner, it would require a regiment of soldiers, armed with machine-guns and bombs, to crush resistance and seize the ship.

"I dunno that I'd be much better off if I did manage to break out of this dump," mused the youngster, surveying his cramped quarters with pensive eyes. "Being a prisoner aboard a boat is different from being prisoner on land. If I got out o' here I could only jump overboard, or prowl around until I was nabbed again!"

The idea of jumping overboard in the pitch darkness was not particularly attractive. But the freedom of the ship might enable him to determine the identity of the unknown enemy, or to locate the wireless-room and radio an SOS to Professor Flaznagel.

"Crumbs, here's Little Willie again."

Again the door had opened, and the hulking, barrel-chested, beetle-browed ruffian glared into the cabin, revolver clutched in one hand. There was nothing in the other, much to Midge's disappointment. He had half expected another relay of food.

“Lummy, you ain't left much!" remarked the man, eyeing the empty dishes in astonishment. "'Must have an appetite like a perishing shark! Quite sure you've had enough?"

"Enough your grandmother's ear-trumpet!" snapped Midge scornfully. "Call that a meal? I reckon the mice must have been at it before you brought it along to me. Tell the manager I want to see him!"

The man grinned unpleasantly, and waved his pistol menacingly.

"Get up on your hind legs, and no funny business!" he ordered gruffly. "The boss wants to see you, so be on your best behaviour, or you'll get a crack on the dome from this gun as'll put you to sleep for a few hours!"

Midge jumped to his feet, his eyes sparkling, an eager look on his freckled face. This was the moment he had been waiting for. At last he was to learn something definite about his mysterious kidnappers and the sinister ship carrying lights that enabled it to penetrate even the blinding mist of the Black Menace.

"Lead on, Horace!" he invited cheerfully. "Yon needn't be scared of me. I don't feel in a fighting mood just at the moment. Here, steady on with that blinking cannon!”

He was forced to take the lead, with his hands clasped on top of his carroty head, and the cold hard muzzle of the automatic thrust against his spine.

He and his escort walked the length of a bare, white-walled corridor, mounted a short flight of steps, and passed through a doorway into an apartment that reminded him of the control-tower of the ill-fated Electra. He caught a glimpse of gleaming machinery, banks of switches, levers, radio apparatus, and a blank television screen.

Then his gaze fixed itself on the man seated at the chart-table, tilted back in a swing-chair, with a blue cloud of tobacco smoke swirling about his head and shoulders. Two fierce grey eyes, hard and cold as steel ball-bearings, glared at Midge from over a powerful hooked nose, like the beak of a condor or some other evil bird of prey.

The man wore a square-cut beard; thick, bluish-black, and glossy. He was a handsome, powerful, aggressive-looking brute, with the dominating, confident air of a master of men.

His face was familiar. Midge frowned, and racked his brains.

"Crumbs, when have I seen that guy before?" he wondered. And then he remembered. Here, in the flesh, was the mysterious, black-bearded individual who had jammed the Electra's wireless and had obtruded himself on Justice's television screen shortly after the Black Menace had swept over the world, and when Professor Flaznagel had been attempting to get in communication with his friends aboard the yacht.

"Suffering saveloys, it's old Black-beard, the pirate, the skipper of that blinking ghost ship!" breathed Midge. "I've been wondering when he'd pop up again. Now we are getting somewhere. This is the bloke old Flashnozzle was trying to warn us against before the yacht ran aground and our wireless conked out!"

Riches and Power!

THE man at the chart-table showed his teeth in a mirthless grin, and flicked grey ash from the end of a cigar that was nearly a foot in length. He examined Midge as if he were some strange insect that had crept in under the door.

"You know me?" His voice was deep and melodious, like the lingering echo of a brass gong.

"Know you? I'm bust if I do!" answered Midge promptly. "Where have I seen you before? The Zoo, or the Chamber of Horrors? Who are you, anyhow?"

"My name," said the man impressively, "is Marcus—Master of the Darkness and future Emperor of the World!"

"Crumbs, he's batty!" muttered the red-headed youngster uneasily. "Clean off his rocker! Perhaps it's this black fog has sent him loopy. Just my blinkin' luck to get mixed up with the only crackpot in the whole Atlantic Ocean!"

The man's next words were not those of a demented madman, or of a person suffering from delusions.

"You are one of Captain Justice's gang," he challenged—"the ginger-haired kid they call Midge?"

“My name," corrected the diminutive red haired youngster, with great dignity, and little truth, "is Nelson Wellington Midge. You will find an automatic machine, erected in commemoration of my birth, just outside the main entrance to Waterloo Station. And if you care to—Ouch!"

The man at his back gave Midge a warning jab in the ribs with the barrel of his pistol.

"Leave the boy alone!" snapped Marcus, with a wave of his big cigar. "He mustn't be harmed. He is a valuable hostage, and may be worth ten times his weight in gold to us."

“Suffering salamanders!" gulped

Midge, astounded at this computation of his worth. "If this guy isn't scatty, then I'm a Dutchman. Go gently with that gun, Tarzan. Didn't you hear what the boss said? You bust one of my ribs, and it'll cost you a couple of million quid. Worth my weight in gold, I am! Corks!"

"I said you may be worth your weight!" corrected the bearded man. "It depends on the value Captain Justice places on you, and what influence he has over Professor Flaznagel."

Midge blinked his eyes in bewilderment. Perhaps he was mistaken in his first impression of his captor. Marcus might be eccentric, but he certainly did not look, act, or speak like a lunatic.

"Has this youngster had anything to eat?" were his next words.

"Blinkin' little!" Midge said hastily and hopefully. “Hardly worth talking about, the miserable bite of grub I've had. I—I'll bet I've lost a couple of pounds in weight since I was brought aboard this darned scow. I'm used to regular meals; one every couple of hours—sometimes more."

Marcus smiled, and made a gesture of dismissal to the armed guard.

"You may go, Amish. Tell the cook to send along a plateful of fresh sandwiches. Take a seat, Midge."

Amish vanished. Warily Midge perched himself on one of the steel-frame chairs, and shot a sharp glance at his companion. The latter's genial air and friendly smile were suspicious in themselves, and Midge did not intend to fall for any trickery. He was the first to come down to brass tacks.

"Look here, what's the blinkin' game, Mister Emperor Marcus?" he demanded bluntly, a defiant expression on his freckled face as he confronted the big, bearded man across the chart-table. "What's the idea in this kidnapping stunt? What are you after?"

"Riches and power," was the calm answer.

Midge sniffed contemptuously.

"You've picked a rum time to start that sort of racket, with the whole world in darkness, and—"

"I have picked the right time," retorted Marcus, with an arrogant smile. "It is the time I have been waiting for—ever since Professor Flaznagel predicted the coming of the Black Menace, six months ago."

Midge frowned, and ran his fingers puzzledly through his tousled red hair. Undoubtedly this man was no lunatic. He radiated power, authority, and confidence. He was a deep and shrewd schemer; a man who had applied himself to some task that he was determined to accomplish.

"Huh, and why kidnap me?" Midge asked curiously.

"It was not actually my intention to kidnap you.” informed Marcus obligingly, "I was after the professor, knowing he was on his way to the island to take you and your pals off the wrecked yacht.

"But Flaznagel gave me the slip. I didn't see him arrive, and we were scouting round the Electra when you dropped plump into our hands like a ripe apple. I realised that you were a valuable hostage; almost as valuable as the professor would have been. And now here you are—my guest, prisoner—just as you please. Ah, here come the sandwiches. Help yourself, my lad."

Mechanically Midge accepted the invitation, and in an amazingly short time the plate was empty, Marcus smiled, and lit a fresh cigar.

"As I was saying," he remarked, "you are likely "to prove a valuable hostage."

MIDGE gave a hollow laugh of disdain as he swallowed the remains of the last sandwich. "Valuable be Mowed!" he scoffed. "If you're kidding yourself you're going to bluff the captain into shelling out umpteen thousands of pounds to get me back, you've got another guess coming!

"Where do you suppose the captain's going to lay hands on any cash to ransom me now the yacht's wrecked? We're thousands of miles from the nearest bank, and the whole world's as black as the inside of o nigger's hat!"

"Cash!" Marcus lifted his bushy eyebrows. "I have made no mention of the word 'cash.' It is not my intention to demand a farthing from Captain Justice. It is his assistance I want—not his money—his co-operation and support in one of the most gigantic and ambitious enterprises known in the history of man. Professor Flaznagel is a doddering, narrow-minded old crank. I offered to take him into partnership, and promised him a half-share in a hundred million pounds; but he turned me down. Perhaps Justice will prove more reasonable when he knows you are my—er—guest!"

Midge was no fool. He rubbed his snub nose, and scowled thoughtfully.

"So old Flashwoggle turned your scheme down. I suppose there's something crooked about it?"

Marcus flushed, and bit his lip. A fanatical gleam crept into his cold grey eyes, and the veins on his hands swelled as he hammered his clenched fists on the chart-table.

"Crooked? Bah! It depends on what you call crooked!" he said harshly. "This world darkness has altered everything. It has thrown civilisation back a thousand years. There is no light of any kind. Everything is at a standstill.

"And there are hundreds of millions of pounds of gold lying idle, unprotected, and temporarily useless, in the banks of all the great cities of America, Europe, and England."

Midge caught his breath. He was beginning to realise what this strange, bearded giant was driving at, and how he hoped to achieve domination of the world by taking advantage of the panic, confusion, helplessness, and horrors of the plague of darkness that had temporarily blinded all the inhabitants of Earth!

"Both Flaznagel and I," continued Marcus, more calmly, as he relaxed in his seat, "possess the secret of the infra-orange ray, a beam of light that enables us to see in the midst of this seemingly impenetrable belt of black fog."

He pointed to the yellowish bulb that illuminated the cabin in which they were seated.

"Equipped with this power of vision —known to no one save ourselves—the professor and I have all the treasures of the world at our mercy," continued Marcus. "We can travel where we please, unseen and unhindered, helping ourselves to whatever we choose to

"And what'd be the use of all that gold to you?" asked Midge. "You couldn't spend it. It wouldn't buy you anything. It's got no value at all while this blinkin' darkness lasts."

“Exactly! But this darkness is not going to last," declared Marcus confidently. "It is only transitory, not permanent. It may remain for another few weeks, another few months, or possibly a couple of years. But eventually the centrifugal force of the earth's rotations is bound to throw off and disperse this clinging belt of dense black gases.”

"Meanwhile "—the bearded man chuckled deeply, expelling a great cloud of cigar-smoke—" meanwhile, we will not ‘gather hay while the sun shines,' but we will reap the golden harvest of the world's riches while the Black Menace holds sway. And when it has gone and the light of the sun is with us again, then I, Marcus, and all those who choose to join me in this colossal enterprise, will possess riches and power greater than any other living men!"

A cold shiver ran down Midge's spine as the self-styled Emperor of the World fell silent and looked at him gloatingly.

What did the future hold for him, a prisoner in this man's hands? And what part was he to play in forcing Justice to aid the man's criminal schemes? Whatever that part was, he realised that it would go hard with him if Justice refused to join Marcus.

"Cheer up!" muttered the youngster to himself. "Never say die till you're dead! While the captain's about there's hope. So, Midge, my lad, you've got to keep a stiff upper lip and take what's coming to you with a smile!"

Midge little knows what the Future holds for him and the comrades from whom he has been forcibly taken! And it's just as well he doesn't, for even his cheery spirit would quail! Get Next Saturday's MODERN BOY bright and early and see what happens to the Gallant Adventurers!
Part 3