Mono 6, crack flyer of the "Hope to Horn" mono line disappeared
from the face of the earth tonight. On board were Walter
Ferrell, the company's owner, and Dauna, his daughter. At an
emergency meeting of the board of directors, it was admitted
that not the slightest clue to the train's whereabouts has been
discovered.
Soon after midnight, Mono 6 of the west coast's crack Mono Line
left Hope, Alaska. No further reports came after it passed the
first five-hundred-mile zone. Reports of a wreck are
unconfirmed. A complete search of the track failed to bring to
light the slightest hint of the flyer's final resting place.
In the past few hours the company has faced the problem of
handling thousands of tour cancellations. Officials of the line
are attempting vainly to allay the fears of both would-be
passengers and stockholders. Wade Blake, Vice President of the
company had previously ordered an investigation in an attempt
to track to earth the series of strange accidents that have
followed the Hope to Horn mono line for some months, but cannot
be located at present for a statement.
Blake threw the paper on the floor. There was more to the story. Much
more. Here in a few columns he had read the final exit of a great
railroad line and its owner. Unless Walter Ferrell and Mono 6 could
arrive at South Station, unharmed and within a few hours, the world
would refuse to accept further service from the Hope to Horn and
Ferrell's business would be ruined.
The article said that Wade could not be located. Blake hoped that he had
been close when the train failed to arrive at Vancouver. A momentary
frown turned down the corners of his lips. Perhaps Wade wasn't as
helpless as they seemed to think. Blake fervently hoped so.
* * * * *
Since Blake had finished reading the paper, two hours had passed, as
nearly as he could guess. O'Toole came in from the car's smoking
compartment, and sat down wearily across from Blake. He pushed his big
feet up on the chair beside Blake.
"What do you make of it?" he asked.
Blake pointed to the paper silently and O'Toole picked it up. He read
quickly, his eyes darting from side to side of the page. His face grew
purple.
"They certainly pulled a fast one," he growled. "A whole train missing,
with the owner of the line and his daughter on it. I never stopped to
think what that might mean when the papers got hold of it."
"Nor I," Blake admitted. "But Harror did, and if I'm not mistaken,
someone with a lot more brains than Harror had the same idea. This thing
was carefully planned, O'Toole, but there are two points that the Silver
Masks overlooked."
O'Toole looked at him questioningly.
"One was they didn't expect you and me to cause the trouble we're going
to," Blake went on, "and the other is Wade. He's around somewhere. He
may help us out at the right time."
O'Toole spat disgustedly.
"_We_ can cause trouble if we ever get out of here," he admitted. "I'm
not so sure of Wade."
A shaft of light cut in through the window suddenly, blinding them both.
They stared out with wide eyes. A murmur of voices from the car told
them that the others were awake, and also impressed by what they saw.
Mono 6 was in a great cavern. Great black granite walls towered high
above. The mono train had evidently entered the cave slowly and slipped
between a long row of huge boulders that held it upright. The cave was a
graveyard of mono cars. They lay across the full width of its floor,
dismantled and torn apart for whatever value they had to offer.
For the first time Blake realized just how large operations had been;
just how close the Silver Masks were to ruining the industry Ferrell had
painstakingly built up.
Men appeared from a long row of doors worked into the cliff side. They
all looked alike in the black suits and glittering silver masks. Tools
of every description had made their appearance. Beyond the doors from
whence they had come must be a complete set of living quarters with
access to the outside world.
Common sense told Blake that the entrance through which Mono 6 had
arrived was now carefully sealed. If he was to solve the mystery of
Grudge Harror's plans and make escape possible, it would be necessary to
go through those doors. Harror himself was there somewhere, and Blake's
fists ached to meet the man alone.
* * * * *
"My golly," O'Toole breathed. "They all look alike. What you suppose
they'll do with us? Must be forty or fifty people on this set of cars."
Blake turned away from the window.
"If the train were wrecked," he said in a matter of fact voice, "they'd
take everything off it and leave it here. With passengers on board, they
have to remove the baggage and movable parts. After that...."
"After that, we'll all go to hell the fastest way," O'Toole said with
grim lips. "Let's get something started. I can't sit still until they
decide what to do with us."
"If I'm not mistaken," Blake said grimly, "they have us all disposed of
well in advance. You mentioned just one thing that may help us out."
"If I did," O'Toole admitted, "It was just crazy luck."
"They all look alike." Blake stood up, studied O'Toole carefully, and
said. "We're going to join the gang of the Silver Masks."
O'Toole grinned.
"Just like that," he said dryly. "And this guy Harror is going to shake
our hands and say, 'Glad to see you're with us, boys.'"
Blake was already out of the smoking lounge. He went toward the end of
the car with a swift, determined stride. Ferrell and Dauna had been at
the window and as he approached the door leading outside, they turned.
"Hold it, Jeff," Ferrell said. "You're going to do something foolish and
I won't have it."
"We've already got ourselves into a pretty foolish mess," Blake reminded
him almost bitterly. "If I can do any good by trying, I don't want you
to interfere. It may be too late."
Dauna barred his way to the door. Her face was drawn and bloodless.
"You're going to face that giant, Harror," she pleaded haltingly. "Jeff,
please...?"
He took her hands in his, and smiled down at her.
"Wade wouldn't want you to put on a scene," he said gently. "I'm in this
thing up to my neck. Wade's name and my own are both involved."
She hesitated and stepped away from him. Her arms dropped hopelessly.
O'Toole reached the door with Blake.
"What are the plans," he asked? "I'm in on them remember."
"Then start howling at the top of your lungs," Blake grinned. "Call
Harror every name you ever heard of, but remember there are women in the
car. We're going to get dragged out of here and have a talk with that
freak."
O'Toole nodded.
"Okay!" he said. "I get the idea. If we can be bad boys, maybe Harror
will spank us himself."
"He'll try," Blake answered quietly. "From then on it will depend on us
who does the punishing."
* * * * *
Blake turned to the door and ignoring Dauna, started to pound on it with
all his strength, O'Toole added his weight to Blake's and they started
to shout loudly.
"We want to sock that big goon, Harror," O'Toole howled. He turned and
winked at Dauna. "How'm I doing?" he asked.
Dauna smiled gamely.
"So well, you'll probably be shot at once," she said. "Please Blake, be
careful."
They pounded again, harder than ever. The door started to sway and
buckle under their weight. There was a heavy step outside, and a murmur
of angry voices.
"Shut up in there."
"We want to talk with your boss," Blake shouted. "Let us out or we'll
clean up on the whole gang of you."
The door swung open, and a guard came in. Two more were close behind.
Guns swung around, covering the car.
"You'll talk with Harror," the first man said. "And you'll be damned
sorry you did."
He pushed a gun into Blake's side.
"Now walk," he ordered. "And walk straight. No monkey business."
O'Toole started to follow them.
"You're staying here," the guard growled. "This monkey is going to get
the business."
O'Toole reddened with rage.
"Why you masked ape," he said. "Let me out of here or I'll push your
chin into your scalp."
That did the trick. The second guard twisted around and punched O'Toole
in the face. The Irishman reeled, caught himself and said through bloody
lips, "You'll pay for that."
The masked man pushed him from the car and O'Toole went a little
uncertainly down the steps and after Blake.
They crossed the floor of the cave toward the series of doors in the
wall. Two more guards joined the group and they paused before the first
door.
"We got some wise guys," the man who was covering Blake shouted. "Want
to give them a going over, Chief?"
There was a moment of silence. Then Grudge Harror's heavy voice said
from beyond the door.
"Bring them in."
Blake kicked the door open and strode into a small, mercury-lighted
room. There was a single chair and the desk behind which Harror was
seated. His huge arms rested across its top. His expression darkened as
he saw Blake.
"What's he been up to?"
The guard stepped close to Harror and pocketed his weapon.
"He was shouting his head off," he said. Then, in an almost apologetic
voice he added, "The Irishman insisted on coming along."
* * * * *
Blake's eyes were on Harror's face. The giant's fists were clenched, his
lips tight and cruel. He was searching for something.
"All right," Harror growled finally. "What's the game?"
"Nothing," Blake answered shrewdly. "We were waiting for you to murder
us, and got impatient, that's all."
Two of the guards left and Harror swung to his feet. He was leering.
Blake watched the remaining guards from the corner of his eye. O'Toole
was still standing quietly by the door, alert and ready. He saw Blake's
eye on his, and winked deliberately. O'Toole, Blake decided, was ready
any time.
"You were right on the murder angle," Harror admitted. "Pretty smart,
ain't you?"
"About some things," Blake admitted. "I don't fall for everything I read
in the papers. I know you used a hidden mono track to get us here, and
that you'll probably send us back over it into a nice deep canyon, when
you have everything you want off the train."
Harror leaned over silently and spat into his face. Blake saw red. With
a lightning thrust he smashed the lamp from the table and plunged the
room into blackness. From O'Toole's side of the room a ray gun belched
fire, but Blake was already out of range. He heard a cry of pain and
realized that Harror had caught the flame on the arm. Harror, outlined
in the light of the ray was almost on top of him.
From the spot where O'Toole had been, Blake heard a sullen thud and a
long groan of pain. Dodging from Harror's plunging fall, Blake knew
O'Toole was doing his part. He grasped the edge of the table and tried
to thrust it in front of Harror. The man swore loudly and kicked it
away. There was a slit of light coming from under the door.
In its path, Blake saw Harror standing above him, a hairy fist
descending like a ton of lead. He twisted his face around, sensed
Harror's blow miss him by a fraction of an inch. Diving low he hit
Harror a body blow with his shoulder and the giant doubled in pain.
Blake swung upward before Harror could regain his balance, and set his
fist crashing into Harror's face. The giant swung backward like an
enraged elephant. Two more flashes of electro-fire went spurting over
his head and O'Toole started to sing in a loud, off-key voice.
"Slug 'em," O'Toole chanted. "It's the Irish that are in this mess
tonight."
In the darkness, Blake grinned painfully. His lip was split and
bleeding. His arm ached from the forceful contact with Harror's jaw.
Another guard went down in the scuffle and O'Toole howled his battle cry
again.
* * * * *
Harror was silent. Blake changed his position wearily, waiting for some
sign. He heard Harror breathing loudly from the far corner. The blow on
the face must have dazed him.
Blake closed it slowly, listening to Harror. Waiting for him to strike
again. Then two giant arms closed tightly around his chest, cutting off
his breath. He tried to shout, but his lips made no sound. He felt
himself sinking toward the floor, Harror on top of him. Harror was
holding on with all his strength.
Blake relaxed slowly, and his head fell to one side. He felt the grip
relax just a trifle, and gathered all his remaining strength. With a
terrific uppercut, Blake's arm shot upward, catching Harror squarely on
the chin. There was a sudden snap as the giant's head tipped back as
though unhinged. His arms relaxed and Blake fell away from him.
The Irishman had done his job well. The room was quiet.