Indiana Jones & the Sky Pirates

"We'll stay out here in the passageway while you do whatever you do at night," Indy told her. "When you're ready, open the door. If you don't open it in five minutes, we'll break our way in."

She studied him carefully, the teasing gone from her words and her expression. "You really are concerned," she said softly.

He nodded. By now she could recognize the signs on his face, the slight furrowing of the brow, his heightened tension.

It's more than a sixth sense . . . my God, he knows we're vulnerable. He's expecting something bad tonight.

"All right," she told him quietly. "Whatever you say. I don't need to be in the compartment alone." She swiftly drew a conclusion. "I'm sleeping in my clothes."

Indy seemed relieved. "Good. Tarkiz, you all set?"

The Kurd nodded. He waited until Indy and Gale had closed their door behind them, then switched the nameplates on their door with that from his own. He slipped into his compartment, and tried the telephone line to confirm its working.

Then he tied a string about his own door latch, at the end of which was a small prayer bell. Its sound was barely audible, but to the man who had prayed all his life to the sound of that bell, it would serve as an instant alert to any movement of the door latch. He smiled.

Shortly after three in the morning, the train rolling steadily through the stormy night, he heard the whispered sound of his prayer bell. Immediately he moved to one side of the door, just before it opened smoothly. In the gloom he made out two forms. The moment the door

closed behind them, Tarkiz flung his net, studded with fishhooks, over their bodies. Shouts and cries of pain answered the hard yank he gave to the net, sending barbs into flesh. Tarkiz moved swiftly with a flexible metal rod, bringing it down with terrible force. He turned for a moment, and shoved open the compartment window.

Above the yelps of pain and cursing from the men struggling within the net, he heard pounding on the door. He shouted, "I be right there! I—"

A knife blade stabbed into his leg, a white fire of pain. Tarkiz ignored the wound as one man freed himself from the net, looming before Tarkiz with the knife stabbing downward. It never reached the maddened Kurd. A single sideswipe with the metal rod smashed the knife into the wal.

Indy kicked open the door, the Webley in his hand, just in time to see Tarkiz heaving his attacker through the opened window space. In an instant he was gone, the train speeding onward. He turned to see the other assassin bringing down a curved blade.

Indy was already there, smashing the barrel of the Webley across the man's wrist. Bone cracked audibly, and the man screamed. Tarkiz spun about, but as he grabbed for the man his wounded leg gave way and he fell to all fours.

Indy moved forward, grasped a handful of hair and the belt of the killer, and hurled the man through the window.

Gale slipped past Indy and snapped on the lights. In a moment she took in the bloody leg. "Tear me some bandages from the sheets," she ordered Indy. She helped Tarkiz to his bunk. "Your whiskey. Quickly," she told him.

"Whiskey? I do not—"

"Shut up and give me the flask," she snapped.

Silently, he handed her the flask from his pocket. She put it onto the bunk, soaked a towel in the sink, and washed away the blood. Indy had already tied a tourniquet above the wound. Gale opened the flask and poured whiskey into the wound to sterilize the exposed flesh, then wrapped the makeshift bandages about the wound.

"Only woman would waste good whiskey," Tarkiz complained. But his eyes showed his gratitude.

"So you changed the nameplates?"

Tarkiz nodded. "It worked, no?"

"You have any idea who they were?"

"Brown skin. One had turban. That means they were professional assassins.

Somebody not like you, Indy."

"Yeah. I must have missed out on the popularity contest. By the way, that's a neat trick with that net of yours."

Tarkiz beamed through his pain. "Old Roman trick. Very old. Also popular with Mafia."

"With me, too," Gale added.

"Well, the lock on your door is gone," Indy observed. "You'd better stay with us the rest of the night."

"No need. I sit here on bunk so I can see door." He reached behind his back and withdrew a sleek .32 automatic from a concealed holster. "Besides, Gale is good woman. She does not waste all my whiskey. Sometimes I like to drink alone. Good night."

"Gale, take the upper berth."

She climbed up and sat crosslegged. "How did those people know who we were, where we were on this train, when we'd be here?"

He smiled. "You haven't figured there's a big fat leak in our security?"

"I have now," she said angrily. "Any ideas?"

"Some," he shrugged. "I'm working on it."

"But why would they want to kill you?"

"Us," he reminded her.

She shuddered.

"They'd have to kill you also," he went on, checking the Webley. "We're a team. If they don't get you, they could be identified later. So, you're also a target."

"You still didn't say why they want to kill you. Us," she amended.

"Tomorrow."

"You expect a lot tomorrow."

He nodded.

"Indy, you can't go around New York with that cannon hanging from your belt."

"I know." He was already removing the Webley from the belt holster to slip it into an underarm holster.

Abruptly he slammed a fist into his hand. "Sometimes I feel like an idiot. I've been carrying that thing loaded and ready to shoot, and I never took any pictures when I had the chance. Those people in Tarkiz's room, I mean."

"That's bothering you? You didn't take pictures? Just saving our lives wasn't enough? You're upset because you didn't use your camera?"

"That's what cameras are for!"

She sighed. "Good night, Indy." He heard a muttered "Good grief . . ."

They moved through Pennsylvania Station in the midst of the early morning crowd rush. Normally, Indy disliked being shuffled along with cattle herds of people, but this time it served his purpose by swallowing up his group of three.

Indy and Gale walked together, Tarkiz several steps behind them, maintaining their pace despite a swollen leg and a painful limp. They departed the station on the north side, where a long line of taxicabs queued up. Indy saw what he wanted across the street: a Yellow Cab with the number 294 on its side. He nodded to Tarkiz.

"That one's ours."

"His sign says he's taken," Gale noticed.

"He is. By us," Indy said in clipped tones. The driver leaned back and opened their door. Inside, they took stock of the man in the front seat. He was a huge black fellow with a heavy beard and dark glasses that concealed his eyes, and he spoke with a melodious British accent. "Welcome to New York," he said with a hearty laugh.

Gale nudged Indy and mouthed the word Jamaica. He nodded.

The big man before them adjusted his rearview mirror. "You are right, miss.

Jamaica it is." Laughter greeted her expression of surprise. "I do not read minds, Miss Parker. I read lips very well."

"And you know my name," Gale said cautiously.

"But of course!" came the reply. "Yours, and that of Professor Jones, and that very ugly fellow with the strange name of Tarkiz Belem. Ugly with a strange name.

His mother must not have liked him very much."

Tarkiz started forward. Indy motioned for him to sit quietly. Whoever this man was, he was incredibly cocky and selfconfident. "You were sent, no doubt, by the man from Copertino," Indy offered, referring to the coded message Henshaw had given him.

White teeth flashed in a wider smile. "Saint Joseph has assigned me to your good health and needs. My name is Jocko Kilarney. While you are in New York, I am your guide, your friend, your driver, and your protector."

Indy felt right about this man. He was big and he was powerful, and even under his shirt musculature rippled across huge shoulders. Indy would have bet a dollar to a dime he also knew his way about the sordid underworld of this city.

"By the way, Professor, your man, this big ugly fellow with you, he is really very good," said the driver. "Sometime this morning two bodies were found along the railroad tracks over which your train brought you here. Before you find the need to ask, Professor, they were both quite dead, and neither body had any identification.

The police will simply dispose of the bodies in Potter's Field."

"What's that?" Gale whispered.

"Cemetery for the unknown and unwanted," Indy said to Gale. He directed his attention to the driver. "Any connections of any kind?"

"Nobody knows anything, mon, and you may forget about anyone claiming those two." He turned to look at Indy and Tarkiz. "That was quite a technique. I admire efficiency. A net studded with fishhooks. Very original."

He started the engine and depressed the clutch to shift into first gear.

Indy felt pressure from Tarkiz's hand, a signal. Indy nodded. The big man was still steaming from Kilarney's playful insults, and Indy decided to let him have his head.

"Hey, you fellow, Jocko!" Tarkiz called out.

"What may I do for you, goatkeeper?"

"You listen to me, black Irish, maybe you live longer."

"Do I hear the voodoo drums, llama man?"

"Soon you no more hear. You listen good. There is deadly snake in front of cab with you. Little snake was in my bag, somehow get out. Back home we call snake a twostep. Nice name, huh?" Tarkiz offered a wide toothy grin to Jocko. "Snake bite man, he take one step, feel bad. Take two step, he fall down dead. No antidote. If you do not get out of cab right now, snake going to bite you, and we send home your head in basket."

Jocko looked about warily, then his eyes grew huge as a bright yellowandorange snake wriggled toward his foot.

In a flash he had his door open and stood in the street several feet from the taxi. "You crazy, mon!" he shouted.

Indy and Gale leaned forward, ready to abandon the cab if necessary. "Good God, it's really there!" Gale said in a hoarse voice. She stared in disbelief as Tarkiz leaned into the front of the cab and snatched up the snake. He petted it gently along its back and dropped it into a side pocket of his jacket. Gale screeched and threw her arms about Indy.

"Get it out of here!" she yelled.

"It's his pet," Indy answered. "I can't do that."

"GET IT OUT!" She buried her head in his chest.

Indy patted her gently on her shoulder. "No need to worry, Gale. Once he has the snake in his pocket, it's harmless." He met Tarkiz's eyes and the two winked at one another.

In his quick glance, Indy had seen what the others missed. The snake was a beautifully articulated wood or metal mechanical device with a real snakeskin covering the body, and nasty fangs for good measure in the gaping mouth.

But Indy knew snakes, had dealt with them even though they gave him the creeps, and just the way this "creature" moved heightened his suspicions, all confirmed by the way Tarkiz smiled triumphantly as he dropped the "kill in twostep" snake into his pocket.

Jocko, tense from anger and his open showing of fright, returned to the cab and stabbed a finger at Tarkiz. "You and I, dungheap, we got unfinished business."

Tarkiz guffawed. "I not worry about man who is frightened like little girl by worm."

Indy leaned forward to tap Jocko gently on the shoulder. "Straight to the museum, my Irish muse, and no more detours or stops, got it?"

Jocko turned around, pointed a finger at Indy, and snapped his thumb forward like a firing pin closing on a round.

"Gotcha, Boss."

11

The American Museum of Natural History sprawled over several city blocks from its entrance at Central Park West and 79th Street in Manhattan. As impressive as were the museums Indy and Gale had visited elsewhere, this structure and its vast and complex interior stood in a class by itself. It seemed to go on forever.

Hundreds of exhibit rooms and huge halls, some thirty to fifty feet in height, accommodated dozens of fauna from throughout the world, including such creatures of monstrous size as the great blue whale. To stand in a room and look upward at the preserved specimen of the largest creature that ever existed on the planet, itself surrounded by dozens of other specimens large and small, was an overwhelming sight. Throughout the museum were literally hundreds of thousands of life forms.

Gale walked with Indy and Tarkiz down long corridors through just a small part of the museum to a private area several stories below ground level. Her eyes moved constantly. "This is incredible," she said with unabashed awe at the exhibits about them. "I could stay in the Egyptian archives for a month!"

"They have a worldwide exchange program," Indy acknowledged. "They trade off with institutions from just about everywhere. And it helps that this museum, or its foundation, is sponsored by some very wealthy people. There's a lot about this country that needs improvement, just like anywhere else in the world, but this place," he spread wide his arms as if to encompass the magnificent structure, "well, it's one of the finest statements ever made about people trying to understand his world."

Jocko Kilarney, leading the way, turned to Indy. "Professor, I've never heard it said better. In fact, you've done field research for the Foundation, haven't you?"

"I have the idea you already know every step I've taken for the Foundation," Indy said wryly.

Jocko shrugged. "I meant the compliment, sir, most sincerely."

"You're a man of many different faces, Jocko," Gale told him.

Jocko replied with a smile and a brief bow. "We will take the elevator at the end of this hallway," he said.

They stopped by elevator doors with a large red sign that said freight only. no passengers.

"I guess we come under the heading of freight," Indy noted.

"Consider yourself valuable cargo," Jocko said lightly. The doors opened, and they were soon on their way to a thirdlevel subbasement. They emerged from a sloping corridor to a surprisingly large domed area. Gale stopped short, looking about her with surprise and wonder.

They seemed to be in the middle of a northern forest, trees looming about them, rocks, slopes and even a brook gurgling unseen within the heavy growth. Gale froze as a tree branch moved aside and a huge brown bear rose to its feet and roared. Immediately Tarkiz shoved her aside, placing himself between her and the bear. His automatic, pitiful as it was against the enormous animal bulk, was in his hand. Then another bear emerged through bushes, this one on all fours. Suddenly it reared high: the deadly Kodiak, largest bear in the world.

"Put away the gun," Indy told Tarkiz.

"But—"

"It's a diorama," Indy told him.

"It is big damned bear!" Tarkiz shouted.

"Ah, but this bear, and all the others," Jocko broke in, "are very dead."

"Dead bears do not walk and roar," Tarkiz grated.

"They're mechanical inside," Indy said to Tarkiz, gently pushing down his arm and the weapon. "Apparently this is where they set up the dioramas—that's a duplicate of the real world—before they move the display upstairs for the public."

"You mean," Tarkiz said, wideeyed, "these are like big toys?"

"Sure," Jocko told him. "Electricity runs their mechanical systems." He laughed. "Like a player piano."

Indy wanted as little as possible to do with meetings. He felt stifled, hemmed in. Best to get this one over with as quickly as possible. "Jocko, let's keep it moving."

"Yes, sir." Jocko led them down another corridor and through a set of double doors, where a group of people watched their entrance. Filipo Castilano rose from a table to greet them. Gale took note that Indy obviously knew this man well. Her eyes swept the group; she recognized Yoshiro Matsuda from the gathering in Ohio.

Rashid Quahirah had been known to her from Egypt, long before the Ohio meeting.

She turned to Indy, and saw him studying a striking woman at the table's far end. At the same time she realized Indy was working the concealed wirelead camera trigger; the Leica was clicking away as Indy turned his body to capture everyone present on film. He stepped aside to let Gale pass him, and from the corner of her eye she saw the deft movement as he replaced the leather cover to the camera.

Indy locked his gaze with that of the woman. Castilano introduced her. "It is my pleasure," he told Indy. "This is Madame Marcia Mason."

Indy greeted her with a murmured, "My pleasure, Madame," and in return he received a nod and a study of himself from the woman. She had a powerful presence.

Indy could almost feel her strength, yet he judged her name to be a false identity.

He took in her severe yet striking features and dark hair. She was elegant in dress and presentation, and held herself with a confidence that came only with an athletic, hardmuscled background. Intelligent, tough, and accustomed to giving orders.

Castilano had introduced her as from Denmark. That was so obviously untrue; my money is on Romania or Russia, Indy figured. And a double identity in this closed circle doesn't fit. I'll have to watch this one carefully.

Indy took his seat, Gale and Tarkiz arraying their chairs behind him. Castilano spoke to the group. "May we get right to the matter at hand?" Murmurs of agreement met his offer, and he looked directly at Indy.

"We know about last night," Castilano said.

Word travels fast, thought Indy, but his face showed no idea of what he was thinking. He'd already made his decision to play this scene as easily and as quickly as he could. He shrugged. "It wasn't the first time," he said in reply.

Ah, that struck a chord. Marcia Mason had leaned forward, an easy movement that brought her the attention of the others. "Perhaps you can tell us why such things are happening to you, Professor Jones. I, for one, fail to understand."

"I'm a thorn in the side of the people we're trying to identify and to locate, Miss Mason. They have the idea that if they dispose of me, well, then they can continue their game unhindered."

"Is your presence so important to them?" the woman came back smoothly. It was as much a putdown as a question.

Filipo Castilano glanced at Merlyn Franck, the real power behind the museum.

Castilano spoke quickly to head off what could become an unpleasant exchange between Indy and the woman.

"Mr. Franck, do you have any conclusions on this matter? Any further news as to what we're up against?"

Merlyn Franck didn't smile, which told Indy that he was in at least partial agreement with Marcia Mason. "I confess," he said slowly, "that some people are of the belief that Professor Jones has created a furor about himself in order to give him carte blanche in his, well, his investigative process."

"Doctor Franck, you're mincing words. If there's a criticism of what I'm doing, or how I'm doing it, just come right out with it."

Franck nodded, sighing with some inner regret. He and Indy had worked on projects long before this meeting and he wanted to maintain the excellent relationship between them. Yet, now he felt he had no choice but to be blunt. "We have been told, Professor Jones, that the incidents of personal attacks against you might never have taken place.

That you have told us these stories for some reason which, I confess, I myself can't fathom."

Indy resisted a sharp answer. Franck meant well; that was what counted. He was simply in an unpleasant position.

"Sir, I can't be responsible for what people tell you. I don't even care to know who they are, but I will say that whatever you heard it wasn't from those men on the train. The old saying still fits: Dead men tell no tales."

Franck sighed again. "Professor Jones, there are members of our group who have difficulty with this 'evil empire'

we've been told about. The consortium supporting your, ah, activities, now has grave doubts about such an organization."

"Fair enough," Indy said. "What do they believe?"

"That the evil empire as an entity is simply a front, and that none of us really have hard facts about what's going on."

"Hard facts?" Indy took a tight grip on himself not to offer a sharp retort to Franck. "What happened in South Africa, the train wrecks and slaughter . . . those are facts. The flying boat, the Empress Kali, those are facts."

Castilano gestured for attention. "There is more, Doctor Franck. We are still trying to sort out the details, but two more ships have been raided and sunk.

There was an assault deep within Russia and a collection, priceless, of crown jewels stolen. But the strangest of all is that a member of our group has been contacted by a source that remains, for now at least, nameless. They want to sell us that mysterious artifact that was stolen in the flying boat attack."

"A question, please?" Indy said quickly.

"Of course."

"How did this unidentified source know that we were a group?" Indy smiled.

"Before you answer, would I be wrong in assuming they're asking a very high price for the cube? Letting this group believe that the artifact is not from this world?"

Franck eased into a more personal exchange with Indy by dropping his formal title. "Indy, if this artifact is as described, then it is beyond any price."

"Does anyone here have a number?" Indy pressed.

"One billion dollars," Franck said tersely.

"Would you pay it?" Indy asked.

Franck never hesitated. "Absolutely." Sitting to his right, Gale Parker was more confused than she'd been since this meeting started. She already knew that Indy had set up the mock artifact in the Milledgeville train robbery, and now he was acting as if he believed the artifacts were real! Shut up and listen, she told herself.

Indy knows what he's doing.

"All the money this group is amassing," Indy said. "What do they do with it?"

Matsuda motioned to the others that he would reply. "Such funds buy weapons. Tanks, bombers, submarines and so on. But weapons are not enough. With enough money you can buy loyalty. You establish your own power factions within governments. You control the press, you wield great propaganda, and you move into controlling industry. Control the food supply of a country and you control the country. I am of the opinion that this group is determined to wield control over international commerce as well as military power."

"The old benevolent emperor routine," Indy responded.

"Perhaps not so benevolent," Matsuda said.

"Am I right in judging that all the people in the consortium behind us are not necessarily in agreement with each other?" Indy asked.

"That is to be expected," Castilano said stiffly. "We are fighting both great power and shadows."

"And you're seriously considering paying as much as a billion dollars for that socalled extraterrestrial artifact?"

"That is my position," Franck confirmed.

Indy's smile almost had the touch of canary feathers. "Let me save you a billion dollars." He reached into a pocket of his jacket. "In fact, make that two billion dollars." He tossed a "pyramid artifact" onto the table where it bounced to a stop, and then produced a double of the "cube artifact" that had created such a furor.

They were stunned. They passed the two objects about the table, handling them with unabashed reverence.

Finally Merlyn Franck returned to the moment. "How . . . how could you possibly have obtained these? And forgive me, Indy, but you seem cavalier about something for which men have died!"

"There aren't any artifacts from outer space," Indy said quietly. "Well, not these, anyway."

"Could they be from some ancient culture on our world?" Castilano queried.

"Not a chance."

"But . . . but how did you get these!" Marcia Mason burst out.

Indy studied her carefully, but not to any greater extent than the others in the room. Somewhere in this group there was a traitor. He'd been warned long before about that by Treadwell, but up to this moment no one had been able to point a finger with any confidence at anyone else. The woman's surprise as to his possession of the artifacts could be genuine, if she was faithful to the group. Or it could he surprise as to how I got these if she isn't, Indy mused. I'm not getting anywhere fast. . . .

Castilano was openly agitated. "Indy, tell us. How did you get these?"

"I'm not going to tell you anything that our opponents don't already know,"

Indy said quickly. "Keep that in mind, please. First, I have a contract with the De Beers diamond mines. It is their custom always to place something in their jewel shipments that is easier to trace than diamonds, which can be recut to any size or shape. In this case, we used the cube artifact. The cuneiform markings simply gave it more authenticity. Or led people to believe that. But the cube, and this pyramid, were manufactured in England. I don't know the alloys involved; that's out of my field. But it's very much a homegrown product. My contribution was the markings. Someone who gets hold of this, and also believes in its rarity and value, must try to use or sell it in some way. So it acts as a beacon."

"Are you telling us that this group, whoever and whatever they are," Marcia Mason asked slowly and deliberately, "are trying to sell us a fake that our own group, yourself, created?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"But how could you . . . I mean, why would you have us believe these things were of such tremendous value!"

"I never said they were of any monetary or historical value," Indy told the group, but looking at Mason. "Just about everybody else did that. Including the people who have committed the crimes we're trying to solve. The stories about these artifacts were so effective that the people who robbed De Beers and the others figured the artifacts were the most valuable of all."

"But why try to kill you?" Franck burst out.

Castilano laughed. "Professor Jones is a better teacher than he is a secret agent. He almost set up his own execution. Once the group we are facing had determined these artifacts were spurious, they had to get rid of Jones, and his associates, before they could let the rest of us, or other customers in the world, know the things were worthless."

"And they came very close to succeeding," Gale Parker spoke up suddenly.

"There's another reason," Indy told the group. He had their instant attention.

"Our opposition has a plant among us."

"A what?"

"We have a traitor in our midst," Indy said calmly. "For money, idealism; whatever. But someone within this group, which includes those people not present at this meeting, works for our enemy."

"That is a grave charge," Franck said, visibly disturbed.

"Yes, sir," Indy agreed. "It is also true."

For several minutes, the conference room resounded to arguments, rising and falling in volume and varying tones of anger and confusion. Indy had hoped this would follow his shocker of there being a traitor in their midst. Now, if Treadwell's own skills could be applied through Indy's next words, he might be able to rattle even more the cage of their unknown adversary. He waited until quiet returned to the group; they obviously hoped he might have more to tell them. Indy did, but his purpose was to pass on a "message" to their opposition.

"There is one other matter that needs clarification," he began. He had already caught them unawares, and knew he had their close attention.

"Those flying machines," Indy said, seemingly confused about the issue. "We haven't said a word about something the best aeronautical engineers in the world really can't explain. Discs, or saucers, or whatever they're called, flying at speeds that seem impossible. The mother ship, if that is really what it is, well, that's much easier to understand. It's sort of a super zeppelin—"

"But we don't know what makes it go, do we?" Dr. Franck broke in.

"No, sir, we don't," Indy admitted. "Let me change that, sir. I don't know what makes it go. I'm no pilot and I'm no engineer, but I do listen to the really sharp people in those lines. And they tell me the stories of those discs, or scimitars, coming from outer space, well, as far as they're concerned, that's nonsense."

"In the face of what we've heard," Castilano said, "they still feel they're from right here, from earth?"

"They sure do," Indy said.

"I must beg to differ," Matsuda broke in. "I do not say they are from other worlds, Professor Jones, but there is nothing known on this world that flies without wings, at five hundred miles an hour, that can hover, or levitate. What they do is impossible by everything we know."

"I'm not arguing with you, sir," Indy said. "I wouldn't do that. I tell you only what the experts tell me."

"Then your experts, Indy," Castilano followed Matsuda, "seem in need of better information. Our flying machines are helpless before these discs. There must be an explanation beyond the mere statement that they are of local origin."

"I agree. But I am explaining to you that the professionals in this field are convinced we are dealing with terrestrial vehicles, produced in a manner we can't yet explain, operated by a force we can't yet identify. No, I shouldn't say that.

I don't get into the technical side of all this. They believe they either have the answers or they're about to get them."

That should do it, Indy concluded to himself. Whoever is on the side of the opposition is going to get back to them as fast as they can that their plan is starting to come unglued at the seams. I sure hope Henshaw and Treadwell are better at this than I am. . . .

Indy rose to his feet. "I have a lot to do, much to learn, and I'm racing a clock. I've also got some great help now.

We may be closer to answers than any of you realize."

Gale and Tarkiz also were standing. They didn't say a word. But their facial expressions and the manner in which they stood made it abundantly clear they were in full agreement with Indy. In the uncomfortable silence that followed, as one by one everyone else stood, Indy caught a fleeting glimpse of a workman, oliveskinned and in a turban, leaving through a rear side door. Just a glimpse and the man was gone. It should have meant nothing, but who would leave this incredible scene? Because if he were privy to listening to the exchange, he already had been judged as loyal to the group.

"You are really quite disturbing in what you say, Indy," Franck finally broke the ice.

"You have our continued full support," Matsuda assured him.

"And ours," said Castilano.

"I await further word, I must admit," Quahirah smiled, "with great anticipation."

Only Marcia Mason remained silent. Indy ignored her. He knew she would figure in his life soon enough. Without another word or a backward glance, he left the room, followed closely by Gale, Jocko, and Tarkiz.

Waiting for the elevator, Gale turned to Jocko. "Could we go through that diorama again? I'd like another look at that. It gives me ideas for museum presentations."

Indy nodded. He was still thinking about that workman and the manner in which he'd left their conference room.

They retraced their steps to the huge hall with the northern woods diorama.

Indy was impressed. They'd even kept a woods scent present in the area. He looked up into the trees, and they were real trees, their roots in tubs concealed by brush.

He was impatient to get back to his search. He turned to Gale. "Seen enough?"

"Yes." Her eyes shone with pleasure. Suddenly her eyes widened. "Indy!"

she gasped. "The bear—LOOK OUT!"

He heard the coughing roar from behind him. For just an instant his senses triggered to the presence of danger, even though he realized where they were and that the bears were electromechanical objects.

The next moment he was struck a powerful blow; he felt as if he'd been hit by a charging rhino, and felt his body spinning about as he was hurled from his feet. He had a fleeting glimpse of Tarkiz—the man had dashed full-tilt into Indy to smash him aside. Indy shook his head to make sense of what was happening.

Then he saw the huge Kodiak bear lunging forward and downward from its display position, its front paws with terrible claws unsheathed swinging together as it came down. The great "animal," fully nine feet tall and weighing several hundred pounds, crashed into Tarkiz, one paw slicing across his face with savage force.

The claws laid the side of his head open to white bone. A ghastly gurgle rattled in the big man's throat as he toppled to the floor beneath the immense figure of the bear. Tarkiz died instantly.

Indy had already spun about. There! A flash of white . . . the white coat of the turbaned workman who'd slipped away from the conference room. If anyone would have worked the controls to send the mechanical animal rushing at Indy it must have been him, and now he was trying to sneak away.

Jocko was already running full speed to head off the man before he could disappear into the labyrinthine hallways and side rooms of the belowground sections of the museum. Indy had his hand about the grip of the Webley, but before he, or Jocko, could stop the man, Gale had stepped forward, one arm held stiffly before her. Indy heard the sudden twang of metal under strain and a hissing sound.

He saw a blur as something snapped across the room toward the flash of white.

A moment later a muffled scream reached them and they heard the crash of a falling body against a floor. Indy turned to look at Gale. She had a strange smile on her face; a look of unexpected triumph.

"Got him," she said quietly.

"With what?" he asked.

She pulled back her jacket sleeve. Indy stared at a circular boltlauncher fitted securely to her forearm. "Remember when I used the machine shop back at the airfield?" she asked.

He nodded. "Notched bolt," she explained. "Fast as a crossbow." She smiled grimly. "Never mind how small it is.

It's tipped with curarine. About six times deadlier than curare. He's paralyzed, and he won't live much longer."

Indy was already running about the wide curve of the diorama. He came upon the man in the white jacket and turban on the floor, Jocko standing over him.

"Don't kill him," Indy snapped. "I need some answers from him."

"Too late, Boss. I don't know what hit him, but his lungs and vocal cords are paralyzed. He won't last much—"

There wasn't any need to continue. Eyes bulging, tongue protruding, the man twitched violently, heels drumming on the floor. His head snapped back violently.

They heard the crack of his neck breaking.

"Let's get out of here, now," Indy ordered.

"You're leaving two dead men behind," Jocko said unnecessarily.

"Castilano will handle it. He's an old pro at getting rid of bodies." Gale had followed them and he grabbed her arm, half dragging her to a stairway.

"Lead the way, Jocko. Right to your cab," Indy snapped. "When we're driving, make sure we're not being followed, and then get us onto Long Island."

They dashed up the stairways. Jocko went into the parking lot first, opened the cab's hood to check for any explosives, slipped beneath the cab to do the same, then signaled Indy and Gale to follow.

Moments later they were driving through Central Park. "I'll work us down to the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge,"

Jocko said. "I know the back roads, and no one can follow us without my knowing about it. Where to on the island?"

"Roosevelt Field. Our plane is already there," Indy told him.

Gale studied Indy. "Any more surprises in your bag of tricks?" He nodded.

"You'll see."

12

Indy sat in the right seat of the Ford cockpit. Cromwell was at the controls to his left, Foulois standing partially between and behind the seats. Unless both men were required by circumstances to be together in the cockpit, Indy was determined to spend as much time as possible with his hands and feet working the trimotor's systems. What he was learning through handson experience might not make him a pilot but it sure was a great leap forward. And it kept his mind off the death of his friend Tarkiz, a scene it would take him years to forget.

He was learning the sensations of engine sounds, the rumble of the airplane over uneven ground, the effects of winds, especially from the side that could blow the airplane off its straight-line takeoff or landing. There were control pressures to learn, the need for pressure on the right rudder pedal during the takeoff roll and climb out to counteract swirling propeller wash and engine torque. Needs small and large, some constant, others only at certain times, but above all he had already cemented into his thinking that flying skillfully demanded much more than simply pushing, pulling and shoving. What seemed so easy to his two pilots (and don't forget Gale! he told himself) was a masterful orchestration that appeared to be carried out with the most casual effort.

"You'll learn, way beyond the mechanical," Cromwell told him, "that the smoothest flying is actually a constant correction of errors that only you, the pilot, not only know but can anticipate. Any clod can push an aeroplane through the air, but that is not flying. You've got to caress the controls as you would a lovely lady—"

"Talk about the airplane," Indy growled.

"Touchy, touchy," Cromwell grinned. "All right, bucko, I'll add this to the litany of learning. Never, absolutely never, try to fool this machine. I mean that, Indy. You can fool anybody on the ground. You can tell grand stories to your mates.

But if you lie to your machine, it will kill you. It will do so in a heartbeat. Learn to love your aeroplane as you might love a true mate. You're bonded to it as closely as you ever will be to a human being, and your life depends on it."

He turned to Foulois. "Frenchy, they all strapped in back there?"

Foulois glanced back at Gale and their newest member, Jocko. "I don't believe our dark friend is all that happy about flying," he said, smiling.

"He'll get used to it quickly enough. All right, Indy, as I begin to get us under way, I'll be talking every move, every step of the way, so you will know what happens and can start to learn that secret of anticipation. You ride the controls with me. Do it gently. And if you ever hear me, or Frenchy if he's in this seat, say 'I've got it,' get your bleedin' hands and feet off the controls at once. Got it?"

"Shut up and fly," Indy growled.

"Ah, the enthusiasm of the wingless young pup," Cromwell laughed. "All right, here we go. Yoke full back; that's it. Brake pedals depressed to hold us in place. Scan the gauges. All of them. The throttles start forward now, keep your eyes scanning, check all the temps and pressures, doublecheck the wind outside, it can change in a flash, throttles all the way forward, feel her shake, she wants to fly, call out RPM, oil temp, cylinder head temp, pressure, fuel flow, quantity, check the revs, see how close they are, look outside, be quick about it, blast you, look for other traffic! All right, you check the trim, you clod? Forget it, I did; now, last glance across the panel, the windsock, look for any animals or people that may have wandered into our takeoff run, everything's set? You strap in your seat belt, and brakes coming off, there's good acceleration, ease off the yoke back pressure a mite, that's it, get in steady pressure on the right rudder, DON'T STOMP LIKE A CLODHOPPER, GENTLY BUT FIRMLY! Feel the tail coming up, the vibration is easing, HOLD HER STRAIGHT, YOU NIT, that's it, KEEP YOUR HAND ON THE

THROTTLES SO THEY DON'T BACK OFF! You've got speed coming up, watch it, you're drifting left, blast it, Indy, look at your airspeed, why aren't you FLYING?

Indy, did you ever think of becoming a cobbler to earn your living?"

Beads of perspiration appeared on Indy's brow and upper lip as Cromwell lambasted him every foot of the way up to three thousand feet where they leveled off and the noise and vibrations eased. "What were you in your former life, Will, a galley slave master with the Romans?"

Cromwell ignored him. "We took off from Roosevelt Field, we're going to that private grass strip on Block Island just east of Montauk Point, right?"

Indy nodded.

"Well, this isn't by guess and by gosh, Professor. Have you noted temperatures, humidity, dewpoint, density altitude? What's our ETD, ETE, ETA?

Fuel time aboard, how many gallons do we burn every hour at this setting?

When's the last time you scanned the gauges? If your name wasn't tattooed on your forehead you would by God forget that, too! Would you like to meet George?"

"George?" Indy looked puzzled. "Who the devil is George?"

"George, m'lad, is the latest wonder of the ages. Directly from the development laboratory of Sperry Gyroscope.

It's a device that's linked to our directional gyroscope and to our artificial horizon. George is our automatic pilot; consider the name as a shameless sign of affection. When I turn on George, it derives heading and bank information from the gyros. It will keep this machine flying with wings level. Here; watch. And stay off the controls."

Cromwell moved several controls and leaned back in his seat. Nobody touched the foot or hand controls. "George"

was slaved to the gyro instruments and locked the Ford in level flight on the heading determined by the directional gyro. To Indy, it was magic. The airplane was flying itself. It flew as though invisible hands and feet were on the controls, rocking gently in mild turbulence, but flying with dazzling precision.

"Where are we, o ace of the sides?" Cromwell nudged Indy.

"What? Oh. I was watching how this thing flew, I mean—"

"You mean you forgot to keep track of where we were flying, where we were, how long it's been since takeoff, how far we are from Block Island, when we're supposed to start our descent, right? Other than that," Cromwell sneered,

"you're doing a splendid job. I always wonder how a slip of a girl like Gale is so good at this game, while the world-famous explorer and adventurer, the Professor Henry Jones, can't keep track of where he is over Long Island!"

"I may kill you," Indy glowered.

"Tut, tut, my friend. Today was simply an introduction. Piece of cake. Simple for a ten-year-old child. It shouldn't take you more than ten or twenty years to get the hang of it."

"Ignore him, Indy," Foulois said, leaning forward. "It's just been a long time since he screamed and shouted at any students. He's in his element, that's all."

Indy turned to Cromwell who grinned broadly at him. "All right, mate, we'll be starting a long descent. On the controls, gently, just follow me through for the feel. I don't want you doing any work. You've had enough for one session, so this is cheat time for you."

Fifteen minutes later Cromwell, arrowing downward, feeling the headwind fading away, crossed the controls and nudged the Ford into a forward slip, the wings askew and the airplane descending in an unnerving sideways crab. At the last moment Cromwell straightened out everything, and the big airplane sighed onto the grass strip in a masterful touchdown. "There's a barn over to your left," Indy told him.

"Taxi over there. By the time we get there the doors will be open front and back, so you can taxi right inside without blowing down the place."

"How wide?" Cromwell queried.

"One hundred ten feet side to side," Indy told him.

"Piece of cake, mate."

He shut down the engines when they were inside the huge "barn," but the only part of the structure that was farmyard was its external appearance. Cromwell looked about him. "Very neat, Indy. In here we have simply disappeared."

"That, slave driver, is the idea." He left the cockpit to return to the cabin.

"How did it go?" Gale asked.

"My ego is flatter than yesterday morning's pancake,"

he told her. "Jocko, help Gale with our gear. We'll be staying in that farmhouse tonight. And sometime this evening a boat will arrive from Connecticut with the equipment we ordered for you."

"You got it, Boss."

"Why do you keep calling me Boss?"

"Sure sounds better than Whitey."

Gale stifled a laugh. "You two are going to be lots of fun."

"Never mind the chuckles," Indy said. "We've got work to do."

"Mind telling me what's on the agenda, Boss?"

"Why not? We've got to find the Martians, or whatever they are. Or, more to the point, we've got to help them find us."

"You got a death wish, Whitey?"

"Boss, remember?"

Three men and one woman ran the Block Island "farm," a rolling expanse on the island isolated by water from the eastern tip of Long Island. None of the four people were farmers; the coveralls they wore provided a loose and comfortable fit for the powerful .44 Magnum revolvers each carried in holsters.

"It doesn't take a physicist," Gale said slowly to her own group, "to conclude that as a farm, this place is a bust."

"Well, it's also a weather station," Indy noted, pointing to equipment atop a small building. "That attends to any questions about towers and antenna for the radio equipment here."

"And if you try to come here by boat at night you got to be stupid or crazy,"

Jocko said. He'd already studied the angry waters between Long Island and Block Island. "Now I see why this hayfield is such a great landing strip."

In the "farmhouse," one of the men introduced the others. "I'm Richard. This is Mike, and the short dumpy character is Ozzie.

The lady is Katy. Please introduce yourselves and use first names only. We don't need to know any more." When the introductions were complete they helped carry the bags and equipment to rooms on the second floor. "Indy, you've got two-oh-one.

Someone else will share it with you tonight."

'"Who?"

"I don't know, but you know each other. Will and Rene, two-oh-two is yours.

Gale, twoohthree, and you'll be on your own. Jocko, you're two-oh-four. Several more rooms will be occupied tonight."

"How are they arriving?" Indy asked.

Richard, if that was his name, pointed a finger at the sky. Answer enough.

"We were asked to have an early meal ready for you," Richard went on. "They wish to get right into the meeting after they land."

"Great," Cromwell boomed. "What is the fare, may I ask? Cold bologna sandwiches, no doubt, on this forsaken real estate?"

"Roast duck, spiced apples, choice of wine, candied carrots, kitchen-fried potatoes, French bread, coffee."

"You're serious?" Cromwell gaped at the man.

"Sir, this is a duck farm. That is the truth. We have six thousand ducks here.

Katy and Ozzie are superb chefs. That is their profession. Mike and I prefer to kill the stinking birds."

Ten minutes after the table was cleared, they heard the sound of an approaching aircraft. Cromwell went to the front door to open it wide. He cocked his head better to hear the sound. "Radial engine, single, descending, throttled back, coming in fast," he announced.

"You can tell all that by just sticking your ear into the night air?" Indy queried.

"Everything but the pilot's name," Cromwell said confidently. "In fact, ground lights should be coming on about, um, well, about, now." As if in response to his last word, a double row of lights came on along the grass strip, and a floodlight illuminated the windsock. Moments later a twoseat fighter—radial engine just as Cromwell had said—

whistled down the runway on a clearing pass. They heard the engine thunder with increased power for the climb, then ease off as the pilot came around in a tight curving descent, rolled onto final approach, and eased the fighter to the grass. As soon as the pilot cleared the runway the lights winked out, the plane was moved into the hangar, and silence lay across the field again.

Colonel Harry Henshaw and Filipo Castilano emerged from the hangar to greet Indy and the others. They went together into the farmhouse. "Coffee,"

Henshaw said to Richard. His demeanor left no doubt as to whom Richard and the others worked for. Coffee was placed on the table along with sweet rolls.

"Okay, let's get down to it," Indy said. The long machinations until this moment had been grinding away his patience.

"Indy," Henshaw began, "I've been digging as deeply as I can into every known instance of unexplained flight—

unexplained in terms of our present science, engineering, and technology—since the first historical records ever kept.

I didn't do it myself, of course. We turned to every college and university and research office with which the government has any kind of contract. We leaned on them and we leaned real heavy. We have used everybody from Navajo shamans to longdeceased priests, thanks to the effort of Filipo, here," he nodded to Castilano.

"We've gone into Hebraic, Moslem, Akkadian, Sumerian, Babylonian, Chinese, Japanese, voodoo, Hindu, every Christian sect and every ancient sect from people who made the ancient Egyptians look like Johnny-come-latelies."

This was Indiana Jones's home territory. He was enjoying himself in a way he hadn't anticipated. "Witches, too?"

"Witches, too." Henshaw wondered about the sudden smile on the face of Gale Parker.

"Colonel, how deeply did you go into the Mayan, Aztec, Inca, and other cultures?" she put in.

"All the way."

"Your conclusions?" Indy asked.

"I've come to the conclusion—and to the great amusement of my Vatican friend, here—that I feel I have missed ninety-nine percent of history."

"Sounds reasonable," Indy said to settle Henshaw's mood. "Look, Harry, no one man knows it all, or even a small fraction of the past. Once you make a concerted effort, you find out that you've been blind to that past. It's too big, there's too much, and it's all convoluted with the intermixing of fact and fable."

"What the devil are you trying to tell me?" Henshaw demanded.

"Simply that I expected you to run into countless incidents, from reliable sources in our past histories, that tell the stories of machines that fly just like the ones we seem to be encountering now. Huge torpedo vessels. Gleaming gold and bronze and silver discs and wheels. Mother ships that spawn smaller vessels. Great scimitar-shaped craft that hurtle through the skies, that perform impossible maneuvers, that blaze brighter than the sun, that hover above the ground. It's a long and fascinating story."

"Indy, are you telling me that what we've run into is simply a replay of ancient history?" Henshaw couldn't hide his disbelief.

"To some extent, yes," Indy said.

"Aha! I told you, Harry!" Castilano was almost gloating. "The history of the Church, the history before the Church, the histories before anyone even thought of any kind of temple! It's all there, it has always been there!

And now we are again—"

"Hold it, Filipo!" Indy said in a halfshout. "Save the absolutions for Easter, or whatever. Let's stick to the historical records. Stay away, all of us, from subjective conclusions."

"You sound like my old history teacher," Henshaw laughed, easing the tension that had suddenly built up.

"He should," Gale told Henshaw. "Remember? Professor Jones is the name."

Henshaw nodded. "Okay. Where do we begin?" He shuffled through a thick stack of notepapers. By his side Castilano was doing the same. Gale looked for Indy to put something before him but all that appeared was a brandy snifter. He turned to Gale. "Take notes," he told her. "But about tomorrow, not yesterday."

He winked at their fascinated audience—Cromwell, Foulois, and Kilarney. Only the newcomer to their group was fast enough to offer a slight nod in return. That Jocko, mused Indy, was hiding a very sharp mind beneath that gleaming smile and huge frame. He'd have to do some digging on his background.

Indy changed his mind suddenly. He had planned for the two pilots and Jocko simply to be outsiders, permitted to

"listen in" without participating. Then he realized how foolish was that judgment; Cromwell and Foulois were pilots.

Aces! They could fly anything, and in the information they were about to hear, there might hide a sliver of data that would prove valuable to them.

"Will, Frenchy? Come on closer. If you get a brainstorm about something, break in, all right?"

Indy turned back to Henshaw and Castilano.

"Okay. There are certain rules to follow when you're trying to extract information from what's available. First of all, we must gain access to whatever records there are that contain references to unexplained objects appearing in the sky.

But in many of those cases we'll be dealing with emotion, religious experience, and inadequate record-keeping. So what we find may have no basis in fact, or it might hold fragments of truth mixed in with nonsense. The point I'm stressing is that the moment we run up against that kind of historical record, we've got to put it aside. Just plain dump it and go to whatever may be more substantial."

Indy looked directly at Henshaw. "From any source." He hoped Henshaw got the message: bring up anything that might apply. Something had been stuck in the back of Indy's mind longer than he liked because he still couldn't fit it in with events taking place around them. During the work of arming the Ford TriMotor, Henshaw had mentioned a French scientist, Henri Coanda, who had worked on a rocket gun during the Great War. One of his other experiments had involved some kind of new engine that operated like a giant torch. Indy made a mental note to pursue that issue further with Henshaw.

But for now they were far back in history, and he expected Henshaw to help keep things moving steadily. He was right.

"Example." Henshaw could cut right to the bone.

"The cave wall paintings and carvings in China's Hunan Province," began Indy. "They were dug with very sharp rocks, or flint; they were colored with ochre and pigments of unknown origin; and they show cylindrical vessels moving through the sky. I'd like to use them for reference, but you have whatever value they contain in this brief description. We're not even certain whether they were created by Homo sapiens or prehumans. On the matter that concerns us, it has no bearing."

"Agreed," Castilano said with a nod.

"Go on," Henshaw directed.

"May I?" They turned to Gale. "I believe you must adopt the same rules for Chih-Chiang-Tsu-Yu."

"Who is?" Henshaw asked.

"Not is. Was," Gale emphasized. "He was the lead engineer in the royal court of China's Emperor Yao. I'd love to be able to question him myself," she sighed. "His records are astonishing. He described an encounter with an alien race come to earth, claimed that their craft shone in the heavens, and stated he actually made a flight to the moon and back with the aliens."

"How long ago was this?" asked Henshaw. He was taken aback as those more familiar with the truly ancient records smiled at his question. "Four thousand three hundred years," Gale answered. "I mentioned this item because Tsu-Yu even described columns of luminous air—"

"A rocket?" Henshaw asked, incredulous.

Gale shrugged. "Who knows? Indy warned us against extrapolation, so all I'm doing is establishing a framework of historical reference."

"Look, if we wanted to refer to a catalogue of such moments, we could. And we'd be justified," Indy said patiently.

"There are records of visitations from outer space all through man's history, from every culture, and throughout every age. I could make a great case out of the Surya Sutradhara. That's an ancient text from India in which astronomical events were recorded with incredible accuracy. And not by dewyeyed stargazers, but by the Siddas and the Vidyaharas—" "What the devil are those?" Cromwell burst out.

"Not what; who," Indy replied. "They were the scientists of India. They also described flights in alien spacecraft and then went on to write down how they flew, and this is a quote, "below the moon but above the clouds."

"I will be . . . I mean . . . that is so bloody hard to believe!" Cromwell stammered.

"Your belief, mine, anyone else's," Indy told him, "is not the issue. The accuracy of such reports, and how they may or may not relate to what our own people have come to believe are starships from Mars, or whatever . . .

that's the issue."

"Then we can hardly ignore the Santander caves of Spain, can we?" They turned to Henshaw, who held up both hands. "Sorry, I'm no archeologist or historian.

But when I was in Spain I happened to be in that area, and what I heard sent me there quickly enough. I could hardly believe what I saw. Beautiful paintings in prehistoric caves. Paintings of discs moving through the sky."

"And in more places than Spain," Castilano offered. "In fact, Indy and I ran into each other once on the Tassili Plateau. That's the Saharan region. Cave paintings of discs there as well."

"The point is, we've brought up these places and their times," Indy said to move them along, "and there isn't a blasted thing we can do with this information except say, okay, here it is, here's what it depicts, we can't explain it, although we can debate from now to forever. Let me save all of us some time. Even as early as the fifteenth century B.C., people in North Africa were seeing all sorts of discs in the sky. Historians reported they flew with great precision, whatever that meant in the terms of those days.

"Now, in a.d. 747, the Chinese left records of flaming objects cruising overhead and climbing. So we're getting a bit warmer."

"What about the German sightings at Nuremburg in 1561?" asked Castilano.

"Thousands of witnesses saw cylinders, discs, spheres—"

"They saw the same thing in 1883 in Zacatecas," Gale broke in.

"Is that in Mexico?" Jocko inquired.

"Give the man a cigar," Indy told him. "You got it, friend. Only this time the sky was busier than Times Square on Saturday night. The locals saw more than four hundred aerial torpedos and discs. But we don't have to go that far back. It was, um, 1896 and 1897, right in the United States. California, Kansas, New Mexico, Texas, and so forth. All of a sudden people—thousands of people who were sober, reliable witnesses—saw strange airships all over the place.

Including a bunch of them that landed. They spoke English, German, and some foreign languages nobody could understand. They also took off and then climbed with what people said was terrific speed."

"And bloody well showed up again," Cromwell said. "In England, about twelve years later. They seemed much more advanced than the American visitors, but airships they were, all right."

"Zeppelins, no doubt," Henshaw remarked.

"No way," Indy stepped in. "At that time Germany had but three zeppelins flying, and they had poor performance.

The British reports numbered in the hundreds, in thirty to fifty locations distant from one another on the same night.

Besides, no matter what they were, they had engines, propellers, and wings, which is a pretty stupid thing to use on a zeppelin."

"But there are more modern sightings of the discs," said Castilano.

"Of course!" came a startled cry from Foulois. "Back in 1880, by a French scientist, Trecul, a member of the French Academy of Science. Ah! He was a master observer, a serious and sober man, and he swore up and down he had seen a golden vessel flying overhead. More to the point," Foulois continued, now standing as for emphasis, "he also saw the big ship release a smaller craft that shot ahead of the golden vessel. Indy, my friend, the exact words he used were 'mother craft,' and that certainly fits what you are seeking!"

"Did he ever see it again?"

"Non."

Indy scratched his head. "What else do we have?"

"I was with that expedition to China in 1926," Castilano said in a subdued tone. "I never thought I'd talk about it, but—"

"Let's have it," Indy pushed.

"Well, it simply never registered. I mean, an event in such a remote place. In fact, it was northern China, in the Kukunor district. That's rather close to the Humboldt Chain. To be even more specific, now that I'm rooting about in my memory, it was about nine-thirty the morning of August fifth. Not just myself, but the entire expeditionary group caught sight of something huge in the sky. Let me see, now." He absentmindedly rubbed an elbow and tapped a foot.

"Ah, yes, we all agreed it was a large, even a huge, oval-shaped object."

"Color?"

"Gold. Burnished gold."

"Anyone use binoculars?"

"To be sure. At least four men. Had an absolutely clear view."

"Any kind of exhaust trail?"

"None reported. There could have been, but—"

"Sound?"

"None that could be detected. We were in the midst of a pretty good wind, blowing snow, that sort of thing."

Indy wanted to break things with his hands. So close! So close, and yet . . .

He studied Castilano. "Filipo, my friend," he said quietly, "did anyone among your group, a research group, for God's sake, take a picture?"

Castilano looked stricken. He shook his head slowly. "How I have wished that we did. . . . I will tell you this, Indy.

Whatever we saw was definitely oval. I have considered changing visual points, apparent shapes because of angle.

It was oval, and if I had a picture, I believe it would be the only confirmed photograph at the time of an extraterrestrial vehicle."

"What makes you so sure it was off-Earth?" Henshaw broke in.

"We calculated distance and speed. It was moving with a velocity in excess of two thousand miles an hour."

"So that leaves us with a memory," Indy said sourly, "and that's not much to go on."

"Why do you say that?" Castilano protested. "Fourteen eyewitnesses are but a memory?"

"That is all it is," Indy said with a nononsense tone. "It doesn't pin down anything but a sighting of something you cannot identify. Look, Filipo, if Will and Rene took up the Ford and did wild flying around this island and then flew away, and you had never before seen or heard of an airplane, and you had no pictures for later reference, what would you deduce from that sighting? I know, I know. Experienced, reliable observers are at hand. But when it's over, what do you have but a wild story? No matter if it's true."

"Wait a moment," Henshaw said abruptly. "There is one thing that hasn't come up before. The Empress Kali incident. And that flat craft that hovered? I read in the report of one eyewitness that he said the edges of the ship, or disc, or whatever it was, weren't clearly defined. He didn't use that phrase. He said the edges seemed to waver, shift in and out of focus."

Indy could hardly contain himself. It was exactly the kind of clue for which he'd been searching. He decided, at that very moment, to keep what he had just learned—what Henshaw's words had told him—to himself until later.

"Does that mean something important?" Henshaw asked.

"Sure," Indy said, feigning indifference. "Your witness has watery eyes." He rose to his feet, making eye contact with Henshaw, then spoke to the group. "That's it, everybody. We've gone over the ancient records and what we've come up with is that history is loaded with reports of unexplained things moving through the sky.

None of which does us any real good except that we've followed the proper rules—examine everything possible. Be ready for takeoff tomorrow morning, please."

"What time, Indy?" Cromwell asked.

"Dawn."

Cromwell groaned. "You're destroying my beauty sleep," he complained.

Indy laughed. "Try a facelifting instead." Indy turned to Henshaw.

"Let's go over the equipment list again, if you don't mind?"

Henshaw picked up immediately on Indy's unspoken request. Meet together, just the two of them. "Got it. I'll get the papers and meet you back here in ten minutes."

"Did it hit you about the same time?" Henshaw asked Indy.

"It sure seems like it. I'm still not certain of the connection, but when you started talking about the edges of the disc seeming to waver, well, my first reaction was heat distortion."

"You're picking it up quickly," Henshaw told him. "You're smack on target.

Heat distortion; why didn't we put two and two together before!"

"Harry, you came up with the clue," Indy said quickly.

"You said this Coanda fellow was describing a blowtorch effect with an engine, right?"

"Exactly. We've got to speak with Coanda directly, Indy. Face to face. You learn more that way than you ever will from any paperwork. So either one of us, or the both of us, must go to France, and keep that trip absolutely quiet.

Otherwise we make targets of ourselves."

Indy nodded. "Agreed. We'll work out the details later. Anything else?"

"Yes, and I got the news only this morning. This time it's the paperwork that provides what may be a critical lead for us." Henshaw smiled with satisfaction. "The paperwork was buried in old archives in France. I've had a team there with a cover story about exchanging planes and equipment between our museums and theirs.

Know what they found?

Sorry. Of course you couldn't. An entry in the patent office back in 1914 in Paris. Someone had applied for a patent that year." Henshaw paused. "For a jet engine."

Indy smiled. "A buck gets you ten the man's name was Coanda."

"You win," Henshaw said.

13

At five o'clock the next morning the team gathered by the Ford and pushed the airplane onto the dew-wet grass.

Henshaw and Castilano were there for brief final conversations. "Everything you need for your crossing will be waiting for you at Bangor," he told Indy. "And you're in luck. I've been getting the weather reports from Canada and the oceancrossing navigation ships at sea. There's a terrific high that will keep the skies clear most of the way and give you a dickens of a tailwind."

"Great. Thanks, Harry." They shook hands, and the rest of the team boarded the airplane.

Indy wondered if this whole idea of his was really as crazy as it sounded.

Crossing the North Atlantic in an airplane that could cruise steadily at only 115 miles an hour sounded like lunacy when you envisioned the huge ocean area before them.

"It's a duck walk, really," Cromwell had convinced him. "With our extra fuel—and we could even shut down the nose engine and fly on only two to stretch time and fuel— the trip will be a piece of cake. The longest stretch over water is only about eight hundred and fifty miles. Just one thing I don't fathom, Indy."

"Which is?"

"Why are you making a public spectacle of us? From what I've been hearing of this lot that's after you, I'd have thought you'd rather be out of sight as much as possible."

Indy patted Will Cromwell on the back. "Got to flush them out. This is the best way. Doesn't it seem just a bit strange to you? If these people really are gathering so much military might, why has no one come after us with all that firepower?"

"I hadn't thought about it, I confess."

"Confession's good for the soul, Will. You and Rene fly, I'll take care of the fun and games."

"As you say, Guv."

They climbed out into the sun breaking the horizon. Indy slipped on his headset and mike intercom to talk to the cockpit. "Frenchy, before we reach the Connecticut coast, hold an easterly heading until I call you back. You'll feel the upper hatch open for a few moments. I'll call you when it's closed."

"Right."

Indy felt the gentle bank and saw they were headed directly into the fiery disc clearing the horizon. He walked back to a storage locker, withdrew a mahogany box, and returned to the upper hatch where the machine-gun mount could be raised. He pushed open the hatch, picked up the box, and then stood on the gun mount so that his head and shoulders extended into the airstream. For a moment he struggled with the mahogany box.

Gale started from her seat to assist Indy, but Jocko placed his hand on her arm to restrain her. "This is for him alone," he said. The look on his face more than his words brought Gale back into her seat.

Standing in the airblast, facing backwards, Indy brought the box above the gun mount coaming, opened the lid, and began to scatter the ashes of Tarkiz Belem over the waters of Long Island Sound. In the wild turbulence, the ashes flew about in a swirling cloud against his face and into his nostrils; most of the ash cloud hurtled backward and flashed out of sight. Several banging sounds drifted to them.

"Those are small pieces of bone striking the tail," Jocko told Gale. "Not even cremation turns it all to ashes."

Gale shuddered, remembering the big, crude man who had twice saved her life. She remained silent as Indy completed his task and then hurled the mahogany box from the plane. He slid back into the cabin, closed the hatch, and went to the water basin to soak his handkerchief to wipe the ashes of Tarkiz from his face and hands. He sank into a seat across from Gale and Jocko. "Tell Will to pick up his course," he asked Gale.

The Ford set its nose for Bangor.

Gale took sandwiches and coffee to the cockpit as they flew across New England, the sky spotted with puffy clouds.

She returned to her seat to join Indy and Jocko in a conversation she'd wanted for days to hear.

"Let's have it out on the table, Jocko," Indy was saying. "I need to know as much as I can about my people.

Otherwise I'm liable to miss opportunities when they arise."

"You mean this isn't a job interview?" Jocko smiled.

"I thought you worked for the museum," Gale said between bites of her sandwich.

"I do. But I'm on this airplane because I was instructed to go along with what the professor needs. Or wants," he added as an afterthought.

"What's your background, Jocko?"

"Tell me what you know already, Boss. It will be easier to fill in the blanks, perhaps."

"For starters, you're a hell of a lot smarter than you show with that Jamaican jingo you present to the world."

"That real kind of you, mon," Jocko mimicked his singsong tone.

"But why do you do that?" Gale asked.

"You can hide that you are a witch, Miss Parker—"

"Gale, please."

"Thank you. As I say, you easily conceal that you are a witch. You even change your name. There is Arab blood in you. I see it in the bone structure of your face, the small differences in your skin—well, call it shading instead of color." Jocko smiled with tolerance born of severe experience. "How long can you hide your family tree if you are as black as me?"

Gale studied the big man before her, beginning to understand his true depth.

"Not long at all," she admitted.

"Why do you hide yours?"

Gale shrugged. "It unnerves people. Upsets them. Even frightens some. So I changed to a name with which people are more comfortable."

"It is much easier to change your name than it is for me to change my ebony appearance," Jocko offered. "Being black, and being intelligent, is acceptable only under certain conditions. And only with certain people."

"You have that much trouble?" Indy asked.

"Being a smart black man in certain places means a very short lifespan. I know." He leaned back and smiled, but with little humor. "Let me explain. It is not just the black that matters. It is the difference in color. It is even the difference in the black. Those blacks of African descent, or from the islands, or anywhere, for that matter, if they are light-skinned, they hate people like me. Because I am so different from them. It is foolish. It is even stupid. But it is the real world."

"You have your degree in geology from the university in Caracas," Indy slipped into the exchange.

"Yes," Jocko said, offering no further information.

"And you took marine biology at the University of Miami."

"I did not obtain my degree there."

"How many did you get?" Indy asked.

"You know many things, Professor," Jocko said without smiling.

"You don't need to tell us, Jocko. But the more I know the stronger we all are."

"Four," Jocko said.

"Four white men," Indy answered for him.

Jocko shook his head, but he seemed glad this was in the open. "They had a meeting. I guess it was the Klan. Got all liquored up. My teacher, Veronica Green, she was white. She wanted to talk to me about underwater work in the Caribbean—"

"He's a qualified skin diver and deep-sea diver," Indy interrupted. "Searches for old wrecks for the museum. Their treasures are more than gold and silver.

Artifacts from an age long gone."

"That's what this woman wanted to talk about. She taught in a classroom, I lived in the world she dreamed about.

But we made a mistake. We had hamburgers together at a beachfront joint in Miami Beach. These whites came in, drunk, angry, filled with hate. They said not one word, but suddenly they were coming at me with knives and brass knuckles. They were no problem for me—"

"Four against one and it's no problem?" Gale couldn't hold back the question.

Again Indy answered for him. "He'd never tell you this himself, but Jocko is a martial arts master. Judo, jujitsu, karate, to say nothing of a year he spent in India with the Ghurkas."

Jocko showed his surprise. "How did you know that?"

Indy ignored the question. "Finish what happened in Miami."

Jocko shook his head with sadness. "The woman stood before me, as if she were a barrier they could not cross. The man before her buried his knife in her stomach. I—I never have been certain just what I did."

"He killed that man," Indy said for him. "Not the others, though. Once the woman went down they tried to run.

Jocko broke their legs, and their arms and I understand he did some heavy damage to livers and spleens and—"

"That's enough, Indy. It's not important."

"All right."

"But what happened after that?" Gale demanded.

"I did what any black man with half a mind would do. I got out of Miami just as fast as I could. I had a deep-sea fishing boat and I took off in that. I knew there would be a search, so I doubled back. That night I painted the hull and changed the name, hid in a small island off the Keys, and went back to Jamaica. It was Dr. Franck who straightened it all out."

"And assigned you to this little jaunt," Indy appended.

"I go wherever Dr. Franck asks. I owe the man my life," Jocko said sternly.

"Let me ask you something, Boss Man."

"Shoot."

"Just where are we going?"

"Paris. Eventually, that is. It's quite a trip."

"Across the ocean in this?"

"Uh-huh."

"Couldn't we just take an ocean liner?"

"We could, but we'd miss the attention I want this way. After that, we'll see.

Now you two go talk all you want.

Later I want to brief you on this camera. For now, it's nap time."

They watched as he slumped in his seat, patted his seat belt, shoved his wide-brimmed hat over his eyes, and clasped his hands across his midriff.

"Can he just drop right off like that?" Jocko asked Gale.

"Jocko, he's already asleep. I'm going forward to see if they need a break up there."

Jocko looked doubtful. "Drive carefully."

"Just like you in your cab," she smiled.

"The Great One protect us," he murmured.

The flight, expected to be long, battering to the ears, and less than comfortable, kept its promise. Every landing was a blessing as they walked away from three thundering sets of propellers and engines vibrating the corrugated box of the Ford fuselage. "When they named this thing the Tin Goose," complained Foulois, "they were short of their mark. It should have been called the Horrendous Honk."

"Or the Boiler Factory," added Cromwell. He looked at the operations shack on Bangor Field. "Now, if we had just remembered to bring along ear plugs . . . Oh, well, we just might luck out here. I'd stuff a pomengrate in my ears if it would help."

They were in luck; spongy ear protectors to screen out the higher frequencies were plentiful, and they accepted them eagerly. They filled their large insulated cans with hot coffee, loading up on high-energy food bars, fresh sandwiches, and other lastminute items to be carried aboard the airplane. They also spent as much time as possible walking about to improve body circulation.

Another takeoff, another opportunity to monitor closely every gauge and mechanical operation of the airplane systems, and a landing at Moncton in New Brunswick, Canada. They topped off the fuel tanks, filled the oil tanks, and headed north for Goose Bay, a remote Royal Canadian Air Force field in Newfoundland. Will and Rene brought the Ford down through buffeting winds in a mildly exciting night landing. Indy and Gale were fast asleep in their seats, but Jocko was in the cockpit, watching every move the pilots made with awe-widened eyes.

"It looks like flying down a tunnel," he told them. "Except for those pitiful little lights. How can you people see where the devil you are going and when it is time to land?"

Cromwell half turned. "It works this way, laddie," he said with a straight face.

"I set the machine on final approach, like we are now, descending like the good fairy coming down a moonbeam. Then I close my eyes real tight and—"

"You fly down to land with your eyes closed?"

"Absolutely."

"But how do you know when to level out, to land!"

"That's Frenchy's job, you see. He watches the runway coming up at us. Just before we're about to smash into the ground, he always—never fails, believe me—sucks in his breath and sort of screams. More like a strangled gurgle, really.

When I hear him do that, why, I chop the power and ease back on the yoke and we land just as smooth as a mug of ale."

Jocko left without saying another word.

Goose Bay was on the edge of nowhere. Before them lay a run of eight hundred and thirty miles, give or take another thirty because of the unreliability of charts. With full tanks and the underwing tanks they could fly sixteen hundred miles in still air. One of those "piece of cake" jaunts to which Cromwell referred so often.

But the two pilots went over the weather reports from the ships at sea and Greenland stations with excruciating detail, checking temperatures and winds aloft, shifting

pressure zones, and then listening to the advice of the oldtimers who flew this part of the world the yearround.

"You'll never have a better time than right now," Captain T. C. Hampton of the RCAF told them. "You'll want to arrive at Narssarssuaq on the south lip of Greenland in daylight. Going in there at night is suicide. I'd recommend you go airborne at midnight or so. With your speed," he smiled, "you should get there with splendid visibility."

They gathered their notes. Hampton leaned on the counter and studied them.

"Hard to believe Lindbergh did this only three years ago."

"Assuredly," Foulois told him with as much dignity as he could muster. "But Lindbergh was mad, you know. He had only one engine and he was making the trip nonstop. He even fell asleep on the way and nearly splashed into the ocean. How he expected to stay awake with tea instead of coffee or good French brandy has never been explained."

"Besides," Cromwell added with a sniff of disdain, "you'll remember he took the easy way home. On a ship with his flying machine neatly tucked away in a large box."

"Have a good flight. Take care," Hampton told them as if they hadn't said a word. Nothing would help matters.

Anyone flying across the North Atlantic was crazy.

Jocko lay spreadeagled on the cabin floor, legs braced against seats, his head and shoulders over the open space where the floor hatch had been slid aside. He looked downward through powerful binoculars. He wanted to convey the incredible sense of wonder he felt, but trying to talk in the engine thunder and wind howling past the open hatch was impossible.

The whales. Magnificent! He'd never seen so many, and even from three thousand feet he saw clearly as they sent white spray cascading above them when they broke the surface. The plane was well into the northern reaches, and icebergs appeared as floating white sentinels. The flight was pure magic to him. He'd already dismissed his apprehensions; if that woman was completely at home up here he could hardly be less so. He felt a tug on his leg, and glanced about to see Indy motioning to him. Jocko slid the hatch closed and joined Indy and Gale.

"You have the look of a teacher on your face," he remarked to Indy.

"And yours is that of the student. The both of you," Indy told him. "You're right. School's on." Indy removed the camera from about his neck. He opened a leather case and brought forth a duplicate of the Leica he'd been carrying.

"I want you both to be able to work these things without delaying a moment when you'll need them. I'll carry one, you two will switch back and forth, but either one of you must be ready to shoot at any time we're flying."

Jocko had been studying the Leica. "I've seen many cameras. This is something new, isn't it?"

"Test models. Dr. Franck obtained one for us, the other came from Doctor Pencraft in London. They both have the right contacts with Leica. Now, much of this is going to be completely new to you. It was to me as well, so let me start at the beginning."

He went through his instructions with exacting stepbystep demonstrations.

"This model isn't on the market yet.

It's a Leica One with a factory model number One-B. We'll set up both cameras so they're identical in film, shutter speeds, everything."

The Leica 1B was virtually a handmade model, a 35mm package that used 35mm film in a roll of twentyfour exposures. "You load from the bottom. Normally each exposure for a camera like this must be wound by hand, using this winding and rewinding knob on top. But they've added a batterypowered autosystem so that as soon as you take one picture, the camera will set the film automatically for the next exposure. That way you can take pictures as rapidly as you work the button, here, and the film rotates into position for your next shot. Still with me? Good. Now, you won't have to set the system. Well, it will be different depending upon lighting conditions, but basically we'll keep things as simple as possible."

He passed them a film roll. "This is Plus X film. Its got an ASA of one hundred—"

"Which means?" Jocko asked.

"That's the film speed rating. Watch what I'm doing with the camera and where I leave the settings. That way you can doublecheck very quickly the way it's supposed to be with the long lens."

"Long lens?" Gale said.

"You don't need to remember these things," Indy told her. "Besides, you can bone up with the instruction booklet later. What it all means is that with this lens, if something is a long ways off, this thing functions like a telescope and brings it much closer. Something that's a dot with the regular lens will be a closeup shot with this lens. What I want you both to do is to shoot scenes outside—beyond—the airplane.

Icebergs, any ships we see, coming down over Greenland. Keep a record of the settings and the conditions. Don't worry about wasting film. Use all you want until you're completely comfortable with the system. The first chance we get we'll have the film processed so you can compare what you've been doing with the results.

From that point on I expect you both to be whizzes with this thing."

"Uhhuh," Jocko said.

"You have a lot of faith in us," Gale offered with a touch of sarcasm.

"Shouldn't I?"

Jocko said, "You're hoping we'll find something specific to take pictures of?

I'm trying to stay one step ahead of what you're after."

"Good point," Indy said. "And you're right. Something very specific."

Gale couldn't remain out of the exchange. "Which is?"

Indy leaned back in his seat, bracing himself against a sudden lurch from turbulence.

"A disc. A scimitar, or whatever shape those things are. In short, a flying saucer. Call it what you like, but it most likely will be flying and it won't have any engines." He almost added the words "that you can see," but kept that to himself.

Besides, both Gale and Jocko were staring at him in open disbelief.

"But, Indy!" Gale exclaimed. "Everything you've said at the meetings, the way you ridiculed . . . I mean, you've made it clear you don't believe in these things!"

He corrected them. "I believe in them, all right. I just don't believe they're from any other planet than good old Earth. They're real. In fact, I'm counting on them to come after us."

Foulois was walking back from the cockpit to talk to them. "I don't think you want to miss this. We've got visual on Greenland. You can take turns up front."

Gale stared out the cabin windows. "I didn't even notice it was daylight!"

"That Canadian, he was right about the weather. We've had a tailwind of better than sixty miles an hour out of Goose Bay. We're way ahead of schedule. And with the light so low on the horizon, the sight before us is— well—"

He smiled. "Ladies first, Gale."

She eased into the right seat. "I . . . I never imagined it could be so beautiful!" she said to Cromwell. She stared in wonder at the gleaming white icebergs drifting off the coast and the huge glaciers gripping the coastline. It was a fairyland of white, peaks and slopes and massive ice walls. "Will, how far out are we?" "What do you think?"

"Ten, fifteen miles, I guess."

"Well, then, this is likely the clearest and cleanest air you've ever been in.

That shoreline is seventy miles away."

She remained there several minutes, then left so Indy and Jocko could share the incredible sight before them.

Foulois returned to the cockpit. "Sorry, Indy. I'll need to be up here for this approach. The airport we're looking for, a bare strip, really, isn't on the coastline."

"Bloody well it isn't," Cromwell chimed in. "It's a killer. It lies up one of those fjords," he pointed ahead of them,

"about fifty miles inland. We're going to be weaving our way in between mountains five thousand feet high and we don't dare make any wrong turns, because then there's no way out. We must have the proper fjord, and then we thread the needle." He chuckled. "It's really simple. You've got only one way to get in and when we leave we have only the same way out. And we must make a proper approach the first time."

"What if we don't?" Indy asked.

"Well, then, we go smashing into the mountain that's at the far end of the runway."

"Piece of cake, right?" Indy smiled.

"Certainly. If you do it right, that is."

The approach was a dazzling, exhilarating, terrifying, and enginethundering series of turns and twists through the narrowing walls of the fjord. Then, abruptly, the airstrip appeared before them, and Cromwell brought the trimotor down as if descending on a slope of glass. He taxied to

the small operations building. They were expected, and a small tractor towing a trailer with fuel drums moved immediately to the airplane. Both pilots worked with the ramp workers to fill their tanks as quickly as possible. They filled the oil tanks to capacity, and then Cromwell and Foulois went over the airplane from nose to tail, checking everything they could touch. By the time all work had been completed, it was early afternoon.

Cromwell went to talk to Indy. "We can stay overnight and leave in the morning before first light. Or we can take off right away, take turns sleeping, and go in to Iceland while it's still dark. If this wind keeps up, however, we'll have more than enough fuel to overfly Iceland and the Faeroes and make Scotland by sunrise.

Then we can pick wherever you want to set down."

"You're the pilot, Will. What do you say?"

"Press on, mate."

"Do it," Indy said. Twenty minutes later they were flying down the fjord toward the open sea.

Two hours later Gale grasped Indy's arm and shook him madly. "Wake up!"

she shouted, her mouth close against his ear. If he didn't come out of his sleep fog she swore she'd clamp teeth down on that ear.

Indy fairly shot up from his slouched position. "What's wrong?" he asked immediately. He glanced about him; everything seemed normal.

"The ship!" Gale exclaimed. "You've got to see this ship!"

She half dragged Indy to the opposite side of the cabin. They were at four thousand feet, a mixture of clouds another thousand feet beneath them, partially obscuring the view of the ocean surface. Then there was a break. Indy pressed his face to the window, eyes wide, and turned with a snarl. "The camera! Use that camera now!"

In a moment he had his own camera working. Nearly a mile beneath them, plowing the sea with a huge Vwake behind its passage, was the largest oceangoing ship he had ever seen. And he had never seen anything like this incredible tanker.

It was at least a thousand to twelve hundred feet in length. Instead of the booms and deck equipment of the average tanker, the entire vessel from stem to stern was a huge flat deck. On each side of the ship, long crossbraced beams extended outward. Thick smoke plumed from the huge stack that curved across the right side of the decking to hang over the vessel, its smoke casting a pall that extended out of sight. Indy shot half the roll in his camera, then grabbed a headset and mike and clamped it on his head.

"Will, this is Indy. You got me?" "Right. Go on."

"Do you have that ship below us in sight?" "We have had for quite a while.

I've never seen anything like it. It's absolutely gargantuan. And that deck. You could land anything on it. If that's what it's for."

"Never mind that right now. But you're right," Indy said in a rush. "Look, I want you to swing out to the side, use as much cloud cover as you can, and then I want you to make a run on that thing from its right side—"

"Starboard, yes."

"Hang the starboard! Just come up from astern along the right side, got it?

And when you do, give us all the speed this bucket's got. As soon as you clear the bow, break away sharply for a mile or two, and then climb as fast as you can."

Will and Rene were already following his orders; as they continued their exchange, the Ford dropped its nose, Indy felt and heard an increase in power, and the wind howled louder as their speed increased. "Take her down as fast as you can, Will. And be ready for anything, understand?"

"What in the devil are you expecting down there?" "We may have company. If we do we'll be getting pictures of it from back here."

"You expecting—" Will Cromwell halted his words for several moments as the Ford slammed into turbulence, shaking the airplane as if it were bouncing over railroad ties. Then they were out of the rough air. "You expecting aircraft this far out in the ocean?" "No."

"Then what, man?"

"You'll know when you see it. I'll stay on the intercom with you all the way through." Indy hung onto a seat brace as the Ford's nose swung violently from side to side, then straightened out again. "Can't you go any faster?"

"Certainly. But we won't have any wings to pull out of the dive. Never fear, we're flying faster than old Mr. Ford ever dreamed."

The trimotor came out of a screaming, curving descent, and as they leveled out Cromwell poured full power to the engines. As fast as they were flying, they seemed to be crawling against the huge structure of the ship plowing through the sea. Indy and Gale snapped pictures as fast as they could. They saw men, tiny stick figures against the backdrop of the massive vessel. They were almost to the bow when Jocko rushed to Indy's side, shouting over the roar of engines and wind.

"Company! Behind us to our right!"

"What is it?"

"You were right, Boss. Them are crazy things out there! They look like discs!"

"Gale! Save your film! Get over to the other side. There'll be something coming past us on our right, moving fast!

Go, go!"

He was back on the intercom. "Did you get that up front?"

"What's back there, Indy?"

"Jocko called them discs. They should go ripping right past us. They'll have to go far ahead of us. Will, the moment you see them break in front of us, give me everything you have for a climb. Get us into some clouds as fast as you can."

"Right, Guv." Put on the pressure cooker and Cromwell was Mr. Smooth himself. . . .

Indy scrambled to the opposite side of the cabin.

There they were!

Two of them.

Golden disc shapes coming up behind them at tremendous speed. They'd pass the Ford like it was going backwards. Gale was snapping pictures as fast as she could; Indy had his camera ready and started moving film through it. He couldn't take time to look for details. There'd be time for that later when the film was processed and he could study the prints.

He saw a blur of movement from his right, and sunlight splashed off bronzelike metal. The "disc" was more in the shape of an oval with a central circular bubble cockpit, and he'd bet his bottom dollar it was armor glass made specifically for strength. Despite the speed with which it hurtled past them, he had a moment to see that the glass dome wasn't glass all around, but sheets of flatpaned glass buttressed with metal stringers. It looked almost archaic against that oval shape.

The oval flashed out of sight. Indy tore off his headset and ran to the cockpit.

"Get right behind that thing!" he shouted to Cromwell.

"Hang on!" Cromwell shouted back, working the controls in a wild skidding maneuver to place them directly behind the path the disc had flown. Moments later Indy

smiled grimly to himself. It was exactly what he'd expected. But he'd chew all that over later. For now it was important to execute that timehonored maneuver of getting the blazes out of here while the getting was good.

"Will, climb. Climb as fast as you can and get us into some clouds. Head for Scotland, but do whatever you need to do to stay in the clouds."

As he spoke Will was coming back on the yoke, the throttles rammed forward for maximum power to haul the Ford up and around in a climbing turn.

"Indy, the way those things move, they'll be coming around right at us and—"

"No, they won't. Not that fast, I mean. Rene, you keep your eye on them as best you can. They'll have to go way out before they can come back to us, and if I've figured this right, we'll be in the clouds by then."

Both pilots gave him startled looks. "How can you possibly know," Foulois asked slowly, "the way those things will fly?"

"Because I was expecting this meeting."

He left the cockpit, two dumbfounded pilots staring at him.

14

Until two years ago this very day, his family, his friends, his country, and much of the industrial, economic, and political world had known him as Konstantin LeBlanc Cordas. Each name represented powerful family ancestry and vast financial holdings in Russia, France, and Spain, with branch offices and holdings in a dozen other countries throughout the world.

Konstantin LeBlanc Cordas was a billionaire many times over. Not in terms of currency or stacked ingots of gold and platinum, of which he also had many, but in the real wealth of the world. He owned shipping lines, factories, mines, railroads, huge agricultural holdings on three continents. His closest friends were the power magnates of their homelands: owners of steel mills and ironworks and vast munitions plants. Chemicals, synthetics, trucks, shipyards; they had it all.

Cordas was blessed with a powerful, keen and inquisitive mind. His thoughts probed like cold lances through problems and challenges. His memory was phenomenal, and he made a voracious daily study of global affairs. He was also blessed, although he had come to regard this

sense of mood as possessed, with a curse that would not let him rest. It was the feeling—no; the absolute certainty

—that it had been ordained he assist the world through torturous times to stave off, hopefully to avoid completely, the Ultimate War that he and his closest associates knew was inevitable. It was wildly ironic: the War To End All Wars that ended in a final gory burst in 1918 had simply created the breeding ground for even greater and deadlier conflicts to come.

These were the men—Cordas and his closed circle— who knew of the terrible massdestruction weapons formulating in the minds of soulless scientists and evil, grasping men coveting the ultimate of all pleasures: power.

The Great War with its submarines, bombers, poison gases, automatic weapons, tanks rumbling like ironclad dinosaurs across the battlefields—all this had been but a portent of what was already boiling in the cauldron of the next war.

It must be stopped now, Cordas had finally concluded two years before. It must be stopped by the only means possible. Overwhelming power exerted along every front: political, military, industrial, economic. The minds of men must be controlled, or they would one day respond to the blaring trumpets and waving banners that had sent millions of them to agony and death, and now promised to repeat that horror.

Cordas and five of his closest friends, five of the most powerful and wealthy people on the planet, agreed with one another. They would sacrifice their families, their friends, their very lives in order to gather unto their control the ultimate power that could manipulate the destiny of their planet.

The preparations were meticulous, exacting, shrouded in the tightest secrecy.

They knew of the most advanced systems of the military, of science and engineering and flight, many of which were yet unknown to the public.

And when they were ready, they knew they must be ruthless. Six people were paid handsome sums to assume the personas of Cordas and his group. They underwent surgical changes to their faces. Their dental makeup was altered to match exactly the six for whom they would become doubles. Their families were sent to distant parts of the world, provided with homes and financial security. When they were safely out of the way, a grand trip was arranged for Konstantin LeBlanc Cordas and his five best friends.

For their doubles. A grand trip, indeed. Cordas Mountain Industries chartered a huge fourengined Dornier Super Wal II flying boat. In two expansive cabins, located fore and aft in the hull, were twentysix people: the industrialists, a few family members, and friends from across Europe. Tremendous publicity was afforded the occasion. The Super Wal would take off from a Swiss lake on a tour from Norwegian fjords southward beyond the Mediterranean to an African safari.

A huge banquet launched the festive event. The most powerful group of industrial leaders in the world entered the Super Wal with family and friends.

Newsmen by the hundreds were on hand to record every moment of the final goodbyes, the famous men and women waving to the newsreel cameras. Fireworks flared over the launching dock and two bands played furiously to be heard above the barking roar of four Bavarian Motor Works engines. The Super Wal taxied to the far end of the lake so that it could take off directly into the wind. Conditions were perfect, with a mild breeze and an open water run of at least four miles. As the flying boat began its final turn the music stopped, so everyone could hear clearly the growing thunder of engines going to full power. Faster and faster it rushed across the lake, a great winged wonder about to grasp lift from the air. Faster, faster; a breathless rush and then—

The explosion began as a searing point of light from the fuel tanks in the wings. In a moment flame lashed outward, and the great quantity of fuel transformed into a searing fireball that covered the tumbling, disintegrating, exploding airliner, its hapless human cargo being incinerated and ground into bloody pulp. The newsreel cameras ground away, recording the horror, capturing the screams and gasps of the onlookers.

Later, the few scattered parts of flesh and bone either floating on the lake waters, or dredged up from the deep bottom, were identified positively as Konstantin LeBlanc Cordas and his select entourage. Funeral services, speeches, sobbing, and statues rushed to completion slowly wound down the aftereffect. But Cordas was satisfied.

Completely. He and his elite group were "dead." Six dead; six alive, but the latter unknown to the world except as Cordas planned the slow leakage of information about their names and their control of staggeringly vast resources.

Five men and one woman. The loss of Wilhelmina von Volkman was especially a tragedy to her following. She had sponsored musicians, poets, scientists —young men and women of every walk of life seeking an opportunity to become skilled in their arts and professions. And now she was gone.

Unknown to all, of course, reborn as Marcia Mason.

He stared through the thick plateglass window in the High Tower of the Chateau of Blanchefort, several miles from a second heavilydefended ancient structure, rebuilt within to provide structural strength and add the most modern scientific and technological devices available for world communications. The second great edifice was RennesleChateau, a virtual duplicate, internally, of Blanchefort.

Halvar Griffin had made a rule that the Group of Six, as he had named them, must never be all in the same place at the same time. It was simple enough to communicate by telephone cable and wall speakers; watching lips move and faces going through various expressions was superfluous.

Halvar Griffin missed his wife and children, and wondered how they fared now that their husband and father, none other than Konstantin LeBlanc Cordas, had been sliced and seared in that awful tragedy of the flying boat.

But each day Madelon became less real, more ethereal, as did the children, for that was how it must be. They belonged to another life, another time.

The program to assemble the many elements of international power, despite its success, continued to wind a torturous and at times rocky path. Halvar Griffin had been known in his former life as a financier and industrialist, but at heart, and throughout his days at schools and universities, he had become an extraordinarily gifted evolutionist, a man mixing everything from history and anthropology to the psychological and social sciences into a single frame of reference for what constituted the human race. It was not, despite what the moralists claimed with such shrill vehemence, a single race. It was not true that all men were created equal, or that they thought alike, or yielded to the same desires and dreams, or enjoyed the same opportunities for health and wealth.

Mankind was a polyglot of fierce and demonizing emotions, a great field of reeds able to be bent by the slightest wind, poisoned by greed, avarice, selfishness, and, above all, that eternal and infernal need for the power to dominate as many other men as possible, no matter what the cost in lives and destruction. The very survival of the race was at stake.

It was Griffin—and he was slowly disconnecting the final traces of his former self from even his manner of thinking and speaking—who understood that the key to the success they sought as benevolent masters of the planet's future lay in mastering the workings of the social sciences. They must develop the means, through semantics, lust, reward, fear, and every other emotion available, to bring all men to believe that survival and their greatest rewards could come only through this benevolence.

That was their goal. So long as none of the members of the Group of Six sought open recognition as power brokers, their task, attempted so many times by so many great empires in the past, had every opportunity to succeed. And they had planned well, and so far had executed very well indeed their opening moves to command the attention, then the fear and wonder, of the world. Acquiescence and obedience would follow.

There is nothing so deeply believed, accepted, feared, and even revered more than what Griffin knew had been a dominating power through all history. The Great Lie. Calculated disinformation could disintegrate powerful armies, suck the energy from national drive, turn millions of people as easily as a shepherd and his dogs drive a flock of sheep. You did not have to prove to the masses what you wished them to believe; you needed only to bring them to a condition of acceptance. Then they would believe in whatever they wished, from sorcerers and witches to gods and goddesses.

And an alien race of vast scientific, technological, and military superiority, come here to Earth.

At first the concept seemed ridiculous. Would people really be brought to accept space aliens as real? Griffin laughed at the idea, but his laughter, soon joined by that of his elite group, was one of belief rather than rejection.

"Think of what people believe," he told the others.

"There are spirits in the water, the air, in wheat and temples and lightning and clouds. There are powerful, fullbosomed women who carry dead heroes on winged horses to Valhalla. There are gods who rise from the waters, gods who dwell in the clouds, spirits of trees and bears. Millions of filthy little cats are demonic messengers and servants of Satan. Men turn into werewolves. Vampires are men by day and winged horrors at night. If you lack the wooden stake or the silver bullet, you cannot kill them. The world is flat and you may fall off its edge; millions of people still absolutely believe this is so.

"Ah, our aliens. Yes, yes; but they will not be imaginary. They will be real—seen, heard, visible, and lethal. They will play with human lives as easily as do the winged messengers from Hades, but they will negotiate with the human race.

After all, they will impose only discomforting rules, but to break them is to risk destruction.

Fair enough! If the people of the world come to believe this is heavensent protection to avert the slaughters of future wars, they may well rally to the cause we set. Of course," Griffin grimaced, "they may do quite the opposite. But I believe if we plan carefully and execute precisely, we shall succeed."

Griffin's disciples, three of them in the chateau with him, the other two listening by radio speaker, yielded more and more to his spellbinding oratory.

John Scruggs—a terrible name for a wily Spaniard who was the dominant dealer in opium and narcotics in global trade—motioned for attention. Griffin nodded.

Scruggs, with the cunning of an underworld figure who had amassed enormous power and influence, always cut to the heart of annoyances.

"Several matters, Griffin." He smiled. "How long, my friend, do you believe the governments we deal against will accept the charade of aliens from space blasting their way around the world?"

"The governments? As for the scientists, engineers, military men, leaders—not very long at all. Quite a few do not believe it now. They do not know what they face. They are baffled, angry, frustrated, but they have suffered these problems before and before too much time passes they will decide that the rest of this solar system remains uninhabitated." He locked his eyes on Scruggs. "But I tell you this. The masses will believe. They believe now, and we shall sustain that belief."

Scruggs shook his head. "You stretch the truth too far. You offer a fairy tale and—"

"Damn you," Griffin snapped. "Don't you ever observe what people really believe in? Chicken entrails and the tossing of bones to tell the future so they may know what to do, and when to do it. Do you trust your life to tarot cards, John?

No? Well, then, how about crystal balls? Or the muttering of a gypsy reading tea leaves or your filthy palms! Do you wonder about the wheeling and juxtaposition of planets and moons that will foretell your ulcers or your love life?

Anyone who believes in such things, in luck and charms and amulets and all that idiotic nonsense, can be led to believe in aliens! Especially in aliens, as you put it, blasting their way around the world. So far, I remind you, with spectacular effect and unstoppable fury which, I assure you, we will magnify a thousandfold for those superstitious wretches we must guide to their own future." "Another question, then, Master Griffin." Griffin ignored the surly title.

"Go on, go on." "Tell me why you have been unable to rid us of that pestilence in our plans."

"I assume you mean the American, this Jones individual."

"You assume correctly. You have tried, how many times now? Three, maybe four, to eliminate him? And failed?"

"Twice, I remind you, with your handpicked assassins," Griffin snapped.

Scruggs smiled and bowed to acknowledge his own failure. "I submit. Then what keeps this person alive? And why are we so determined to kill him?"

"Let me answer," broke in Marcia Mason. She explained the meetings she had attended, across the table from Professor Henry Jones, including her verbal entanglements with that insufferable man. "What bothers me is that I have not found it possible to identify so many of the people with whom he works. Certainly that doddering old fossil, Pencraft, from the London university, is hardly a person to coordinate the investigations under way. So there are others. I am convinced Filipo Castilano will sooner or later have to be eliminated. But the others," she clenched her fists in sudden fury, "we still do not know all of them. I am convinced they communicate by codes which we cannot break, and no one knows for certain the entire list of the top people involved."

They turned as a long sigh came from Griffin. "There is more. I have learned of it only recently. Jones and his group crossed the Atlantic in a Ford airplane. A trimotor with very special modifications for range and performance."

Scruggs was puzzled. "So?"

"Jones and his group encountered our ship on the high seas.

"So they saw the ship." Scruggs shrugged.

"They did more than that. They dove out of the clouds and they flew right alongside our vessel, even lower than its decks, and from what the deck crew could tell, took many photographs. From those I believe they will be able to divine the nature of the vessel."

The shrug had become a frown. "That is not good. Our ship can become a target. Even with the undersea boats for protection, it is vulnerable. This is most upsetting, Griffin." Scruggs thought deeply for a moment. "Why didn't you have the discs take care of them? You said their machine was a Ford? The discs are faster by hundreds of miles an hour. Why wasn't their machine destroyed? You also said it was over the ocean. What a perfect opportunity! They would have gone down at sea and been swallowed up in the vastness of the Atlantic."

"The people flying that machine seemed able to anticipate what the discs would do, how they would fly, and what might be their limitations."

"By the homed toads of my ancestors, how could they know this!"

"I do not yet know. But Jones either knows or has deduced far more than what I thought was possible. Remember, he is allied with the keenest technical minds of England and America. But I believe it is his own marvelous grasp of the past and his proven ability to meld many small details into larger facts and conclusions that is so troublesome to us."

"How can you find out what he knows? The woman has already said their most vital communications are in code."

"That is simple enough. We will invite him to visit us here," said Griffin.

"The time for games is behind us. We have consolidated our position just as we planned originally. So it is time to get rid of Jones, to break apart this group behind him."

"I thought you were inviting him here," Scruggs said angrily.

"I did. And we are."

"If you kill him here it would be the worst mistake yet—"

"He will not reach here," Griffin answered. "Jones is going to be at the university in London. We know that. We also know he plans a visit to Paris."

"Which only means," Mason warned, "that if we know his plans, once again we are being allowed to know them."

"Perhaps. Even likely. He will cross the channel by scheduled steamer. He will have some of his people with him.

That ship will never reach France, and neither will Jones."

15

The passenger ferry Barclay eased from her slip at Portsmouth and moved along the northern coastline of the Isle of Wight, slowly gathering speed for the crosschannel run to Le Havre. The Barclay carried two hundred and nine passengers, thirtyeight crew members, and various vehicles as well as baggage, mail, and freight cargo. She was a solid vessel, well known on the run between England and France, and the late afternoon passage promised to be especially comfortable with a mild breeze and a sea surface unusually gentle for the English Channel.

The passenger manifest included the names of Professor Henry Jones of the University of London, his secretary, Frances Smythe, and their servant, Jocko Kilarney, who hovered protectively about Jones and the woman. Anyone catching sight of the trio found it obvious that Jones suffered from a terrible cold, bundled as he was in a heavy overcoat and muffler, a warm hat pulled fully over his head and ears. He sneezed and coughed in a dreadful manner, keeping a large handkerchief by his mouth as he breathed fitfully. Considerate of the other passengers, Jones and his two traveling companions remained by the

stern rail, using a protective curving wall to reduce the wind of passage.

The Barclay was in midchannel when excited calls and shouts rang out through the ferry. Passengers rushed from the interior to the outside decks, pointing at the sky. In the late afternoon sun, gleaming golden, reflecting light, cruised the mystery airship. The incredible giant seemed utterly silent against the rumble of the Barclay's engines, the wind from her speed, and the sounds of the channel surface against her hull.

Frances Smythe watched with the others. "I do wish we'd sent up fighters to dispose of that thing," she said to the two men. "Rid ourselves once and for all.

People are beginning to believe we can't touch it."

Intense light flared beneath the golden machine so high above them. In the same instant, a beam of blinding light snapped into being, a pillar of eyestabbing radiance from the airship directly to the Barclay. The passengers had never seen a light so incredibly bright. It lit up the ferry with the effect of a physical blow, bringing people to cover their eyes, crying out in alarm.

The light was seen by dozens of other vessels, small and large, at that moment moving across the channel. It flared long enough to bring heads turning for many miles around, and then the onlookers stared in disbelief as a huge ball of flame erupted from the Barclay. From a distance there was yet no sound. Seconds later the force of an enormous explosion boomed across the channel. Moments later the boilers of the Barclay ripped the ferry in two, the secondary blasts claiming most of the people who'd survived the terrible initial explosion.

The light from the airship was gone, as if a switch had been thrown. There was still unexpected light on the surface of the channel as the flaming remnants of the Barclay began to slip beneath the water, taking more than two hundred men and women with her.

Pencraft's secretary crossed Dr. Pencroft's office to his private telephone on a side table. On the third ring she picked up the handset. "Yes?"

Then she turned to the group and nodded to Thomas Treadwell. "Sir? It's your office."

Treadwell went quickly to the phone. Watching him, Indy, Gale, and Pencroft remained silent as Treadwell listened to the caller for several minutes, interrupting only with terse questions. Henshaw, who had arrived in England by ocean liner only that morning, paced nervously. Foulois and Cromwell were occupied at the aerodrome nearby.

Finally Treadwell said, "Right. I'll be at this number for a while. Call me immediately with anything new."

He slowly replaced the telephone on its stand. A subdued click was followed by a tired exhalation. "That ruddy well does it," he said, his face reflecting inner anguish. "It's the Barclay. She was blown apart by that airship. No ghost that. Sent down some kind of light beam, extraordinarily intense from the initial reports, and the Barclay was torn in half. Took most of her people with her."

Sir William Pencroft trembled from age, fatigue, and the blow of the news. He looked from Treadwell to Colonel Harry Henshaw. His eyes traveled to Gale Parker, whose impassive look concealed her own feelings. Her eyes were like deep glass marbles, and she sat like a stone.

Treadwell turned to his side. "You're dead, you know," he said to Professor Henry Jones.

Indy didn't answer for the moment. He knew the minuscule odds of Frances Smythe and Jocko Kilarney surviving the ghastly explosion and swift sinking of the Barclay. Indy shook off the pall of death hanging in the room.

"Any word? I mean, about our people?" he asked finally.

"Your double is confirmed," Treadwell said, forcing himself to remain distant from personal loss. "He was one of our best men. One of the ships that picked up some of the survivors found his body. With your identification, of course."

"Frances?"

"No word. I'm sorry, Indy. As soon as we hear anything—"

Gale Parker emerged from the selfinduced isolation that she used to finally subdue her emotions. "Jocko. Has anybody had any news about Jocko? He'd be impossible to miss, and—"

"Miss Parker, we have every available person and search team out there right now," Treadwell said carefully.

"Many of the people aboard the ferry were, well, they were—"

"I'm well acquainted with death, sir," Gale said stiffly. "You're trying to tell us that many of the people were blown apart, or incinerated, or were trapped in the wreckage, and they're at the bottom of the channel."

"Yes," Treadwell said. There was no need to elaborate.

Indy turned to Treadwell. "A great many people died this afternoon because this insane group is after me," he said, painfully aware of the grievous loss. "If they didn't believe I was on that ferry, they would never have blown up that ship."

"You're wrong, Professor," Treadwell said quickly.

"How?" Indy demanded. "You know they set me up with that invitation to meet with their top people.

Why, I don't know, but we all agreed to go ahead anyway." Deep furrows lined his brow. "But why would they destroy the ferry? They didn't need to kill all those people. And I could just as well be one of the survivors." He looked from Treadwell to Henshaw for answers, then returned his gaze to the British intelligence agent.

"The attack this afternoon had a double purpose," Treadwell said. "We've been aware that this group has been setting up a very public demonstration of their power—"

Pencraft coughed for attention, trying to speak, but his throat emitted only a feeble rattle. Immediately someone held a glass of water to his lips. Gale rested her hand on that of the elderly man. "May I?" she said. Pencraft nodded.

"I've stayed out of most conversations," Gale said stiffly. "But now it's time for a question. I've heard you discussing the how and why and the means these people use when they strike at us. And Indy—Professor Jones—

has more than once made it clear that one of the flaws in their operations has been that they use the same weapons we use. Until now, that is."

Pencraft had found his voice. "What do you mean by that?"

"Tonight they used some kind of radiation beam!" Gale said with a burst of anger. "I've listened to the reports Mr.

Treadwell repeated for us. That airship, whatever it is, still races about the sky without a sign of any engines. But with the ferry, the airship aimed some kind of ray, a beam of energy, I don't know," she said, exasperated, "and it blew up the Barclay!" She was pleading for an answer. "We don't have anything even remotely like that!"

"We know what it was, Gale," Henshaw said quietly, bringing surprise to the group. Henshaw turned to Treadwell.

"This is your ball game, Tom. Sorry."

Treadwell nodded. "The only energy in that beam, that socalled raygun apparatus as some of the press are already describing it," he said, "was ordinary light. Oh, it was boosted to a rather extraordinary intensity, but that was all. Strictly for effect."

Gale was taken aback. She looked to Indy, but he was paying close attention to every word Treadwell was saying.

"We had sufficient observation of the event today," the Englishman explained.

"The Barclay was torn up by a huge amount of explosives that had been placed in the engine compartment. It was rigged to be set off by a discreet radio signal.

Today was their big show, so to speak. They picked a time with good visibility, so that what happened would be seen by a great many people. They turned on their beam—consider it an extraordinarily powerful searchlight—and focused as tightly as possible, and when that light attracted enough attention, they transmitted their radio signal to detonate the explosive charges."

He leaned back in his seat. "A ghastly sort of demonstration, I admit, but that is all it was. Forgive me for being seemingly uncaring. I'm not. But my job is to discover just what happened. What I've told you is what happened. Oh, we'll have confirmation. We immediately sent an aircraft—we've kept several ready to go at a moment's notice—into the smoke from the blast, and I'm quite sure when we do a particulate study, spectrographic and all that, that we'll find quite ordinary remnants of common explosives. Now," he pulled himself upright in his seat, "do let me go on."

He looked to Indy. "This charade has worked very well, Indy."

Gale couldn't help a bitter interruption. "Charade?"

"Let me," Indy told Treadwell. "I don't want even a hint of mistaken credit here." He turned to Gale and Pencroft.

"You see, for a great deal of what's been going on, I was way over my head.

I'm not a pilot, but," he smiled thinly,

"you already know that, Gale. Everything I've done has been calculated to mislead this group we're after. The more we could get them to concentrate on us—you, me, Cromwell, and Foulois, and for a while, Tarkiz—the more they were led to believe I was the kingpin in all this. Figuring out what was going on, confirming that this idea of alien spacecraft was so much baloney—"

"Rubbish, all right," muttered Pencroft.