Doc Savage: The Ice Genius (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 12) (4 page)

The former Cadwiller Olden was an interested listener to all this. During the course of his institutionalization at the College, he had been reading about Doc Savage in the newspapers. Consequently, he had become a big fan of the bronze giant. It would not be too much exaggeration to say he was now an ardent admirer of Doc Savage.

Listening to this exchange, he piped up. “Can I come along?”

The question caught everyone off-guard. They looked down at the little man, features slightly frozen.

The midget took this to be hesitation, when in fact it was a species of horror. The thought of Cadwiller Olden being loose in the world once more made their marrow congeal.

“I won’t be any trouble,” he bayed. “Honest.”

“This could be dangerous,” Doc Savage told him gently. “It would be no place for someone not used to the hardships of the places we intend to visit.”

The former Cadwiller Olden made a brave face, and one might suspect that he was fighting back tears of disappointment.

Doc Savage said gently, “Perhaps another time.”

The midget brightened. Such was his faith in the big bronze fellow that he did not perceive that this was nothing more than a polite white lie.

“Why don’t you run along?” Doc suggested. “No doubt you have a great deal of important work to do.”

“Sure. Sure, I do. We got a new load of patients in. They are going to be mighty confused. I can help cheer them up. I’ve done it a million times before.”

“You do that,” encouraged Doc.

The diminutive fellow went scampering away, and rounded a corner.

THIS left Doc Savage alone with his men. The bronze man immediately got down to business.

“There is no safe route to the Gobi,” he told his men frankly. “But my thinking is that we fly north, across the Arctic Circle, and enter Mongolia by traversing Russia.”

Long Tom tugged at one oversized ear. He did this when he was concerned.

“The Germans have Moscow under siege,” he reminded. “Not likely to cotton to us dropping in on them, even if we are headed for Inner Mongolia.”

“The route I have in mind is far east of the fighting, and sparsely settled. If we are careful, we should be able to make it without being challenged, or shot down.”

“Then let’s get going!” Renny thundered.

Doc halted the general rush to depart with a sentence. “There is one matter to clear up before we depart.”

“What’s ’at?” Monk wanted to know.

“Since we are traveling north, a stop at my Fortress of Solitude is in order. We can refuel up there, and while doing so, I have a new radio transceiver on the plane that I wish to drop off there. The old set has become outmoded.”

Doc Savage’s men looked impressed. The bronze giant maintained a fabulous laboratory-workshop near the North Pole, and a few of them had visited there once, years ago. But not all. It was a rare thing to see the Fortress of Solitude. So they looked forward to the opportunity.

Doc took a few moments to speak with the chief surgeon who had charge of the surgical wing of the College.

“The men Renny dropped off should be processed as soon as practical,” Doc told the man.

“Of course,” the medico replied. “Have you given further thought to the disposition of the fellow we are calling Monzingo Baldwin?”

Doc Savage looked slightly uncertain. “Continually,” he admitted. “Hope for the final disposition so far has eluded me.”

“If Mr. Baldwin should regain his memory and discover that he has been kept here under false pretenses, it will be a very terrible turn of events. He is coming to a position of trust, and while I am not disagreeing with your decision to make him a trustee, it is just the nature of this institution not to retain prisoners any longer than necessary.”

Doc nodded. “This matter concerns me as much as it does you. But the risk of release is greater than the dangers you describe. For if Cadwiller Olden—to employ his real name—should recover his memory, the damage to our operations will be just as grave if he is out in the world as if he remained here. At least here, we can monitor him. As well as take steps should he have a relapse of any type.”

“I do not need to remind you that in addition to the issue of his memory,” the surgeon continued, “his crime gland has not been attended to. His tendency toward criminal behavior remains present without that additional surgery.”

Again Doc Savage made an expression that slightly indicated concern. “We are accustomed to operating on the brains of normal-sized individuals. Even with special miniaturized tools, to operate on his brain entails more risk than usual.”

“Nevertheless, I would like to try,” said the chief surgeon earnestly.

Doc Savage seemed to give the matter considerable thought. He was very silent until the wall clock advanced with a click, and it was the top of the hour.

At last, Doc said, “If it is your professional opinion that the surgery can be done successfully, you have my permission to undertake it.”

“Thank you.”

“But operate on the gland only,” cautioned Doc. “We will not attempt to erase his memory surgically. At least, not at present.”

“Very well. I will give the man some excuse so that he will submit to the operation.”

Doc Savage added, “My men and I will be away, possibly for weeks. But radio us your results. It would be a load off our minds to know that this matter has been advanced toward a permanent solution.”

With that, Doc Savage turned to go.

He stepped out into the hallway and moved swiftly to rejoin his men waiting in the outer lobby.

Neither the bronze giant nor his chief surgeon noticed that around the corner, the tiny fellow who had been Cadwiller Olden had been huddled inside a wastebasket.

The basket appeared full, although it was not. After Doc had departed, and the door to the chief surgeon’s office closed, the pile of crumpled papers which had crowned the wastebasket fell away, exposing a small but perfectly formed man’s head.

Monzingo Baldwin, alias Cadwiller Olden, lifted his head out of the paper debris. His dark eyes were very open, and very, very stark. He had overheard everything. And from the expression on his features, the knowledge he obtained had shaken him to his very core.

Hastily, the midget extracted himself from the wastebasket and carefully replaced every scrap of paper.

Then, he went running out of sight as fast as his little legs could carry him. The expression on his tiny features was terrible to see. It was as if the little man were struggling to keep from bawling his eyes out.

Chapter IV

STRANGE SILENCE

WHEN Doc Savage rejoined his men in the lobby, he found Monk and Ham engaged in one of their routine rows.

Renny Renwick eyed Doc Savage and asked gloomily, “Want me to knock their blocks off? I’m not up to hearing them squabbling all the way to Mongolia.”

Monk glowered at the big-fisted engineer and growled, “Any time you’re feelin’ lucky, big fists.”

Ham Brooks, for a miracle, took Monk’s part. “If you want to wring his thick neck, you will have to get past me first.”

Renny grunted, “When did you fall in love with him?”

Ham gave his sword cane a flourish in the homely chemist’s direction. “I have been looking to brain Monk Mayfair since we first met,” he said loftily. “And I will not be cheated out of the pleasure.”

Apart from this muscular exchange, Long Tom Roberts was staring out a window. Like all of the windows of the strange installation, this one was made of very thick glass reinforced by chicken-wire. The stuff made it difficult to see the grounds outside with clarity.

“Pipe down!” the puny electrical wizard grumbled. “I think I see a fox prowling around our plane.”

Ham bleated, “We left the door open! Better look into this.”

They made a concerted rush for the plane.

All seemed normal when they reached the big leviathan.

Monk came to a stop by the aircraft, commenced exploring it with his pocket flashlight.

Doc Savage remained under the wings, and was scrutinizing the ground with his acute golden eyes.

Then he climbed aboard.

“No fox tracks,” he told the others. “Just those of our party, and Monzingo Baldwin, from our arrival.”

Long Tom said sourly, “Well, through that chicken glass, it was hard to tell.”

Still, Doc Savage made a tour of the interior and discovered nothing amiss.

The bronze giant, hardened by years of negotiating peril, overlooked nothing where the safety of his men was concerned.

Monk joined him in the rear, and asked, “Is that the big radio you were talkin’ about?”

Doc nodded. The radio was mounted upon caster-type wheels. Straps affixed to the bulkheads held it in place, preventing it from rolling around and damaging itself during flight.

Doc was examining the straps to make sure they still held properly.

As he did so, the bronze man discovered a short-handled screwdriver which lay on the metal floor. He picked it up.

“Did any of you use this?” he asked.

None of his men admitted to having dug out the screwdriver for any reason.

Doc Savage felt of the screwdriver. The handle was cool to the touch. But it was a very cool night.

Replacing the screwdriver in a tool box, the bronze man went forward and took the control bucket.

Doc and his men were accustomed to taking long flights to faraway points on the globe. Each had their assigned places on such ventures. Monk slid in the co-pilot’s seat, next to Doc. Renny dropped his big bulk into the navigator’s station. Long Tom took over the radio cubicle, and placed a radio headset over his oversized ears.

Lastly, Ham Brooks closed the plane door, then took a comfortable seat. He had brought along a law book to read. Over time, he would spell Monk or Long Tom at their stations. But for the moment he had nothing to do.

While Doc Savage warmed up the four radial motors, Ham said to no one in particular, “It is a distinct pleasure not to have that infernal hog along for a long trip.”

No one said anything to that, and Ham cocked one ear to capture any piggy sounds in the cabin. There was a tiny rattle that made him suspicious.

“Do not tell me that pig is on board!” he flared.

Monk called, “You know I hadda leave him behind in New York.”

“Yes,” sniffed Ham. “But you have promised that before, yet managed to smuggle that infernal pest along.”

Ham continued listening, thought he detected something. Glowering, he rushed to the back of the cabin, waving his cane around like a pig-sticker. But his violent sweeps failed to stir any pig that might be present.

Half-satisfied, the dapper lawyer returned to his seat, and complained, “I thought I heard something rattling back there.”

“It was your tiny brain rattlin’ around in your narrow skull,” goaded Monk.

Ham’s sharp retort was lost in the thunder of the four mighty engines as the air giant lurched ahead.

The flying boat began traveling, eating up the short runway at an alarming pace. Doc lifted the plane into the air. He pointed the howling motors north, and then settled down for the long hop to the Fortress of Solitude.

AS the big flying boat passed over Canada, curiosity over what Johnny Littlejohn discovered in Mongolia had reached the boiling point among the bronze man’s aides.

Long Tom was the first to broach the matter. The puny electrical wizard was probably the most temperamental of Doc Savage’s men, with the possible exception of the excitable Ham. Also, he had very little to do at the radio.

“Will someone fill me in on why we’re charging off to Mongolia in the middle of a world war?”

Doc Savage was a naturally reticent person. He was not given to long conversations, or broaching theories before he had all the facts at hand.

Still, it was going to be a very long flight, and no doubt boring if they were lucky. The bronze man knew he would have to reveal what motivated him to leave in such a hurry.

“Johnny was digging for prehistoric human bones on the Mongolian steppes,” he began. “During the course of this, his party was attacked by bandits. There was a fight. Johnny had to unloose explosive shells from his supermachine pistol, and in doing so exposed an ice cave of unknown age.”

“Sounds interesting,” rumbled Renny. “But where’s the blamed fire?”

“That’s what I want to know,” said Long Tom sourly.

“In this ice cave, Johnny discovered a body entirely encapsulated by ice.”

“Like those mastodons—or were they woolly mammoths?—that were discovered frozen in ice a few years back?” grunted Renny.

“Exactly.”

“They defrosted those big boogers, and fed the sled dogs the cooked meat. They said it tasted pretty fresh.”

Monk’s squeaky voice exploded, “Blazes! You don’t suppose that man in the ice could still be alive?”

Doc Savage was a long time in replying.

“There have been incidents in which creatures have been extracted from ice, and revived, restored to life. There was one unexplained incident in which a rock was broken open. A small toad emerged as healthy as the day he was entombed countless generations ago. In another, a desert snail affixed to an Egyptian tablet kept under glass in the British Museum came to life after four years of immobility.”

“Is that what you meant by suspended animation?” wondered Ham.

“It is premature to consider such a thing in this instance,” Doc returned. “For there has never been in recorded history a circumstance when a living human was entombed in ice and then later revived.”

Monk muttered, “In the olden days, didn’t they sometimes bury people they thought was dead, only to discover that they had not died?”

Doc nodded. “The problem of premature burial is one that has been solved by science. But in the days when people ate off lead plates, some fell into comas that were not recognized as such. These unfortunate persons were buried alive, although some managed to escape their predicament by luck.”

No one spoke much after that. The thought of being entombed alive, and awakening in one’s own coffin buried several feet underground, had a chilling effect upon conversation.