_It started in Greece on the day after tomorrow. Before the last act
raced to a close, Coburn was buried to his ears in assorted
adventures, including a revolution and an invasion from outer
space!_
_We're not given to throwing around the word "epic" lightly, but
here _is_ one! Swashbuckling action, a great many vivid characters,
and a weird mystery--all spun for you by one of the master
story-tellers of our time._
On a certain day--it may be in the history books eventually--Coburn was
in the village of Ardea, north of Salonika in the most rugged part of
Greece. He was making a survey for purposes which later on turned out
not to matter much. The village of Ardea was small, it was very early in
the morning, and he was trying to get his car started when he heard the
yell.
It was a shrill yell, and it traveled fast. Coburn jerked his head
upright from the hood of the car. A whiskered villager with flapping
trousers came pounding up the single street. His eyes were
panic-stricken and his mouth was wide. He emitted the yell in a long,
sustained note. Other villagers popped into view like ants from a
disturbed ant-hill. Some instantly ran back into their houses. Others
began to run toward the outskirts of the village, toward the south.
Coburn, watching blankly, found himself astonished at the number of
people the village contained. He hadn't dreamed it was so populous. All
were in instant frenzied flight toward the mountains. An old woman he'd
seen barely hobbling, now ran like a deer. Children toddled desperately.
Adults snatched them up and ran. Larger children fled on twinkling legs.
The inhabitants of Ardea vanished toward the hills in a straggling,
racing, panting stream. They disappeared around an outcrop of stone
which was merely the nearest place that would hide them. Then there was
silence.
Coburn turned his head blankly in the direction from which they had run.
He saw the mountains--incredibly stony and barren. That was all. No, not
quite--there was something far away which was subtly different in color
from the hillsides. It moved. It flowed over a hill crest, coming
plainly from somewhere beyond the mountains. It was vague in shape.
Coburn felt a momentary stirring of superstition. There simply couldn't
be anything so huge....
But there could. There was. It was a column of soldiers in uniforms that
looked dark-gray at this distance. It flowed slowly out of the mountains
like a colossal snake--some Midgard monster or river of destruction. It
moved with an awful, deliberate steadiness toward the village of Ardea.
Coburn caught his breath. Then he was running too. He was out of the
village almost before he realized it. He did not try to follow the
villagers. He might lead pursuers after them. There was a narrow defile
nearby. Tanks could hardly follow it, and it did not lead where they
would be going. He plunged into it and was instantly hidden. He pelted
on. It was a trail from somewhere, because he saw ancient
donkey-droppings on the stones, but he did not know where it led. He
simply ran to get away from the village and the soldiers who were coming
toward it.
This was Greece. They were Bulgarian soldiers. This was not war or even
invasion. This was worse--a cold-war raid. He kept running and presently
rocky cliffs overhung him on one side, a vast expanse of sky loomed to
his left. He found himself panting. He began to hope that he was
actually safe.
Then he heard a voice. It sounded vexed. Quite incredibly, it was
talking English. "But my dear young lady!" it said severely. "You simply
mustn't go on! There's the very devil of a mess turning up, and you
mustn't run into it!"
A girl's voice answered, also in English. "I'm sure--I don't know what
you're talking about!"
"I'm afraid I can't explain. But, truly, you mustn't go on to the
village!"
Coburn pushed ahead. He came upon the people who had spoken. There was a
girl riding on a donkey. She was American. Trim. Neat. Uneasy, but
reasonably self-confident. And there was a man standing by the trail,
with a slide of earth behind him and mud on his boots as if he'd slid
down somewhere very fast to intercept this girl. He wore the distinctive
costume a British correspondent is apt to affect in the wilds.
They turned as Coburn came into view. The girl goggled at him. He was
not exactly the sort of third person one expected to find on a very
lonely, ill-defined rocky trail many miles north of Salonika.
When they turned to him, Coburn recognized the man. He'd met Dillon once
or twice in Salonika. He panted: "Dillon! There's a column of soldiers
headed across the border! Bulgarians!"
"How close?" asked Dillon.
"They're coming," said Coburn, with some difficulty due to lack of
breath. "I saw them across the valley. Everybody's run away from the
village. I was the last one out."
Dillon nodded composedly. He looked intently at Coburn. "You know me,"
he said reservedly. "Should I remember you?"
"I've met you once or twice," Coburn told him. "In Salonika."
"Oh," said Dillon. "Oh, yes. Sorry. I've got some cameras up yonder. I
want a picture or two of those Bulgarians. See if you can persuade this
young lady not to go on. I fancy it's safe enough here. Not a normal
raid route through this pass."
Coburn nodded. Dillon expected the raid, evidently. This sort of thing
had happened in Turkey. Now it would start up here, in Greece. The
soldiers would strike fast and far, at first. They wouldn't stop to hunt
down the local inhabitants. Not yet.
"We'll wait," said Coburn. "You'll be back?"
"Oh, surely!" said Dillon. "Five minutes or less."
He started up the precipitous wall, at whose bottom he had slid down. He
climbed remarkably well. He went up hand-over-hand despite the steepness
of the stone. It looked almost impossible, but Dillon apparently found
handgrips by instinct, as a good climber does. In a matter of minutes
he vanished, some fifty feet up, behind a bulging mass of stone. He did
not reappear.
* * * * *
Coburn began to get his breath back. The girl looked at him, her
forehead creased.
"Just to make sure," said Coburn, "I'll see if I can get a view back
down the trail."
Where the vastness of the sky showed, he might be able to look down. He
scrambled up a barrier two man-heights high. There was a screen of
straggly brush, with emptiness beyond. He peered.
He could see a long way down and behind, and actually the village was
clearly in sight from here. There were rumbling, caterpillar-tread tanks
in the act of entering it. There were anachronistic mounted men with
them. Cavalry is outdated, nowadays, but in rocky mountain country they
can have uses where tanks can't go. But here tanks and cavalry looked
grim. Coburn squirmed back and beckoned to the girl. She joined him.
They peered through the brushwood together.
The light tanks were scurrying along the single village street. Horsemen
raced here and there. A pig squealed. There was a shot. The tanks
emerged from the other side. They went crawling swiftly toward the
south. But they did not turn aside where the villagers had. They headed
along the way Coburn had driven to Ardea.
[Illustration]
Infantrymen appeared, marching into the village. An advance party,
rifles ready. This was strict discipline and standard military practise.
Horsemen rode to tell them that all was quiet. They turned and spurred
away after the tanks.