GODS of the JUNGLE

By NELSON S. BOND

Deep in the ruined temple was a strange
room; and when Ramey came out of it, many
centuries of time had been wiped out....

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Amazing Stories June and July 1942.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

A dizzy whirl of events spun around them; a vast cyclorama of all the scenes of history.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

In the darkness before the dawn, the sky was a vault of purple-black, hoarfrosted with the spangles of innumerable stars. The moon, in its dying quarter, was a silver scimitar dangling low on the horizon; the earth below, from this lofty eyrie, was a shadowy disc more sensed than seen.

Ramey Winters, glancing briefly from the illuminated instrument panel into the tree-spired obscurity over which he flew, felt once more, as ofttimes before during these last few weeks, the tugging hand of beauty at his heart, and a curious wonderment that Night's jet mask could so completely disguise the grim world slumbering below.

Burma by day was beautiful—but its beauty was that of the wakened Amazon, bronze-girdled and strident, riding to battle with breasts straitlaced, with soft hands gripping the sword. Steel monsters, heavy-laden, groaned endlessly up the ancient Road which sprawls from Mandalay to Bhamo and Momein, thence, over tortuous ways ripped from sheer precipice by the naked hands of a million unpaid patriots, to Tai-fu and Chunking, carrying arms and supplies to a beleaguered Dragon. Of late there were other rumblings, too. The tramp of shuttling troops, the ominous rasp of mechanized units, the hornet-tone of aircraft winging bases.

So Burma by day; a Burma not yet actively in the War but perilously close. But Burma by night—ah, that, thought Ramey Winters, was another story Burma by night ... seen from the sky. A new land: a sweet, wild land of mystery and charm ... of silver and shadow ... cool, chaste, serene! As untouched and untouchable as the brooding gods of its people. Burma—a land of stirring song and stranger story. Even up here, in these thin heights where the air should be fresh and cool, it seemed to Ramey that his nostrils scented wisps of sandalwood and musk. And beneath the persistent drone of his own motors seemed to tremble the faint, exotic pleading of native pipes.

It was a night of magic. Barrett felt it, too. Red Barrett, hard-boiled and devil-may-care as they come, Ramey's chum and co-pilot—even he felt it. He flashed his teeth at Ramey in an approving grin.

"Pretty, eh, keed?"

"Swell!" said Ramey. "Terrific! Kipling was right. Burma is the most beautiful country in the world."[1]

"Burma?" chuckled Red. "Don't look now, pal, but we ain't in Burma any more. This kite we're flying eats mileage—or didn't you know? See that hunk of silver ribbon below? Well, that ain't a ribbon; it's the Mekong River. We're over either Thailand or Indo-China, or both."

Ramey glanced down swiftly. Barrett was right. The sullen blackness below had suddenly been laced with a shining spiral of silver; the mighty Mekong, boundary-line separating Siam (now Thailand) and French Indo-China for more than 1,000 miles, coiled through the jungle like a gigantic serpent, its scales drenched with moonlight.

Winters' dreaminess vanished instantly. One look at the instrument panel and he shot into action. A tug and kick swung the old Curtis into a lifting, southward arc, following the twisting river. His words to Red Barrett were unhurried, but there was a tenseness in his voice.

"Okay. This is it, then. Keep 'em peeled, Red!"

"If I peel 'em any finer," Barrett grunted, "I won't have any eyelids. Think we'll see anything?"

"I know damn well we will. Those Japs aren't moving south for a clam-bake. They poured forty divisions into Indo-China—thanks to Vichy! Thailand is next on the hit parade; then Burma, back door to India. They want to close the Burma Road. So long as it's open, old Chiang Kai-shek will keep on giving them fits. Our job is to find out where they are concentrating their troops, so we'll be ready for them when they prance into Thailand."

Red looked hungrily at the trigger-press before him.

"If there's troops," he said hopefully, "there'll be enemy 'planes, huh, Ramey? Supposing one of them comes up to meet us? Can I—?"

"No! Definitely not!"

"But just by accident, like? I mean, if he attacked us first—"

"No, Red. Don't you see, all they're waiting for is an excuse to invade Thailand? Let us shoot down a single Jap 'plane tonight, and tomorrow their bombers will be over Bangkok. So—no shooting! Even if they fire on us."

"We-e-ell—" grumbled Barrett—"okay! But I think it's a hell of a way to fight a war. They bombed the Tetuila and sank the Panay, and all we got was: 'So sorry! Accidents will happen!' We're not even supposed to defend ourselves."

Ramey grinned at him; a lean, knowing grin.

"Don't you worry about that, pal. Your Uncle Samuel knows what he's doing. You and I were in the U.S. Army airforce till the bewhiskered old gentleman in the striped pants graciously permitted us to 'resign' and fly for China. But I notice our paychecks still bear Yankee signatures. And don't forget—there are a thousand more like us. Neutral soldiers of fortune, learning the ropes 'just in case.'

"But we've got to keep our noses clean tonight. Get all the pictures and information we can, but don't get in any scrapes—them's our orders. Well, where are we now?"

As they talked, Red had been deciding, as well as he could, their route on the scroll-map before him. Now he drew a dubious circle.

"Here, maybe. Or here. About Kiang-khan."

"Good enough. And nothing stirring yet, hey? Well, we'll keep looking for a few more minutes, then head back before dawn—Hey! Get a load of that! Campfires! A bivouac! Mark it, Red!"

The command was unnecessary. Barrett had also seen the encampment, scored it on his chart. But now, as the pair craned intently into the flame-dotted dark below, striving to guess the strength of the enemy outpost, there leaped to life that which startled both of them to awareness of a new peril. Searchbeams burst suddenly from the ground, snaring them in a dazzling web; floodlights blazed a golden square in the black jungle; there came the first, frantic coughs of anti-aircraft fire—phum-phum!—from invisible guns, and the biting snarl of hastily-revving motors. And:

"Get going!" roared Barrett. "We hit the jack-pot! It's an enemy airfield!"

Ramey needed no prodding. The first slashing finger of light had quickened into action the trained reflexes of an airman; already the small pursuit 'plane was lifting, bobbing and weaving away from the telltale beams. Now he gave it the gun; the snub-nosed Curtis flattened and streaked away like a startled swallow.

None too soon. Whatever shortcomings the Japs might have as warriors, they were speedy little devils. The Yankee fliers gained but a few minutes, a few short miles, advantage before their pursuers were in the air.

Even so, it should not have been difficult to escape in the dark. If it had only stayed dark as it should at this time of year, as it would have in any other place imaginable. But—this was the Orient, the semi-tropical topsy-turvy Land that skirts the China Seas.

Over the eastward horizon toward which they fled, an edge of ochre crept. Thin haze and hesitant; then deepening, widening, spreading, into a pearly, crepuscular veil. A cold and cheerless light against the backdrop of which their ship, both men knew, loomed as a perfect target!

Ramey gasped his dismay.

"Dawn! But—but that's impossible! It's only four o'clock. The sun shouldn't rise until—"

"False dawn!" corrected Barrett with sudden, comprehending savagery. "The famous 'dawn-before-sunrise'—that's what it is! I've read about it. It's possible anywhere, but it happens mostly in this part of the Orient. Result of flat country ... heat ... wide expanse of Pacific ... refraction. You're heading the wrong way, pal."

Ramey nodded tightly.

"I know. I headed southeast to confuse them; didn't want to tip off our base. I thought we could swing back when they gave up. But now—"

"Now what?"

"We can't turn back or they'd nab us, sure," gritted Ramey. "Our only chance is to outrun them. Maybe we can get to Singapore or—"

"On what?" queried Barrett. "Marsh-gas from passing swamps? This crate's only fueled for a thousand miles, keed. We've used half of that. And Singapore's a good nine hundred south."

"We might make Bangkok—"

"Or Australia," suggested Barrett drily, "or Hawaii? All right, chum—pull the cork. You ain't kidding me. This is the payoff, huh?"

Ramey, glancing up from the panel, met his comrade's calm, untroubled eyes levelly for a moment. In that instant, it occurred to him that Red Barrett was a hell of a fine guy. He wanted to say so, but men can't say such things. Sometimes they don't have to. He just nodded.

"I guess so, redhead."

"I won four bucks from Jimmy Larkin yesterday," said Red irrelevantly, "playing rummy. I should have collected it then." Again his eyes sought the machine-gun hopefully. "As long as we're in for it, we might just as well use up our old ammunition, huh, Ramey? We—" he hinted virtuously—"don't want to let no matériel fall into enemy hands—"

Ramey shook his head decisively.

"We won't fire on them. Not even if they fire on us first. Not even if they shoot us down. We can't risk causing the 'incident' they want. Our only chance is to outrun them, Red."

"Then we're in a hell of a pickle," Barrett told him gloomily. "Because they're faster than us. They're catching us now. Hold your hat, keed! Here it comes!"

And with his warning, it came! The first chattering snarl of machine-gun fire from the foremost of their pursuers. Lead ripped and slashed at the fleeing Curtis; above the roar of the motor shrilled the spang! of metal on metal; Ramey saw a crazy, zigzag line appear miraculously in the cowling above him, heard the thin, high, disappointed whine of ricochetting bullets. Again he tugged, kicked. His 'plane leaped, darted to the right. Red grunted.

"Whew! That was close! One more like that—"

As if his words were an omen, another burst screamed about their ears. And the lethal cacophony was doubled, now; the second of their three attackers had found the range. The little ship seemed to jerk like a live thing as fiery pellets pierced its skin. It was only a matter of minutes before one of those bullets would find a vital spot, Ramey knew. No use continuing this unequal battle. Knuckles white on the stick, he yelled to his companion:

"Okay, Red—bail out! They can't land here. Maybe we can get away on the ground. Red! Red!"

Then, as there came neither answering word nor movement, he shot a quick glance at his buddy. One look told the story. Red did not move because he could not. Limp as a bag of sodden meal, he lay slumped in his seat, eyes closed, arms dangling uselessly at his sides. And in horrible contrast to the pallor of his cheeks, his face was mottled with a spreading nastiness that matched the color of his hair!

It was at that moment a sort of madness seized Ramey Winters.

He was a soldier, aware of, and daily accepting, the hazards of his calling. He had seen death often; had several times heard whispering within inches of his own ears the sigh of the ancient scythe. It did not sicken him to see men die, nor was he afraid to die himself....

But this—this was different! This time the reaper had struck down Red Barrett, his chum, his more-than-brother. Struck him down traitorously and from behind without a chance to defend himself. Red, who had asked nothing more than to go down fighting—and had not been granted that break!

It did not even occur to Ramey that as he sat there, stunned, stricken, about him still hammered the blazing darts of enemy fire. There was welling within him a great flame, a torrential, all-consuming fire of rage that burned through his veins like vitriol. And suddenly it no longer seemed to matter that he was under orders to avoid all fights; the problem of an "international incident" was a hollow legality in which he had no concern.

If he thought at all, his thoughts were mere rationalization. Three Japanese flyers—and himself! Lost in the clouds above a wild, green jungle. Unspied upon, unseen. If none of the three were ever to return to his base, who was to report this episode? Who accuse the Thais of violating their neutrality? And did it make much difference, anyway? Everyone knew the Sons of Heaven—on some excuse or other—would march into Siam when they were ready. So—

Ramey decided. His hand found the trigger-press for which Red's fingers had yearned. A kick on the rudder ... knee to the gun ... and the tiny Curtis came up and over like a wild bird soaring. And it was no longer a startled swallow, but a killer-shrike, vengeance-bent and striking with the pent fury of boundless wrath. The butcher-bird darting on its prey.

And finding it! Before the foremost of his pursuers could analyze and parry this unexpected maneuver, Winters was upon him. In the circular machine-gun sight the Jap airplane loomed nearer, larger, more solid. Then—the gun bucked and kicked against his palms. The vision before him quivered and seemed to crumple, sheered off and away, spun giddily....

"One!" said Ramey Winters, and did not know he spoke aloud. "That's one!"

He kicked over, sensing a danger behind him, and in that one motion became attacker rather than attacked. It was a closer thing this time. His foeman's gun bore squarely upon him for a brief, unguarded moment. Ramey felt something like the jerk of a hand on his sleeve, and glancing down, saw with mild astonishment that his leather flying coat was split from wristband to elbow, spilling powdery fleece.

Then his 'plane righted itself, his own gun answered and—it was a most amazing thing! Before his eyes the enemy ship blossomed into a crimson bloom with burgeoning petals of black! A flower which suddenly burst asunder and spiraled to earth in a host of flaming motes.

And that, he thought grimly, was two! The third—?

Swiftly he scanned the ever-lightening skies, but he could not locate the missing 'plane. For a breathless moment he feared that in the melee it had escaped; then the voice of his old Combat Instructor at Kelly Field seemed to whisper an old, almost forgotten warning:

"If you can't see it, look out! It's on your tail!"

Once more, and this time with frantic haste, he shot the ship into a climb, a wingover turn. But not before a hot hail, punching on metal behind him like the vibrant tattoo of pounding rivets, rasped a song of death in his ears. Then he was on a level with his enemy—and driving headlong at him!

For a yearlong moment it seemed inevitable they must crash head on, collide and destroy each other and go hurtling to earth locked in flaming, loveless embrace! But not for an instant did Ramey's finger relax its pressure on the trigger. And when scant yards separated their whirling propellers, his bullets found their mark. The enemy pilot suddenly collapsed in his seat; his body, pitching forward, was a dead weight on the stick. And with a shuddering groan, the last Jap fighter nosed earthward in a streaking dive!

It was a moment of triumph. But Ramey Winters never found time to savor that victory. For even as he pulled back on the stick to lift himself clear of the falling 'plane, the stick went dead in his hands! From somewhere deep within the entrails of the gallant little Curtis came the grinding clash of metals. At the last moment, a dying foeman had evened the score. Ramey's motors spluttered and died, and the thin song of wind lashing the fuselage was the only audible sound in an awful silence as the ship, like a dancing leaf, glided earthward out of control.

There was but one thing to do. Ramey plucked at the buckle of his safety belt, prepared to go overside. And Red? Well—it was an airman's burial. A moment of flame, then an unmarked grave in the jungle. Ramey glanced once more at his chum. "So long, Red," he whispered. "See you again, pal—"

Then he gasped. For Red's lips had fallen open, and a bubble of bloody spittle was leaking from one corner of his mouth—but this tiny spume pulsated faintly! Breathing! He was still alive!

And—it was no longer possible for Ramey to take to his 'chute. Somehow, somehow! he must get this crippled ship to earth. He stared down wildly. Trees ... trees ... an endless tangle of foliage towering high, bayonet-tipped. But—Ramey trembled with sudden, feverish eagerness—over there a patch of lighter green! And something that looked like gray walls, a manmade building! A cleared field. If he could—

Once more and desperately he wrestled with the unresponsive stick. No good! The rudders, then? If the aileron wires were undamaged he might be able to control, to some extent, the direction of their glide. Ease the brutal shock of landing.

But now the ground was a vast, blunt bulwark rushing up to meet them. Like an organist treading the pedals of his instrument, Ramey played the only controls he had. Composing out of urgency and stress a symphony which, when the ultimate note was scored, must be either a paean or a dirge!

And the ship responded. Weakly, true! But its nose lifted a trifle, the ailerons caught and gripped the air, the drifting leaf spun lazily toward the clearing. Earth looming larger, and the indistinguishable whole of the jungle sharpened to single trees and tangled groves of bamboo and liana. Gray of swamp water and brown of soil; sudden pink of a frightened flamingo racing for leafy covert. Almost down, now ... and the wind howling through the motionless propeller like a taunting fiend. His own voice, strange in his ears, calling senseless encouragement to his unhearing companion:

"All right, Red! Hold tight, boy! In a minute—"

Then one wheel touched the ground, bounced; the ship reeled shuddering forward. Clear of the trees, but careening wildly, drunkenly, across a furrowed field. Rocking, swaying madly.

Then—the crash! The moment of slashing pain ... the dancing light ... the numb despair. Then nothing....

CHAPTER II

The Mystery of Angkor

When you are dead, the little demons gather and make merry. They will not let you rest. Huddled about your weary soul they chatter in bee-thin voices; they lift your head and force open your lips and pour molten fire down your throat, a liquid fire that chokes and strangles.

Ramey strangled on liquid fire, and opened his eyes. He—he was not dead, after all, but alive! The sweetness of native brandy was on his lips, the far voices waxed nearer as consciousness returned, and he was surrounded by the familiar figures of not scarlet imps but human beings!

Or—wait a minute! Maybe his first hunch was right after all. For most of those staring down at him looked like people, but surely the vision bent closest was that of an angel? A golden-haired angel with heaven-blue eyes, warm lips, a cool, white skin which the sun seemed never to have burned, but only to have endowed with a memory of its own inner glow.

"Lovely!" said Ramey drowsily, and the vision's face colored most unecclesiastically. Behind Ramey someone chuckled. Ramey, turning painfully, saw a tall, mahogany-skinned, nice-looking youngster with brown hair and eyes, dancing eyes crow's-footed with the wrinkles of perpetual mirth. This lad and the girl, he saw now, were the only whites in the circle. All the others were natives. The young man laughed again.

"Well, Sheila, there doesn't seem to be anything the matter with this one! Or with his emotional reflexes."

Recollection seeped slowly back upon Ramey. He made an effort to rise.

"The—the 'plane," he said confusedly. "Went dead. I tried to set 'er down in a field. Crashed—"

The girl restrained him gently but firmly. The cool touch of her hands was soothing.

"You must lie still, now. Everything is going to be all right. You did crash, yes. But fortunately we were here to drag you and your friend out before the 'plane caught fire. After you've rested for a moment, we'll take you to camp—"

It all came back to Ramey now. This time the girl's hands could not prevent him from raising himself.

"Red! Is—is he all right, too?"

The young man answered.

"Your buddy? I suppose so, or Syd would be chanting a funeral march by now. Hey, Syd! How's your patient?"

The huddle encircling Ramey split, admitting a third white man. Ramey glanced at him casually, then started, took another good look, and turned to peer over his shoulder again at the one who had called. The two young men were as like as two peas in a pod. Same height, build, coloring. Only their facial expressions differed. The newcomer's face was as dour as the first chap's was jovial. He commented acidly, "I wish you wouldn't be so boisterous, Lake! I guess he has a chance to recover—if complications don't set in. Of course, these head injuries are dangerous. It may be a fractured skull, or he may lose his sight—"

"Blind!" gasped Ramey. "Red? Oh, Lord—"

For the third time, the girl quieted him. This time with a smile. "Don't get excited, soldier. Your companion's apparently in fine shape. That's just Syd's nice, optimistic way of viewing things. 'Fractured skull or loss of sight' is a favorable prognosis—coming from him! If it were anything really serious, Syd would have the workmen digging a grave by now. Are you sure you feel well enough to get up?"

Ramey nodded, not daring to risk speech as he got to his feet. His head throbbed like a concrete mixer, and there were rubber pipes where his shin-bones should be. But somehow he managed it, and once off the ground, began to feel better. He strode to Barrett's side. The blood had been sponged from the redhead's face, and his head was rudely, but efficiently, bandaged. He grinned at Ramey.

"Hyah, Sunday-driver! Next time holler before we go under a low bridge. I forgot to duck!"

Ramey said, "You're lucky that bullet bounced itself off your bean. If it had hit anything less solid you'd be on a slab now. How's the head feel?"

"Like a wisdom tooth stuffed with sugar," complained Red. "If it's not too much trouble, keed, how's for bringing me up to date on the news? Where are we? And how did we get here?"

It was the smiling young man who supplied the answer to the first question. He said, "You're at Angkor, Cambodia, French Indo-China. I'm Lake O'Brien. The walking scowl over there is my brother, Syd, and to save time, yes, we're twins. The young lady is Miss Sheila Aiken; her father is the leader of our expedition. We're Americans. Southeastern University Archeological Expedition, if that means anything to you. But how about you? You're from the U.S.A., too, aren't you?"

Ramey nodded. "Flying for the Republic. That is—we were until the Japs tagged us this morning. The reclining ex-airman with the bandaged dome is Bob Barrett, 'Red' to all but his colorblind friends. I'm Ramey Winters. We're greatly indebted to you for your help."

"Forget it!" grinned Lake. But the less genial twin shook his head gloomily.

"This is a nasty mess. Indo-China is under Japanese 'protection,' you know. If any of the Japs saw that dogfight from their camp down the river, there'll be troops up here in an hour or so to investigate."

"Dogfight?" echoed Barrett. He stared at Ramey with sudden understanding. "So that's it! That's where they disappeared to? Why, you scrapping son-of-a-gun! Get all three of them?"

Ramey nodded guiltily.

"I—I sort of blew my conk. I thought you—I mean—Oh, hell! What's the difference? O'Brien's right. I got us all in a jam. The only thing for us to do, Red, is to get the hell out of here, but quick! Before we implicate a bunch of innocent bystanders. So, friends, if you'll point the way to the Thai border—"

But it was the girl, Sheila, who this time spoke up.

"Nothing of the sort! You're in no fit condition to head into the jungle, either of you! Besides, you'll have to have food, water, blankets. And Daddy will want to see you."

Lake O'Brien voiced agreement.

"Sheila's right, Winters. This is a pretty secluded spot. Chances are no one but us saw you crash. Even if they did, it'll take them quite a while to get up the river."

"We-e-e-ll—" hesitated Ramey. It was Red's obvious weakness that decided him. First aid was all right, but rest was what the scarlet-top needed. "If you think it's safe—" he said.

So they started across the field. Only Syd O'Brien, frowning uncertainly, ventured any unfavorable comment on the move. The sour-visaged twin offered Barrett a supporting arm but grumbled even as he did so.

"I don't like it!" he muttered forebodingly. "We're doing a foolish thing. And no good will come of it...."

What sort of camp Ramey Winters had expected to see, he did not clearly know. Something, perhaps, like the tented digs at Petra—Ramey had once visited the rose-red cliffs in Arabia—or the shacks at Ur-of-the-Chaldees. Archeology led men into strange, wild places. There would be ruins here, no doubt; Ramey dimly remembered having glimpsed gray buildings, or something of the sort, in the hectic moments preceding the crash.

But never in the world had he dreamed of seeing that which he actually beheld! Beyond the field sprawled a narrow grove of cane and palm; when they had eased their way through this, they stood on the edge of a wide, sluggish stream, once more looking out across flat terrain. And—

Ramey's eyes widened. Speech died at the incredible sight before him. Because the stream was not a stream, but a seven hundred foot moat, circling to left and right as far as the eye could see, spanned by a tremendous paved causeway of sandstone which arched into the central portico of a gigantic structure!

And what a structure! Roughly rectangular, at least one mile long on every side, comprised of one massive central building and numberless, smaller, flanking ones. The central edifice consisted of three stages connected by numerous outer staircases, decreasing in dimension as they rose, culminating in a lofty, pyramidal tower.

Red Barrett was popeyed, too. But the redthatch was never speechless. He croaked, "Holy potatoes, Ramey—what's that? Do you see what I see?"

"If I don't," answered Ramey, "we're both that way!" And he turned to Lake O'Brien helplessly. "What—?"

Lake grinned.

"Temple of Angkor," he explained. "Angkor Vat. You mean to say you've never heard of it?"

"Never! Who lives here?"

"Nobody," chuckled Lake, "but us archeologists. You see—But never mind! Here comes Dr. Aiken. I'll let him do the explaining. It's his pigeon."

Having met Sheila, Ramey would have known without an explanation her relationship to the man now approaching. The scientist's hair was iron-gray where hers was golden, and his shoulders were hunched with long years of poring over pottery shards from obscure kitchen-maidens, but they shared the same fine, small-boned structure, the same wide brows, startlingly identical mist-blue eyes. He was accompanied by two natives, aides of superior rank, evidently, since they were dressed in European clothing.

Dr. Ian Aiken was an efficient man. In what sounded to Ramey like one, continuous sentence, he introduced himself and his two Asiatic assistants—"Sirabhar and Tomasaki; very fine boys, very!"—sent the gaping workmen about their jobs, and herded the group toward the temple. As they walked along he sated his own apparently boundless curiosity with a resume of the important facts; by the time they had reached the camp headquarters, a group of sheltered chambers within the temple proper, he had appraised the situation and formed a decision.

"Sheila was correct!" he snapped brusquely. "Arrant nonsense to even consider leaving here! Barrett's wound will need attention. You're both tired. Need a good rest."

"But the Japs?" reminded Ramey. "Syd says they have a camp several hours down the river?"

"Blast the Japs!" retorted Aiken pettishly. "Greedy little yellow beasts, anyway. Never did like 'em! Don't you worry about the Japs. Needn't know you're here. You two get out of those uniforms, burn 'em. If they come sticking their dirty little snub-noses in here, you'll be two junior members of my party. Diplomatic immunity. Won't dare touch you!"

Barrett nodded to Ramey.

"That's so, pal. The Japs ain't looking for no more trouble with Uncle Sam just now; not till Hitler turns on the green light, anyhow. Even if they do see our crashed 'plane, they'll think we burned up in it."

"Unless one of the laborers spills the beans," Ramey reminded. "But if Dr. Aiken thinks it's safe—?"

"Think? I know it! My men won't say a word. Not a word. Absolutely loyal, every one of them. Furthermore, the Cambodians hate the Japs as much as we do. More! Isn't that right, Tomasaki? All right, now—get along with you! Clean clothes and a shower. Then we'll all have a bite to eat."

So, smiling, the two young airmen left their peppery host for the time being. Clothes were donated to them, khaki shirts and whipcord breeches from the wardrobes of their new-found friends. Barrett was clothed from the locker of Johnny Grinnell, only member of the expedition they had not yet met; Ramey found the duds of either of the tall O'Briens a perfect fit.

Thus it was that, feeling like new men, a short time later they sat down to breakfast. The meal, as American as a World Series, was a feast to two who had taken their fare for months in a Chinese Republic messhall. Cereal, ham and eggs, griddle-cakes with maple syrup, coffee—hot, black, aromatic coffee instead of green tea!—tempted Ramey into over-eating till the waistband of Lake O'Brien's breeches strained like a sausage skin.

It was then, after the empty dishes had been removed and he dragged the luxurious fragrance of American-cigarette-smoke into his lungs, that Ramey brought up the subject which had perplexed him ever since he first saw this place.

"Dr. Aiken," he said, "if I weren't sitting right in this building, seeing it with my own eyes, I wouldn't believe it could exist. I never dreamed there was such a place! How long has it been here?"

The archeologist quirked an eyebrow at Lake O'Brien, who grinned back. The others—Sheila, Grinnell, even Syd—seemed to share his amusement. Dr. Aiken shook his head.

"I don't know, Winters," he said.

"But then—who built it?"

Again an arch grin. "I don't know that, either."

For a moment Ramey stared at him bewilderedly. Then a slow flush stained his cheeks. Oh, that was it? They were poking fun at him; mocking his ignorance? Well, all right—if they wanted to act that way—

"Excuse me!" he said stiffly. "I didn't understand. Sorry to be so stupid. Red, perhaps we'd better get ready to run along, after all. We seem to be in the way here."

But Ian Aiken stayed him with a hand on the arm. He was still grinning, but his grin was warm and friendly. "Sit down, Ramey, and don't be an ass. We're not laughing at you. We're amused because the situation is what it is: so baffling that we must either smile it off or surrender.

"The answers I just gave you were absolutely true—and no man alive can tell you more. The mystery of Angkor is this: that here in the depths of an aboriginal jungle we find a temple dwarfing the greatest architectural work of present-day Man, and a city large enough to hold thirty million souls—yet not a man in the world knows who built this marvel, or when it was built, or where the builders came from, or where, above all, vanished the mighty race which once lived here!"

CHAPTER III

The Vanished Race

For a moment Ramey Winters stared at the gray-haired scientist incredulously. Then he laughed. "All right, sir," he said. "I'll bite. What's the gag?"

But there was no twinkle of amusement in Dr. Aiken's eyes now. He leaned forward over the table, his manner sober and abruptly serious.

"It's no joke, Ramey. It's the cold truth." In his voice was a strange note, a sort of angry helplessness. "For years men have been pondering this problem, but still the answer eludes us.

"In the year 1860, the French naturalist, A. Mouhot, came up the Mekong River in search for flora and fauna, and by sheer chance stumbled upon the massive, walled city of Angkor Thom, about one mile from here. I used the word, 'stumbled'; actually, only the toe of a giant could trip over such an obstacle. For Angkor Thom is a rectangular enclosure two miles in each direction, surrounded by a wall thirty feet high; within these walls are more than fifty towers, averaging two hundred feet in height! Altogether, the wall encloses something like a hundred and seventy-six acres of palaces, terraces, temples and galleries!

"That was the city proper. For miles about were the ruins of smaller abodes. This building in which we have made our headquarters, Angkor Vat, is supposed to have been Angkor Thom's chief temple. You have already exclaimed at its size. Let me point out that you cannot completely grasp how huge it is because there exists here no basis for comparison but palm trees, fromager, cane. The façade of this single building is five times as wide as the Cathedral of Notre Dame!

"Naturally, Mouhot was greatly excited. The records of mankind did not even hint at there ever having been such a civilization in this part of the world. He asked his native guides whence came these structures, who built them?

"Their answer was—the Gods!"

Ramey Winters nodded, fascinated. "I can understand that. Whatever men conceived and fashioned this edifice were of godlike stature. Before the world went crazy, I studied a smattering of architecture. Enough to realize the tremendous effort expended here—"

"Ah, but you haven't begun to see the wonders! Look at the walls and ceilings of this room, my boy."

"I been looking at them," spoke up Barrett. "Darned things is simply lousy.—'scuse me, Miss Sheila!—I mean the walls and ceilings is covered from top to bottom with carving and stuff. Pictures and wiggly scrolls and everything. What was this? Part of the art gallery?"

Dr. Aiken smiled distantly.

"Yes, Red. A very, very small portion of the hugest art gallery ever known. Because every square inch of wall in both Angkor Thom and Angkor Vat is covered with similar stone sculpturing! There are murals two hundred ... three hundred ... feet long emblazoned with the images of thousands of warriors in battle! A statue of a naga, or seven-headed serpent, more than one hundred feet long. Figures of gods and men, of evil demons, of creature unlike anything known to Man. About the grounds are single stones a hundred feet high, hand-carven to represent gods whose names we do not know."

Ramey frowned.

"Now, wait a minute, Doctor. That's impossible, you know! I mean, a hundred feet high—"

"I quite agree with you, Ramey. Such sculpturing is impossible to present-day civilization. My colleague, Alfred Maynard, once wrote: 'To transport these monoliths and erect the colossi, strength was wielded that our machinery does not supply.' A true statement of the case. The nearest quarries of the stone of which Angkor was built are twenty miles away! Modern engineering could no more duplicate the feat of building this structure than it could match the Pyramid of Cheops!

"Yet even if this gigantic task of transportation of materials could be accomplished—what craftsmen today could match the stone-engraving of these walls? The ancient workmen used no cement. With what incredible tools they pierced this stone into delicate images, we cannot guess. The pillars are as painstakingly filigreed as if wrought by a goldsmith. In a chamber I shall show you—a subterranean niche discovered by Lake, here—is something even more remarkable. A cabinet of metal, inscribed with hieroglyphs eroded just enough to be indecipherable!"

Lake answered Ramey's questioning glance with a nod.

"That's right. Damnedest thing I ever saw. Sort of a cube, about twelve feet square. Hollow, too. But I can't find any way to open it. The inscription probably tells what it's all about, but as the Doc says, you can't quite read it. Almost, but not quite. It's tantalizing. Like a picture out of focus, or—"

"Probably just as well." That was Syd O'Brien voicing his gloomy opinion. "Don't like the looks of the thing. Sinister."

"I'd like to see it," said Ramey. "I'd like to take a week or so and see everything about this place—What's up, Red?"

The redhead, seated nearest the doorway of the room, had come suddenly to his feet with a warning gesture. Now he whispered hoarsely, "Doc—outside! A spy! Somebody's found out about me and Ramey being here!"

In a single motion, Ramey was on his feet, his automatic in his hand, was gliding to his friend's side. Red was right. Ramey was just in time to see a furtive figure, scar-faced, yellow-robed, Oriental, slip behind one of the numberless pillars supporting the corridor. He spun.

"Red's right! They're on to us. I knew we couldn't get away with this. Everybody sit tight; Red and I are going to pull out before we get you all in trouble...."

Then Johnny Grinnell was at his shoulder, and he was snorting amused relief.

"It's all right, Winters. Put your pistol up. It's only poor old Sheng-ti. He's probably hungry again, daft old devil!" He called quietly in a tongue that Ramey—though he did not speak the language—recognized as Cantonese. Slowly the figure emerged from behind the pillar. Ramey saw a lean, shaven-pated Oriental of indeterminate age clad in the filthy yellow robe of a Buddhist bonze, or priest.

The bonze moved forward hesitantly, his eyes darting suspicion at the two strangers. As he approached, his mumble became English words.

"Food! The child of Buddha hungers."

"Very well, Sheng-ti," said Grinnell soothingly, "We share with thee." Aside, to Ramey, he explained, "Sheng-ti's a ku'an-chu, Most Holy One. Not quite right up here. Not an ounce of harm in him, though. We feed him, and he calls down Buddha's blessing on us. Fair enough, eh? Behold, Sheng-ti, we have guests! The bird-men from the sky have come to visit us."

The priest glowered at the two strangers malevolently.

"Later we shall show them the wonders of the temple," continued Grinnell. "They would see the statues of the gods, the fountains and the hidden crypt—"

At his last words, a spasm of something akin to terror passed over the face of the yellow man. His eyes clouded and he thrust long-taloned hands before his face as if fending off a blow. His voice lifted in a discordant croak.

"Aie, doom!" he cried. "Doom ... doom ... doom!"

And turning swiftly, he fled, ragged skirts trailing behind him, sandals slip-slopping on the stone floor. Ramey grunted.

"Well! Pleasant little harbinger of spring, isn't he? That last crack of yours went over big."

Dr. Aiken smiled.

"I shouldn't let that worry you, my boy. Sheng-ti's a dire prophet, but a poor one. He warned me three years ago that if I did not leave this temple I would 'vanish into yesteryear', never to return. Cheerful thought, wasn't it? But I'm still here.

"Now, sit down, both of you, and stop worrying about nonexistent troubles. Have you forgotten we are on an island surrounded by a moat? Our watchmen guard every approach. If anyone comes near, we'll be given ample warning. Now, let me see—what were we talking about?"

"The chamber Lake discovered."

"Oh, yes! Well, that's but one of the thousand mysteries of Angkor, Ramey. There are many more. I might point out some of the peculiarities of the sculpture itself. Oddly mingled with painstaking representations of ordinary men, are the figures of incredible, fabulous monsters. Dragons, great nagas, hypogrifins, monkeys garbed in human clothing, acting like men, apparently talking to each other and to humans.

"You might reasonably say that these representations are figments of the creative imagination, a sort of 'artistic license,' so to speak. But here's the rub! Whenever men are depicted, they are reproduced with elaborate fidelity. Not a single effort is made to aggrandize or conventionalize, as is the case in the artistry of other ancient races. The Minoan, for instance, or the Egyptian. The builders of Angkor seemed to pride themselves on faithful portrayal.

"But why, then, did they detract from their accuracy by delineating the figures of nonexistent creatures? And the colors they used—why did they portray some human figures as white, others yellow, and still others blue? Unless—" Ian Aiken's voice throbbed with eagerness—"these were creatures and men they knew?"

The older man's excitement communicated itself as an uneasy chill to Ramey. He said, "You mean—?"

"I don't know what I mean, Winters—yet. I'm still studying, still trying to unite in coherent oneness the facts imperishably carven here for someone to discern.

"All I know is that Angkor Vat is old—considerably older than baffled science has hitherto been willing to admit. By the eyes and the feet of the statuary we judge its period. Blank, staring eyes, unfocussing; feet carven by artists so unaware of perspective that they exposed the soles of a walking person.

"I know, too, that the explanation is written here on these walls for him who can solve the Angkor script. We have not yet found the key. The letters seem to resemble the elder Siamese, which itself resembled Sanskrit. Perhaps we'll never unlock that lingual door.

"But there is one universal language, Ramey Winters! The language of science, mathematics, astronomy! And here we have a whole city written in that language. The arrangement of Angkor is as truly symbolic, as truly based on the mystic science of numbers, as is the famed King's Chamber of Cheops' pyramid.[2] And there are certain astronomical carvings—"

"But, look, Doc—" That was Red Barrett cudgelling his brow—"if this here place was discovered about 1860, the scientists ought to been able to figure it out by now. Ain't they no histories at all, no ideas how it come?"

Dr. Aiken's smile was scornful.

"Too many," he answered, "and too poor! For want of a better explanation, experts have decided that a race known as the 'Khmers' inhabited Angkor. They have even presumed to establish the period of occupancy: from about the 5th Century B.C. to the 14th Century of our Christian reckoning. Some of the more daring savants have attempted to trace the 'lineage' of Khmerian royalty.

"Gentlemen, believe me—these explanations are rank nonsense! Based on no valid records, facts, or suppositions! The learned M. Groslier, attempting to explain why Angkor Vat should lie deserted and forgotten for five hundred years in a jungle grave, presents the theory that the Khmers waged a war with the neighboring Thais, were defeated and forcibly driven from their national stronghold.

"Stupid poppycock! The weak Acadians of Nova Scotia were expelled from their homeland by armed force—yet within two generations seventy percent of them had drifted back—to tiny farms and wretched hamlets. But we are asked to believe that a great race meekly left its capital and never attempted to return!

"Yet—suppose that were true? A faint possibility, but let us grant it. Then why did not the conquerors move into occupy what must have been the most magnificent city on the face of the earth. Remember, at the height of its glory, Angkor Thom must have been prouder than Augustus' Rome ... more alive with swaggering splendor than Hannibal's Carthage ... gay and rich as the Golden Chersonese of fable!"

Ramey nodded.

"Sounds whacky," he agreed. "Any more theories?"

"One even more implausible. That a plague destroyed the entire population of Angkor."

Ramey shook his head. "Well, that could have been, sir. Before the advance of medicine, plagues used to ravage whole countries periodically. The Black Death is supposed to have killed more than twenty-five million persons in Europe in the Renaissance period. The bubonic killed ten thousand a day in Constantinople during the Interregnum. Even today the Orient is swept by raging plagues—"

"I realize that, my boy. But tell me—you've heard of the Great Plague of London? What did the city look like?"

"It was a charnel-house. Death-carts ... dead bodies in the streets ... graveyards filled to overflowing...."

"Exactly! Now, listen here! In all of Angkor Thom, there are no human remains to be found!

"You will say this merely indicates that the Khmers did not inter their dead. Perhaps they had no sepulchers, no graveyards or tombs. True. But shouldn't there be human remains somewhere in or near these structures? Even if age did rot the carcasses, there should be bones! But—there are no bones in Angkor!

"Not only that, but there are no weapons, no pottery fragments, no accoutrements! If I die, one of thirty million souls simultaneously stricken by death, my body can decay, my crumbling bones may be swept away by the winds, yes! But the Khmers wore metal bracelets, belts, buckles; used utensils of metal. Their pictures tell us so.

"Yet there is not one piece of wearing apparel to be found in all Angkor! Not a single pin, not a scrap of household furniture, not one old, discarded cooking-pot! Now, how do you account for that?"

Ramey, staring at the old archeologist, slowly shook his head. "I—I can't, sir. Can you?"

Ian Aiken's eyes were strangely introspective.

"I see but one possible solution, my boy. There was a mass emigration, purposeful, determined, complete. That—until a more satisfactory theory presents itself—is the way I am forced to explain it. And it is an explanation at least halfway in accord with the symbolic drawing I mentioned a few minutes ago. The drawing that shows—Yes, Sirabhar?"

He broke off suddenly as the small Cambodian bustled into the room, dark eyes wide and frightened.

"Pardon, master Doctor, sir! But warriors approach. Armed forces of the Island Ones cross the South bridge."

"This time it ain't no false alarm, Ramey. It's the Japs. They did see our 'plane crash, after all!"

CHAPTER IV

Attack

Syd O'Brien said glumly, "I knew it! Now we're in a mess. I guess I'll write my thesis in a Saigon prison!" But the expedition leader turned on him testily. "Nonsense, Sydney! There is absolutely no cause for alarm. Naturally, the Japanese had to investigate a falling 'plane. But they can't possibly know the aviators are safe, and masquerading as members of our party—" He turned to the others—"Shall we go out to meet them? It will look better. No, Sheila—I think you'd better stay here!"

The girl's shoulders stiffened defiantly. A strange admiration brightened Ramey's eyes. Or perhaps it was not so strange, after all. Many times, during the preceding hour of conversation, he had found his gaze wandering toward her. In a happier, more peaceful world, perhaps—

"Why should I, Daddy?"

"Sydney—" Dr. Aiken ignored the question—"you'd better go down and speak to the workmen. Reassure them. Get Tomasaki to help you. Ramey, you and Lake and I will talk to our visitors. All right, Sirabhar, you may come, too."

"How about me, Doc?"

Dr. Aiken glanced meaningfully toward the bandage on Barrett's head. "I think you'd better stay here and keep out of sight," he said wryly. "That—er—turban you're wearing is the weak spot in our story!"

A few minutes later they were moving forward to meet the Japanese scouting detail. Despite Dr. Aiken's assurance, Ramey's confidence was bolstered by the comforting heft of an automatic in his hip pocket. The Nipponese, over-cautious in this as all things, had sent a sizable investigating party to Angkor. Thirty squat, brown, dusty men; truculent; ready for any emergency.

Their captain made his mission known in a faltering, school-book English. An airplane had been seen to descend of the sky, please. Did the gentlemens opportune to see—?

Good gracious—an airplane? How alarming! No, the gentlemens had not seen anything out of the ordinary. Would the honorable captain care to look around for himself?

It struck Ramey that Dr. Aiken was sticking his neck out unnecessarily far. The captain barked commands, his company split into details of two and three men, wandered off in different directions. Then Ramey realized Aiken had followed the proper course. With such a wide area to cover ... with the burned ship lying a half mile off, in a field concealed by an arras of tangled bamboo ... with the Japanese not even sure the 'plane had landed in this vicinity ... the chances of their stumbling across it were extremely remote. And to have seemed any less willing to help would have been to invite suspicion.

Having done his duty, the little leader was inclined to be friendly. He stared about him with awed respect. This was a great marvel, not so? He had not known there were such sights in Cambodia. One would not suppose it from seeing the miserable hovels at Pnompenh, down the river. It was not, of course, to be comparison with the beautiful, modern buildings of Tokio and Kobe, still—

He sucked his teeth politely. "Who makes this great structures, please?"

"We're not sure," Dr. Aiken told him. "It was built many, many years ago. By a race now vanished."

The small captain looked excited.

"Many years? A—a ber-oo race, perhaps?"

Now it was the doctor whose eyes widened.

"Blue! Did you say a blue race?"

"But, yes!" answered the Jap. Everyone knew that long ago there dwelt on earth the blue-skinned gods. "The legends of my peoples speak of them," he said. "The Kojiki tells how they brought to mankind wisdom, and—" he continued serenely—"when they departed, it was ordained that my people should henceforth rule the world."

"Stop!" shouted Ramey, leaping from behind the idol.

Dr. Aiken had completely forgotten, now, why the Jap was here. This was another precious piece fitting the jigsaw puzzle he was striving to put together. He cried to Lake and Ramey, "Hear that? In the Kojiki, too! The ancient Japanese Book of Records! That makes four places I've found reference to blue ones.[3] The Hindu folklore tells of them; the Druidic ritual worships blue warriors. I tell you, lads, Angkor is a vital link in the chain of Man's past! We must find a way to read the writing. When we do—"

Then his words died abruptly. A call had risen from across the moat. Soldiers, standing at the edge of the cane-grove, were gesturing, shouting. As he listened, the smiling captain ceased to smile; Dr. Aiken, who apparently understood at least part of the message, glanced suddenly, worriedly, at Ramey. In an undertone he breathed, "Your airplane! They've found it! And—and somehow they know you're one of—Hurry! We've got to get out of here!"

He tugged at Ramey's sleeve. But even as they edged away, the little captain turned, his eyes hard and angry, his friendliness vanished.

"A moment, please! You have lied to me. Halt! or it is necessary to—"

His revolver was already halfway out of its holster. But swiftly as he moved, Lake O'Brien was even quicker. With a sudden twist, Lake wrenched the gun from his hand, shoved a leg behind his knees and shoved violently. The small captain went sprawling and—

"Come on!" cried Lake, "up to the temple."

He cried a needless warning. For even as he shouted the Jap leader's voice screamed a shrill command. Soldiers came running from every section of the court, and the brooding silence of Angkor was shattered with the sharp, explosive crack of a modern rifle.

In that moment, when it seemed impossible the racing four could cover four hundred vulnerable yards, relief came from an unexpected source. From around the corner of the temple charged two uniformed warriors of Nippon. Beyond them lay temporary safety but—how to pass them? Already one was raising rifle to shoulder, his finger tense on the trigger. Then from the building itself snarled the bark of an automatic. The Jap jerked as though sledged with the blow of an invisible ramrod. His jaw dropped suddenly and the gun flew clattering from his hands as he doubled and pitched forward. Then another shot from the same source; another, and yet another. The familiar voice of Red Barrett boomed from the portico.

"Keep coming, keed! We're covering you!"

Four hundred yards is a meager distance, but it seemed like miles. Ramey Winters gasped to his comrades, "Duck! Zigzag! Bad target!" and set the example, hunching, shifting his course like a frightened crab, as he scuttled for the gateway.

His own pistol was in his hands. He used it once to take a flying potshot at a brown-clad figure emerging on an upper terrace, and had the satisfaction of seeing the figure duck hastily out of sight, howling with pain and dismay as the riflestock splintered in his hands.

Lake, too, was emptying his commandeered pistol at such targets as presented themselves. With what success Ramey had no time to judge, for a bedlam of gunfire howled about them now; hot lead glanced screaming off ancient stone.

How they won through that maelstrom of seething death, Ramey could not afterward say. He was only conscious of his own plunging motion, dimly aware that all three of his companions were still on their feet and racing forward with him. Once a puff of glittering powder leaped from the causeway inches before him, and coarse, stony granules lashed his face stingingly. Once a voice beside him grunted, and glancing up he saw that Lake O'Brien's shirt was redly plastered to his shoulder.

Then suddenly the heat of the day, the dancing sunlight, were gone. Grateful murkiness engulfed them, and friendly hands tugged them to shelter. Red Barrett's voice bellowed in his ear, "Nice, going, pal! I thought for a minute you wouldn't make it. Them damn yellow devils!"

Then a cooler, grimmer voice crisped orders. "No place to stop. This spot's too vulnerable. They'll shoot us down like trapped rats. Below, everybody!"

And again they were running, this time down a shadowy ramp to the entrails of the temple, to the bulwarked suite of chambers wherein Dr. Aiken had established his headquarters. Behind them the spang! of rifle fire died away, but there followed them down the corridor the shrill cry of the Japanese captain rallying his men.

Dr. Aiken seized a moment of respite to offer thanks.

"You saved our lives, boys," he panted. "But—but how did you happen to be up there? I ordered you to stay below—"

"It was his idea," claimed Red.

Syd O'Brien grunted gloomily, "Knew there'd be trouble. Got out the guns. Left Johnny with Sheila. Figured Red and I better go topside to make sure everything was all right."

His brother chuckled appreciatively. "Well, this was once your dismal hunches paid off, Cassandra.[4] Now wait a minute, Sheila—don't get excited!"

They had reached their refuge. From it Sheila Aiken rushed forward to greet them, exclaiming at the twin's wound. "You're shot, Lake! What happened? Did they—?"

"I'm all right," Lake assured her. "Just barely grazed me. Everybody in? Watch that door, Ramey. What happened? Why, those damned, stinking little Japs spotted Ramsey's plane, that's what."

"But we knew there was a possibility they might do that," said the girl. "That's why we dressed Red and Ramey as members of our party. Why should that cause them to—?"

Dr. Aiken said gravely, "I can't understand it myself, Sheila. But somehow the soldiers learned Ramey was one of the aviators. That's what they called to their captain. Wait a minute! What's that? I hear footsteps!"

"It's all right," called Syd. "It's just Johnny. He's got Sheng-ti with him. This way, Johnny. You all right? Where've you been?"

Grinnell entered, his face serious. "I ducked down to the digs when the shooting started, told the workmen to head for Pnompenh, get a message to the consul there. Lake! Your shoulder!"

"Only a flesh wound. Where did he come from?"