“Can’t be Curlie,” he told himself. “Nor Dorn.”
Because of the sharp cactus that grew among the rocks the boys wore heavy soled, high-topped boots.
“But it’s someone,” he told himself. “And that someone must help me.”
At once two pictures flashed into his mind: one of a strange native clinging to a slender rope ladder, peering into Curlie’s laboratory; the other of a curious, broad, little white man looking down at him through thick glasses.
“What if it’s the native!” he thought with a shudder. “What if he has companions and this is a trap, a pitfall prepared for me?”
He hesitated. The thing seemed absurd. Yet there had always been strange doings at the Citadel. For ten years after the emperor’s death the Citadel had been closely guarded. No one might enter it save with one hand in that of the escorting guard.
Even of late, attempts to explore the walls had been frustrated. A party with picks and shovels had come here. In the morning their tools had vanished. A single white man had camped here. Some time later his camp was found deserted and partially destroyed. He had never been seen again.
“Huh!” the boy grunted, shaking himself free from these forebodings. “He may have perished by falling into a hole, as I will if I do not make the most of any opportunity to escape.”
At that, throwing caution to the wind, he stood on tiptoe and cupping his hands shouted:
“Hello there! Hello! Hello!”