Roy Glashan's Library
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LEROY YERXA
(WRITING AS RICHARD CASEY)

VALLEY OF DELIRIUM

RGL e-Book Cover^©
Based on a painting by Thomas Cole (1801-1848

First published in Amazing Stories, March 1945

This e-book edition: Roy Glashan's Library, 2022
Version Date: 2022-10-16

Produced by Matthias Kaether and Roy Glashan

All original content added by RGL is protected by copyright.

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Amazing Stories, March 1945, with "Valley of Delirium"

A mountainous, scaly monster hurtled toward me, its jaws gaping wide.

Even science fiction seemed to have gone mad in this
weird valley where absolutely nothing made sense.

"PAN-American Radio, Station XZX at Lima—to Neal Mason. Can you hear me Mason? Come in."

The little South American leaned anxiously over the loudspeaker on the desk, switched the controls and waited. The tiny radio room was filled with the loud crackle of static.

"Mason to XZX. Say, Señor Alverado, who told you about the weather up here? You must have sent up the wrong balloon. This is the worst hurricane I've ever wrestled with."

Alverado's lips grew white. He was very frightened.

"XZX to—to Mason," he stammered. "Mason to XZX. Tell the weather—"

"Listen, Mason, you'll have to turn back. The weather bureau has just reported a bad storm sweeping through the pass from Peru. You'll have to turn back. Come in."

The static crackle again and, above it, the sounds of a high wind.

"Mason to XZX. Tell the weather bureau I could have told them about that storm before they knew it existed. Hell, man, I'm delivering a fighter plane to the Peruvian Government! If you knew my boss back in the states, you'd know I face a worse death by turning back. Be seeing you."

The loudspeaker went dead. Alverado shouted into the mike.

"XZX to Mason. XZX to Mason. Come in please."

Silence.

Outside, dust rolled up as the mail-plane hit the runway of the Lima airport. The sun was calm and hot on the flat plain. The Andes were a foreboding wall in the distance.

The speaker remained silent. Alverado tried again. This time desperation showed clearly on his thin face.

"XZX to Mason. For God's sake, man, answer me will you? You're running into one of the worst storm pockets in the world. You still have a chance to turn back."

The loudspeaker startled him, breaking in with a roar of sound. Mason's voice was distorted and far away.

"You aren't lying. Hold on, Bub, here goes nothing."

Alverado sat very still, his hands gripping the desk before him as though he were at the controls of the powerful fighter somewhere in the Andes. The speaker was still open. The sound of tinkling glass came over it.

"—buzzards!" Mason's words were choked off by anger.

Then there was only the screaming of the storm and the more sinister rising howl of motors as they roared downward, out of control.

Alverado tensed, his teeth gritted tightly together waiting for the crash. It came, a tearing, grinding explosion of metal against rock. The loudspeaker miraculously continued to record the crash of the American plane.

Alverado tried again, shouting into the mike.

"XZX to Mason. Mason, are you alive? Come in! Come in!"

He could hear the faint, pained breathing coming over the speaker. Then, as though Neal Mason was gathering all the strength he had to speak, came the last words from the crashed pilot.

"I—think—I'm in hell."

Alverado went on shouting for several minutes, but only the sound of the storm came back. He couldn't even hear Mason's breath now, and in a few minutes the radio went dead.

Alverado arose slowly, turned off the speaker. It would be necessary to call Buffalo, U.S.A., and notify Mason's employer. It would also be necessary to go through the mechanical process of sending out a rescue party. They stood little chance of locating the battered fighter in the deep canyons that slashed the Andes.

NEAL MASON opened one eye slowly and stared around. He recognized the battered interior of the plane, and realized that somehow he had lived through the terrible dive toward earth. Something had forced him to let go of the wheel, and before he could regain his grip the sensitive plane had been caught by the storm and tossed against the canyon wall.

He sat up painfully, trying to think.

Now he remembered. A buzzard had been tossed against the windshield and crashed into his face. He had been talking to the airport at Lima when it happened.

He moved around painfully until he faced the radio board. Reaching for the button, he fiddled with it idly. The radio was dead, smashed.

He was down somewhere, lost in the Andes. The plane had landed in a deep tropical canyon. He wondered how many broken bones he had suffered, and tried to prove something by climbing erect. His lace was reflected faintly from the remains of the broken windshield. He noted a few minor wounds on his right cheek. His right leg moved reluctantly. It pained him below the knee. It would bend however, and probably wasn't broken.

He drew himself up to the level of the cockpit window and stared out at a cliff surrounded terrain.

The plane was in fairly good shape, considering the force of the fall. One wing was buried in the ground, and the left motor was half gone. The cannon on the snout of the fighter pointed upward, still intact. Then he caught sight of three gawky buzzards lined up expectantly on the rocks near the edge of the narrow valley. Their long feather-less necks darted out questioningly as he moved, and beady eyes stared with disappointment.

"Not today, brothers," he said grimly. "Maybe tomorrow. Who knows?"

He wasn't in bad shape. His heavy boots, whipcords and tan shirt were still intact. In the rear compartment were half a dozen sub-machine guns, a box of side-arms and plenty of ammunition for the wing guns and cannon. AH this was meant for delivery to the Peruvian government.

He also had a case of "K" rations.

He started to disentangle himself from the cockpit, and pushed one booted foot over the edge of it. As he did so a huge shadow passed over his head. Instantly he slipped back to safely, flattening against the inside of the plane. He looked upward and fear struck him for the first time.

A huge, snaky neck twisted back and forth above his head. His gaze traveled down the neck slowly to the ponderous dark body and dragging tail. This was bigger than any prehistoric monster he had ever seen rehabilitated in a museum.

"Suffering Moses!" Mason's eyes widened.

The monster was as big as the plane. Its hide would have made enough overnight bags to supply the city of New York. The monster stared at Mason and Mason stared back. It was a deadlock. Then the monster moved ponderously nearer the plane. His tail dragged after him as though too heavy for him to lift.

"Dinosaurs Good Lord, home was never like this."

Mason wondered what would break the spell. Perhaps his brain would spin around again and drop him in Peru where he belonged. One visit to the Field Museum hadn't ought to effect a man like this.

The dinosaur continued to stare at Mason, and the pilot tried to think of a good way to disappear. Unfortunately not even a fair method presented itself. The sun was rising above the top of the cliff. Something about the sun troubled the aviator's sense of direction. He glanced nervously at the compass.

The sun was rising in the west!

The crash must have broken the compass. Mason banged his fist against the glass covering. The compass hand jiggled and settled back to the same point. It worked perfectly. But, suffering Moses, the sun wasn't supposed to rise in the west, and that was just what it was doing.

MASON looked up at the dinosaur, but the beast was still there, blinking uncertainly, its tail swishing back and forth on the rough floor of the canyon. A pleading look came into Mason's eyes.

"Look, Dino old boy. Go 'way, will you? Let's save this personal appearance until I'm on a binge. You haven't any right popping up when I'm dead sober."

"Hey!" Mason shouted, and dino drew back as though he'd been slapped. There was no doubting the expression of sadness and distrust that flooded his unbecoming face.

By crawling behind the pilot's seat, Mason could reach the ammunition and the rations. Dino seemed determined to stick around for the whole show, and thus far hadn't shown any sign of attacking.

"If this be madness," Mason misquoted from some long-forgotten source. "Make the best of it."

Still believing that he was in some weird state of coma, he crawled over the seat, found the boxes and broke them open. He filled an automatic and slipped it into his belt. He filled both pockets with cartridges, found a sub-machine gun in another crate and grasped it, together with a half-dozen boxes of "K" ration. Then he made his way back to the cockpit.

His visitor was still present.

Mason broke open a box of rations and downed some of the chocolate. He felt a little better. Yet, with his senses slowly returning, the dino became more and more of a problem for him to puzzle out.

"No time-machine stuff," he muttered. "I'm still in the Andes all right."

Just to make sure, he turned and stared into the distance toward the end of the valley. Huge peaks rose rank upon rank into the blue sky. He looked up at the dino.

"You don't fit, Bub. How about scramming and making the scenery a little more normal?"

Dino looked hurt. His neck twisted downward suddenly. Thinking that he must look like a dainty morsel, Mason tried to ward off the coming blow with a box of "K" rations. Dino opened his mouth and swallowed the entire box with one gulp.

A broad, wet tongue swooped out and splashed across Mason's face. It was like being hit with a wet towel. He wiped his face with his shirt sleeve and swore loudly. This four-legged Woolworth building was actually being affectionate! He stared at the dino with a new distrust.

"Don't do that again, you big lug."

Dino looked so hurt that Mason was a little ashamed.

"The strength of a dynamo and the brains of a flea," he said dreamily.

"Hey, by golly, that's it. From now on his name is Dina-Mo."

The dinosaur seemed pleased with the name. His head started downward for another affectionate caress, but Mason saw it coming and ducked.

WITH the dry food inside him, Mason became increasingly thirsty. Up the hill a short distance was a small pool of water. A creek fed it, probably running from under the cliff. If Dina-Mo would leave him alone, he'd try to get some water.

He pushed a cautious boot over the edge of the plane, hesitated and dropped to the ground. Mo didn't even seem curious. He was completely satisfied with the box of "K" ration that slowly dissolved in his stomach.

Mason ran swiftly toward the water. The three vultures shrugged in disgust and flapped away to meatier fields.

Mason had nearly reached the pool when he heard a wild, inhuman scream come from the cliff. He had only a sec-end to turn and stare upward with startled eyes. He was paraiyzed.

A mountainous, scaly monster hurtled downward, directly at him. It was one of Mo's big brothers, and it wasn't pleasant to look at. A great scale covered head twisted in the air. The mouth, filled with teeth that would have shamed a tooth-paste commercial, was wide open. The lashing, furious tail and horned feet were close to Mason.

Mason dropped flat on his face and waited for the weight of the thing to crush him into the earth. The monster hit with earth shaking force and Mason turned to see that Mo's little chum had missed on the first leap. The tail lashed around, missing his head by inches.

Before he could rise, something small and savage swished through the air over his head. The scaly monster turned and with a scream of fear, high-tailed it up the valley. What caused this hasty retreat?

An eagle had driven downward with terrifying force and was riding on the monster's head. The eagle's claws were set deep into the scales, and the bird's beak pecked savagely at the fleshy substance on the side of the head.

Mason staggered uncertainly to his feet.

What kind of a crazy, unreasonable world was this? The scaly monster had been driven into a fit by a bird only a fraction of its size. The sun was rising in the west.

He watched until the pair were out of sight among the rocks. Then fearing another attack, he kneeled swiftly by the pool and sucked water from his cupped hands. He stood up quickly. About to turn back toward the plane, he stopped short, staring down at the small creek.

Suffering Moses! This capped the climax. This took the blue ribbon, the iron cross, and outdid the liar's club.

The stream that fed the pool was running up-hill from somewhere deep in the valley.

There was very little left to do now but return to the plane and go quietly insane. He moved with leaden feet back to the wrecked fighter, crawled in without even taking a second look at Dina-Mo, and slumped down in the cockpit.

A small speck hurtled through the air, and the eagle that had saved his life dived down and sat stiffly on the edge of the cockpit. Mason stared at the bird and the bird blinked.

"Thanks," Mason said, in a spiritless voice. "Eagle of Freedom. Symbol of the U.S.A."

The eagle ruffled its feathers and looked very satisfied. Then Mason remembered that the eagle wasn't a citizen of the United States, and therefore not a genuine symbol of the flag.

"Anyhow," he added in a sleepy, half apologetic tone, "Thanks for the nice Pan-American spirit. I'll recommend you for a medal."

His head drooped forward slowly, and the sun grew warm on the back of his neck. He slept.

MASON didn't plan on the trip of exploration. It was dark when he awakened, and save for the sound of the stream that ran up-hill, the canyon was quiet. He was thirsty, and decided to chance another trip to the pool. He slipped out of the cockpit and landed on a huge boulder that he had not remembered from this morning. Before he could climb to the ground, the boulder stood up and started to move around restlessly.

Mason grasped the boulder and hung on. Then he remembered Dina-Mo and wondered why the beast had to pick this spot to catch up on his beauty sleep.

Dina-Mo misinterpreted Mason's move. To him, it was a signal to start for parts unknown. He did just that, with a lazy rippling of his leg and neck muscles. The tail, as usual, dragged reluctantly behind. After the first novelty of riding a prehistoric monster wore off, Mason settled down grimly to the task of riding bareback. It was something like tossing around on a huge mound of bouncing jello. The eagle fluttered after them and settled on Mo's head, where he again folded his head out of sight under his wing and went to sleep. Dina-Mo moved slowly down the steep incline toward the lower valley.

His passengers didn't trouble him in the least.

It was not for Mason to question the rough trail that Mo followed. He was using all his talent, and his finger nails, to retain his grip on the leathery back.

It wouldn't have been so bad, he thought, to ride down a long hill on a dinosaur's back, if he didn't know that an eagle could scare hell out of a monster, and the sun could rise in the west, and the stream that they were following ran swiftly up-hill. Conditions were complicated a little more than he wanted to admit.

The canyon into which Mason's plane had crashed, and the valley that Dina-Mo was ambling toward, went together to shape a huge letter T. The valley filled with jungle growth and tall, lush grass formed the upper half of the letter. It was thousands of feet deep, and huge peaks rose into the dark sky on all sides. Mason dreaded the rising of the sun again, because he knew that light would put things out of focus worse than ever. But the sun did come up, and it came up in the south this time, evidently just for the novelty of it.

Mason was beyond feeling any shock by this time. He smiled at the sun, offered it a pleasant good morning, and added:

"I've got a compass back up on the hill, if you decide to get your direction straightened out."

Evidently the sun didn't care where it came from, because its only response was to climb higher into the sky at a terrific rate of speed. Mo showed signs of wanting breakfast, and Mason, teetered precariously on his perch while Mo wrapped his tail around the two-foot trunk of a palm tree and pulled it up by the roots.

"And we use an axe, saw and dynamite," Mason commented caustically. "My, my, but isn't the modern age a wonderful thing."

Mo munched contentedly at palm fronds, and cracked open an occasional coconut for Mason. The eagle flew away for a while, and came back with two large fish in his beak. One he dropped at Mason's side, and the other he dropped on the ground and started to tear apart with his sharp talons.

The coconuts weren't bad, but when it came to the fish, Mason revolted. He had never seen a fish before that had four perfectly developed legs, and a face that reminded him of Charlie McCarthy. The combination simply wasn't an appetite builder.

WITH full stomachs, the trio ventured into the jungle along the bottomland of the valley. If Mason had been accustomed to spending much time over the mystery of growing things, he might have had cause to wonder at the hodge-podge of prehistoric vegetation, common trees like pine and elm all interwoven with teak and the precious woods of the tropics. He did wonder, however, how it was that bananas managed to grow from the tops of evergreen giants.

With the sun hidden by foliage, Mason settled down on Dina-Mo's broad back. The eagle nestled at his side, and they crashed onward through the jungle.

Old Mo seemed to experience great delight in doing things the hard way. If a tree was small enough for him to pull out by the roots, and most of them were, Mo wouldn't think of going around it. Mason saw no other sign of strange creatures who inhabited the valley until early afternoon. When he finally spotted them, he wished that he hadn't.

Mo came out on the banks of a stream which was, according to form, rushing merrily up-hill. He stopped short, his long neck weaving from side to side. A sound like the noise a horse makes when it swallows a bumble-bee emerged from Mo's throat. The eagle left his perch swiftly and hovered above them. Then Mason saw what caused the commotion.

Until now he had been able to make a queer sort of sense of the wild life he had seen. Now, even that was impossible.

Near the stream were three giant sand hills, probably forty feet across the top and rising well above the flat plain. Through holes at the base of these hills hundreds of ants were crawling in and out. They were like the ants that he had seen in the cracks between sidewalks back home except for one startling difference.

Every ant that crawled restlessly over the plain was as big as the frightened Dina-Mo.

He remembered seeing an enlarged picture of a common house-fly once, a long time ago, and making the bright remark that people were lucky that insects didn't grow as large as men.

Right now he'd welcome an ant the size of a man.

Dinosaurs suddenly became very commonplace. Mason's one thought was to get away as fast as possible.

The startled scream of the eagle brought him back to reality and he clung tightly to Mo's back as Mo whirled around with a snort and plunged into the jungle.

Mason lost his balance and toppled backward. He landed in the tangled undergrowth, picked himself up and decided that he was still alive and insane.

Dina-Mo evidently didn't notice the loss of hi? passenger because the big fellow was still on the run, his body shaking the earth somewhere far ahead.

Mason started to run. Over his shoulder, he could see the gigantic ants scuttling toward him.

Suffering Moses, if he only had the sub-machine gun with him.... As he ran, he drew the automatic from his belt and slipped in a clip of cartridges.

How would it sound? Aviator Fights Ant Colony With Automatic. Is Captured By Insects.

Definitely not acceptable copy for a home town paper he decided, and ran faster than ever.

He reached the banks of another backward river, and was about to plunge in. A low, musical laugh stopped him in his tracks.

Neal Mason pivoted, his mouth hanging wide open. Dina-Mo was sitting on the river bank, his head buried beneath the cool water. Sitting at Mo's side, thumping the dinosaur's neck gently with a knotted club, was the prettiest girl Mason had ever stopped running away from.

He could hear the ants coming, knocking down trees in their charge through the jungle. Still, this girl was enough to make a man forget that he was about to be eaten alive. She sat there calmly, clad in a neat jungle creation that would have made Johnny Weismuller howl with appreciation and dunk himself immediately into the river at her feet. Her hair, under the rays of the backward sun, was a glowing rich auburn. Tanned cheeks, and white teeth that flashed against red lips made her the nicest dish he had ever seen.

"You aren't running away from the ants?"

MASON was slightly angry at the events that were taking place. Evidently Mo was the girl's personal pet. The eagle flew down and settled on her shoulder.

He walked toward her, aware of his dirty, torn clothing. As he approached, he pocketed the automatic meekly, deciding that the army of approaching ants would have to be disregarded. He wondered how many bites he would make for the overgrown insects.

"I—I wasn't exactly walking. I'll admit," he said lamely, and his face turned a brick red. "Say. Are you laughing at me?"

The girl looked solemn. He liked the way she shrugged her brown shoulders before answering.

"You did look funny making that mad dash away from the ants. They won't touch you. It's just a bluff they put up to keep us away from their homes."

He decided that perhaps she was right. The sounds behind him had died out.

"I'm glad of that," he admitted. It dawned on him that this meeting was the most absurd thing that had happened yet. A perfectly normal and very lovely girl, sitting here by a stream in the jungle. Nor did she seem the least bit surprised at his presence.

"How did you get here?" he asked.

She stared back at him and anger kindled her eyes.

"Now you've spoiled everything."

Mason sat down beside her.

"I don't get it," he protested. "What could I spoil in this collection of freaks and fauna?"

"I was going to ask you what you were doing here, and you asked me first."

She pouted.

Oh, oh! a warning voice said in Mason's head. Look out for her. She'll trip you up like the rest of them did.

"My name is Neal Mason," he explained. "I was delivering a war plane to the Peruvian Government. I got caught in a storm and crashed. Could you tell me how to get out of here?"

She looked so bewildered and pretty in her ensemble of prepared leopard skin and dinosaur sandals, that he was sorry he'd troubled her.

"I know nothing of the places you mention." she said in a perplexed voice. "I have always lived in Planta. I know nothing of what lies beyond the peaks."

Poor kid, Mason thought. She must be as loony as the remainder of the valley. No wonder she was bewildered. To live in this goofy place and have to stay here all her life would be enough to worry anyone. He shouldn't have mentioned his own troubles.

"So this is Planta?" he said aloud. Then because she acted a little frightened, he added. "Always wanted to visit Planta. Never had time. You'll have to show me around."

She was delighted. As she sprang to her feet he had a better opportunity to notice the lithe, graceful body. Mason wished with all his heart that he could swing through the trees, and howl like Johnny Weismuller did when capturing his mate. Somehow, he'd have to be a second Tarzan to win such a glorious creature. She stood a few feet away, staring at him with a happy smile.

"Come." Her voice was pleasant, and at the same time demanding.

He followed her. Then it dawned on Mason that this girl certainly hadn't appeared in the valley of Planta without benefit of parents. There must be other people here.

"HEY," he shouted. "Wait a minute." She turned and waited for him.

"You're not tired so soon?"

He shook his head.

"I was thinking. You have a father and mother?"

The girl looked momentarily sad.

"I have no mother," she said, and then smiled brightly, "but I have a father."

Neal shook his head solemnly. He tried again.

"There are other people in the valley?"

"Only a few," she said. "Freaze and Fitch live a few miles from us."

Freaze and Fitch? Now wait a minute. This has gone far enough. For Heaven's sake don't ask her any more questions or you'll go nuts. Wait and see for yourself.

"I—guess we'd better go to your home," he said in a weak voice. "How far is it?"

The girl held up her right hand, and spreading her dainty fingers, started to count.

"One-two-three-six-ten," she said softly. Then she pointed toward the far end of the valley from which Mason had come. "The city is that way." She turned away from him, and started walking swiftly away from the direction she had indicated.

"Wait a minute," Mason said doubtfully. "Aren't you going directly away from your city?"

A horrible doubt was growing in his mind. The girl turned around, and her eyes were flashing angrily.

"Don't you tell me where to go," she cried. "Of course we are going away from the city. This is the shortest way."

Mason's last nerve snapped like a bow-string, and his teeth clamped together savagely.

"Suffering Moses!" he groaned. "I might have known it."

The little parade wound slowly up the valley away from the city they were approaching. The girl went first, still frowning because she had been questioned. Behind her swung Dina-Mo, and perched on Mo's head was the eagle.

Neal Mason staggered along behind like a prisoner condemned to the salt mines. He might not be quite ready for a padded cell, but he knew that he was a dangerous borderline case.

Once, during the march, Mo twisted his neck about and stared back to make sure Mason was still with them. At the same time, the girl's voice rang out clearly.

"Are you still there?"

Mason, staring at the rocking figure of Dina-Mo, thought the words came from the monster's mouth. He nodded dumbly, never questioning Mo's ability to carry on a conversation.

THE strange procession stood on the brink of a cliff, staring down into a lower valley. In spite of his promise that nothing else could surprise him, Neal Mason received a shock. This was the city she had mentioned.

It stretched across the floor of the valley, a dream of the future. Tall cylindrical towers sprang into the sky, and interwoven among them were suspension highways that were finer than anything Mason had ever seen on the drawing board. Strangely enough, the city showed no sign of life.

Mason stared at the girl who was at this moment ignoring the city, and crawling up Dina-Mo's rough flank. She turned and called to him.

"You can ride now." She seemed a bit more friendly. "We must descend the cliff and the trail is dangerous."

Mason found it hard to take his eyes away from the city below. Yet, with its deserted highways, it might as well be a gorgeous tomb. Mo turned his head and snorted impatiently. Mason came out of his trance and climbed to his place beside the girl.

The eagle had already flown ahead, and was soaring gracefully down the cliff toward the valley.

With his passengers reasonably secure, Mo started directly toward the edge of the precipice.

"Wait a minute," Mason shouted. "This isn't safe."

The girl laughed.

To keep from dying of fright, Mason refused to look ahead. Instead, he focused all his attention on the girl. It wasn't a bad idea. He decided that if she wasn't as goofy as the remainder of the valley, she'd look very nice in a housedress, ruling his little apartment back in Buffalo.

Mo had no intention of vaulting over the cliff. At the very edge he stopped, and the long neck traveled back and forth once. Apparently sure of himself, he chose a tiny trail that snaked downward and trusted his ponderous bulk to it. For the next half hour, Mason hung on with all his strength. The girl, riding easily, spent her time laughing at him.

Mo's broad body scraped the cliff on one side, and hung out in space on the other. The eagle complicated things by continually swooping down at Mason in a playful but rather suicidal manner.

They came out momentarily on a broad, flat ledge on the trail. Mo sat down abruptly and stretched his neck out full length. His eyes closed.

"Here we are," the girl said. "You are safe now."

"Here we are where?" Mason asked. "Weren't we going all the way to the city?"

The girl slipped to the ground. A surprised look swept her face. "The city?"

"I thought that was where you lived?"

Mason followed her example and was standing at her side, staring around at the semi-circle of dark holes that pitted the side of the cliff. She swept her arm around, indicating the openings.

"But this is the city," she insisted. "You didn't think we were going to the ruins of the valley?"

Mason looked down again at the ruins. They still looked like a city of an advanced age to him.

He munched his lip reflectively, and decided he'd better keep his mouth and his mind shut tightly from now on.

"You win," he said. "Now that we're here, just where are we?"

She grasped his arm.

"Come. You must meet my father."

MASON followed her toward one of the caves. As they drew near, a pair of creatures emerged into the light and stared at them. They were evidently mates, because one of the brutes was undoubtedly male, with his hairy face and long, brutish skull. A leopard hide covered part of his stocky, long armed body. The other was thick lipped and bow legged. Her arms reached to her ankles. Not a pleasant-looking reception committee, Mason thought.

Then a thought occurred to him that was so horrible he refused to believe it even on the grounds of what had already happened.

"You—you aren't the daughter of these...?"

The girl stared at him, evidently puzzled by his odd expression. Then she fathomed his meaning.

"Oh dear no!" she said, and ran forward to grasp the arm of the cave-man. "Adam, I want you to meet—" she turned to Mason. "What did you say your name was?"

"Mason," he said gruffly. "Glad to meet you Adam. You got a nice place here."

That, he thought, should be the approved method of conversing with a prehistoric cave-man. The cave-man sauntered toward him, his hairy paw extended for a hand clasp.

"Really," Adam said in a shocked voice. "Cawn't you speak better English, Old Chum? Your speech is shocking."

MASON managed to go through the formalities of meeting Adam, and found out that Eva, his spouse, was also up on her London manners.

"So nice," she murmured through horsey lips. "We have so few visitors."

"Father and I never see anyone from the outside," Mason's guide broke in. "Father is at home, isn't he Adam?"

Adam smiled, and Mason was reminded of something from a double feature nightmare.

"Oh, yes indeed," Adam looked very concerned. "I shall announce you. Won't you follow me, Mr. Mason?"

Mason found strength to nod, and moved into the cave behind Adam and the girl. Eva went down the trail, softly singing something about Berkeley Square.

The cave was rough and ugly only at the entrance. Once inside they passed through an opened door and into a neat set of rooms. Typically English, the set-up beat anything Mason had ever paid fifty a month to live in.

Adam entered a small, well furnished living room and said:

"Mr. English. Your daughter has returned, and she has brought a guest to see you."

Mason heard the cultured reply.

"Quite! Bring them in, will you. I'm terribly involved with that plan to harness the ants. Sounds feasible, but it does have its nasty angles."

"I'm sure I can make suggestions of importance," Adam answered. "We must talk later."

"Quite."

The girl had grown impatient. She left Mason and ran into the living room.

"Daddy, will you forget your old business for a few minutes."

Mason saw Mr. English spring from his chair and take his daughter in his arms.

"Adam," English said in a stern voice. "Why didn't you tell me my daughter had returned?"

Adam looked crestfallen.

"I'm sorry, sir. I really meant to."

Mason decided he might as well announce himself. He stepped through the door and faced the party. Adam had announced them. There was no limit to the things that could happen here.

"Sounds like another slip in the script," he mumbled. "Hello, Mr. English. My name's Neal Mason."

"Mason?" English let go of his daughter and faced the newcomer. "Why I've heard that name somewhere. Let me think."

He was a slim, carefully attired man. There was only one thing odd about his clothing. He was completely equipped with a pith helmet, tan shirt and shorts. His knees were so skinny that the knee caps stood out like buttons. He wore a stiff, carefully waxed mustache.

"I know," he shouted. "Masons—those fellows who lay bricks."

If that was meant to be a joke, Mason thought grimly, you sure laid a brick.

But Mr. English seemed quite pleased.

"Masons—bricks. Haw! Haw! You're quite a brick yourself, Mason. But I don't think I ever saw you before."

Adam was waiting in the background. The girl stared at Mason over her father's shoulder, as though seeing him for the first time.

"Yes," she said sternly. "We don't think we've ever seen you before."

Mason groaned.

"I was in a teensy-weensy airplane," he said, grinding his teeth. "A great big storm came up and made me...."

"Oh!" The girl seemed satisfied. "You're the man I met by the river aren't you?" She turned to her father.

"Never mind, Daddy; it's Mr. Mason. He's quite all right. You can trust him."

MR. ENGLISH seemed to relax. He offered a thin, white hand. Mason took it and they shook heartily.

"Edward English is the full name," he said.

"Mine's Faun," the girl interrupted. She was pouting. "Faun English, if anybody cares."

Mason was asked to repeat his entire story from the time he left Buffalo.

He was interrupted several times by Edward English.

"I say, I was in Buffalo once. Isn't that the place where people ride over the Niagara Falls in barrels?"

Mason grimaced.

"It has happened," he admitted. "They don't make a regular habit of it."

Edward English chuckled.

"Americans make regular habits of the oddest things," he said. "Now, take the hot-dog for example."

"I'd like to," Mason admitted. "I'm half starved."

Adam received a lecture at this point for not having brought food.

"I told you to, you know," English insisted.

He had done no such thing, but Adam said he was sorry and returned several minutes later with a platter of roast beef and a bottle of liquid that tasted like next year's wine.

They dined heartily, and throughout the meal, Mason picked up information he was seeking. Edward English was an explorer. He had come here years ago, bringing his daughter and two friends with him. The trip was made from Peru, and during the darkness, one of the party stumbled into the upper valley. They all followed, and found that once they pulled their ropes after them, they could find no way out.

"But it isn't half bad," English admitted. "Quite the pleasantest place in the world, except for Freaze and Fitch."

"And who are they," Mason wanted to know.

"Freaze and Fitch," English said with extreme distaste, "were my partners. Once they visited the deserted city, they got wild ideas. They may be down there right now, planning another attack."

"Then they have fought with you, and gone their own way?" Neal asked.

The Englishman nodded.

"Freaze and Fitch wanted to live down there, but we refused. You see Adam needed us. We don't care to mix up with ghosts and such. We quarreled, and ever since they've been causing us trouble."

MASON was too far into this thing now to back down. Faun was very attractive, in spite of her odd viewpoints. He decided to learn more, and did.

The huge, super-modern city was a deserted tomb of the past. When he considered the manner in which the valley seemed planned, this wasn't surprising. Time, somehow, lost all sight of its true path and moved in any direction it wished. If a dinosaur could live with an Englishman and eagles could run away from ants, surely cave-men might retreat from deserted cities of the future.

The colorful pair, Freaze and Fitch, wanted to start a new civilization in the deserted city. When Edward English refused to donate his daughter to the enterprise, they were angry. They spent their time dreaming up ways of getting Faun into their city of spires.

Mason, pounding around somewhat later on a small bed that had been donated to him, took his place among the cave dwellers, and tried to reason out an escape from Planta. He hoped that the plan could include a way of bringing sanity back to Faun, and convincing her that Buffalo, with its barrels and falls, was a better place to live than the valley of Planta.

"BUT I tell you the plan is quite mad," Edward English insisted. "Freaze and Fitch won't help you. In fact, when they find out you are our guest, they'll throw us all in prison."

Neal Mason, Faun and her father were aboard Mo's broad back, moving down into the last valley of Planta. Ahead, the spires of the city were lost in the morning mist.

"Just take me close to the city," Mason begged. "You can turn back before anyone sees us. I'll go on alone."

Faun shuddered.

"They'll probably feed you to the giant ants," she said. "It's really a very unpleasant way to die."

Mason nodded.

"I imagine," he agreed. "But I'll have to take that chance. There's a war on and I've got to get out of this place somehow. You say they have an air-ship that will take me out. I'll take my own chances of talking them into the idea."

Edward English shrugged.

"I say old man, can't we convince you that Planta is a fine place to make your home? The war really doesn't need you, you know. There will be other wars later, and you might leave in time to sec one or two of them."

Mason shook his head. He had made up his mind.

They were leaving the jungle, and Mo ambled ahead easily across the grass-covered approach to the city. From here, with the first rays of the sun touching its highest towers, the city was even more lovely. Perhaps, Mason thought, I will be able to take home with me some of the ideas used here.

Someone had built this dream civilization, and died to leave it for the future. It might be possible to take plans home that could be used after the war.

Mo stopped, and tried ma sluggish manner to waggle his tail.

Edward English slipped to the ground and the others followed. Neal shook hands with both of them, noticed the look of warmth in Faun's eyes, and wondered a little at the perfectly sane expression of worry on her face.

"Be careful of Freaze and Fitch," she warned. "They may act friendly at first, but they're both insane."

Mason shook his head gravely. The pair couldn't be any worse than the things he had already seen in Planta. No one could be sane and live happily in this place.

"Follow the trail," English said. "It will lead you directly to the gate."

Mason stared at the beaten path through the grass.

"But it seems to circle the city," he protested.

"I know," English explained patiently. "Everything goes backward in Planta, but you'll reach the city by following the path."

Mason watched with a queer, lost feeling as the pair mounted Dina-Mo and went back toward the cliff. Then he turned and walked swiftly along the path.

THE city was surrounded by huge walls. At least this much wasn't futuristic. There was a deep, dry moat and a bridge that led across it. Mason trudged over the bridge and through the gate. Inside, long straight streets led directly toward the heart of the metropolis. The streets were smooth and hard as glass. The buildings, with no sign of life showing any place, looked like huge markers in a crazy sort of grave-yard. Above him thousands of feet in the air, the towers were interlaced with translucent highways that hung suspended without visible support. The sun sent thousands of colorful reflections darting about in every direction.

Mason took a deep breath and walked straight into the heart of the deserted city.

He walked about half a mile, still marveling at the perfect architecture, when he noticed a small, three-wheeled vehicle moving rapidly toward him. It resembled a common bicycle with a side car. The thing rolled abreast of him, and a man with a huge paunch nodded pleasantly and continued to roll by. His companion, a scrawny hairless individual, also ducked his head toward Mason and continued to stare straight ahead.

"Hey," Mason shouted, "aren't you Freaze and Fitch?"

The bicycle stopped abruptly and two heads jerked around to stare back at him. The big man who pedaled the bike stepped off the seat and placed his hands on his hips. He was the largest man Mason had ever seen. The stomach rolled down almost to his knees. His cheeks were puffed and red. He wore a tan shirt, brown knickers and a golf cap.

"I'm Freaze," he thundered. "What do you want?"

The little man in the side-car climbed out stiffly and edged to Freaze's side. He also wore knickers, and his bare, bony knees looked like two baseballs balanced between broomsticks.

"Yes, and I'm Fitch," the little fellow said frostily. "What do you want?"

Mason sighed. He had to go all over that again.

"Don't you ever speak to visitors?" he asked. "I came here to talk to you."

It seemed to dawn on Freaze suddenly that a stranger had entered their city. He moved toward Mason slowly, his belly rolling from side to side as he walked.

"Fitch," he called. "Why didn't you remind me that we were supposed to be all alone here?"

Fitch bowed his head.

"I'm—I'm afraid it never occurred to me," he admitted sheepishly.

Freaze bristled.

"See that it does in the future," he warned. "Why, this man may be a spy."

He surveyed Mason carefully. "What are you doing in Boston," he asked.

Mason gulped. "Boston?"

Little Fitch chuckled.

"He doesn't know our game," he said. "You see, we both came from Boston. It's a little less lonely if we pretend this is Boston. Now, if you came from Chicago, or somewhere else, you can call it whatever you wish. It's really been here too long to care what you call it."

Mason wished he had stayed in the comparatively sane home of Edward English.

"No," he said as pleasantly as possible. "Boston is good enough for me."

Fitch seemed vastly relieved.

"We thought it was a nice name," he agreed. "But, why are you here?"

"Yes," Freaze interrupted in an angry rumble. "It's a good thing we discovered you."

"But I discovered you," Mason protested. "You see, I was in a plane accident."

HE explained hurriedly what had happened. Neither of them interrupted until he finished. Then Freaze came closer to him. There were tears in Freaze's eyes. He put a massive hand on Mason's shoulder and squeezed.

"Tough, old man," he said. "But who told you we could help?"

"Some people I met up on the cliff," he admitted. "A Mr. English."

Fitch shuddered.

"Don't ever mention his name again," he pleaded.

"No," Freaze echoed. "The man's quite mad. We couldn't live with him. Now, about escaping from Planta. It's quite complicated. You see, the insects captured our air-machine, and we can't get it back again."

His companion started to sniffle loudly. He wiped the tears from his cheek.

"We worked so hard to build it," he said. "And the ants can't fly it. I don't know why they insist on fighting with us all the time."

An idea occurred to the ponderous Freaze.

"This isn't being very hospitable to our guest," he said suddenly. "We are just out for an airing. Let's go back and have breakfast."

THE building in which they lived was a small, stone affair fitted out with unreasonable reproductions of a Boston home. Nothing seemed to work, but an hour later Mason found himself comfortable and full of hot coffee and beans. Beans, it seemed, were another earmark of Boston living, and he learned later, the only dish that Fitch had ever learned to cook.

The pair seemed harmlessly crazy, and as yet had shown no signs of violence. Mason decided to accept their hospitality until some method of escape from Planta presented itself.

With them, he made a tour of the city and felt himself more and more awed by the places. At last they escorted him eagerly into a vast room below the level of the street. Through an inner door he could hear the hum of huge machinery.

Freaze was in the lead as they entered the room filled with humming dynamos. Mason's eyes bulged. It was the biggest power house he had ever seen. Below, the dynamos turned smoothly, and in the air above, a mass of gears and wheels spun at great speed, driving hundreds of twisting, turning blades. It looked like a factory of some kind, but what would be manufactured here, he couldn't guess.

With his hosts Mason circled the room, realizing at last that he was witnessing something quite sane. There was nothing unbelievable about this place. He had never seen anything so well cared for. The men must, after all, be geniuses to manage this alone. He turned to Freaze and saw that the big man's face was glowing proudly.

"You manage to keep this in perfect running order."

Freaze nodded and his eyes glittered.

Mason sighed.

"To think that I suspected you fellows were nuts. This must be something left behind when the future civilization left. I'd like to have the plans for reproducing it I've never seen anything so awe-inspiring in my life."

Little Fitch squeezed his arm and Freaze nodded.

"We made it ourselves," he admitted modestly. "It took a long time."

"But—that seems impossible."

"It isn't," Freaze assured him. "I'm quite clever at such things. We pondered over the design and changed the machinery that was here to fit our own specifications. It works perfectly."

Fitch shook his head in a bewildered manner.

"At least, we think it does," he offered humbly. "You see, we can't be quite sure, because we've never been able to make bread."

"Bread?" Mason's cheeks started to burn. He felt it coming. He placed both legs apart carefully and adjusted himself for the shock.

"What," he asked in choked voice, "has bread to do with it?"

Freaze looked genuinely stunned.

"Didn't you know?" he asked in a shocked voice. "This is our own design for a bread slicer."

MASON studied the fire for a long time, staring at the freshly lighted logs with deep concentration. One thing remained for him to do. He must escape from the valley, and do it before his mind was lulled into accepting the insane things he had seen.

He wondered if, in some ways, Planta with all its backward movement, wasn't preferable to a world torn asunder by war. Was there anything more insane than a group of countries fighting for peace, yet putting all their effort into producing death? Was Hitler any more sane than these men who sat with him in the upside-down world of Planta? He stared at the pinched, skinny figure of Fitch, then across the room at Freaze as the big man arose and added another log to the fire.

"Is there any chance of getting your air-ship away from the ants?" he asked.

Fitch opened one eye, regarded him without any particular expression and closed it again. Freaze seemed more inclined to talk.

"I'm not sure," he admitted. "We thought it over this afternoon, and we're making arrangements to try. We had some business to attend to first, but it's taken care of."

"Business?"

"English," Freaze said. "You probably thought it odd that we were prowling about so early this morning. When we met you were just returning from the prison."

Mason jerked erect. English? Prison?

"You—haven't seen English?" he asked suspiciously.

Freaze chuckled and Fitch said, with his eyes still closed:

"We captured English and his daughter this morning after you left them. That story about the ants getting our air-ship was phony. Do you think we're crazy?"

Mason was about to answer in the affirmative, but he felt it wiser to remain silent.

"We picked them up in the ship and they are quite comfortable in prison."

Freaze said moodily. "The girl will be handy to have around the house. I'm sick and tired of Fitch's beans and biscuits. I don't know what we'll do with her father."

Fitch's left eye flickered open.

"There's always the bread slicer," he suggested.

Mason shuddered.

"Yes," Freaze agreed. "We haven't tried it out yet. Something like the old melodrama of the villain in the saw mill."

THEY were silent for a long time.

Mason, not knowing what else to do, continued to stare into the fire. These two weren't so harmless after all. They had put Faun and her father in prison somewhere in the city.

He heard Fitch stir in his chair, but did not look at the scrawny man. At last Freaze's voice disturbed the silence once more.

"Did you feed the grasshoppers, Fitch?"

Fitch groaned.

"And how is the volcano growing today?" Freaze asked.

Fitch opened his eyes with an immense struggle.

"Oh for Heaven's sake, leave me alone," he begged. "The grasshoppers have eaten one of English's cave-men and they are content for the night. The volcano is growing well. Now, can I go to sleep?"

Mason wished he could go to sleep. Grasshoppers and volcanos? Would it be possible for him to make sense out of that combination? He'd have to try.

Although conditions in general weren't very clear, Neal Mason knew that it was his duty to help English and his daughter. It had been their trip here that trapped them, and he was responsible. After an hour the room grew very quiet. The fire died down, and Freaze and Fitch snored loudly. Even in their sleep they were perfect partners. Fitch caught the high, falsetto snores and carried them down to Freaze's deep, bass notes. Mason knew he didn't have a chance to help Faun and her father as long as he remained in the room. What better chance did he have, if he escaped?

His knowledge was confined to what they had shown him. One thing was clear. He'd stand a better chance to move freely once he had shaken this pair of madmen from his heels.

Mason stood up cautiously, yawned and stretched with both arms above his head. The action was casual, and neither man moved. The snoring dominated the room. Mason walked quietly to the door, out into the hall, and moved cautiously toward the street. Once outside he started to run. When a few hundred yards separated him from the sleeping pair, he paused in a doorway and caught his breath.

Now he could understand why Freaze and Fitch didn't get along well with Edward English. Faun's father might be nuts, but at least he was harmless. His new hosts had spoken casually of putting English into the bread slicer. Mason shuddered. It was pretty obvious that Faun's end would be no more pleasant.

Mason didn't know one street from the other in the dead city. He moved a few blocks away from the house and paused to take stock of the situation.

He could return to the cliff and get Adam's friends to help save English. But, could he find his way to the cliff alone? And, if he did so, would there be time? Freaze and Fitch would discover his absence sometime between now and morning.

The dead city was lighted partially by a glowing red that tinged the sky.

The color seemed to grow strong, then fade again, as Mason watched it. A slight rumble shook the earth. It seemed to come from some spot near the outside wall.

Drawn by curiosity, Mason made his way toward the sound. He had walked half a mile, and the light grew brighter as he moved toward it.

At last he came to an open space between two tall towers. A small building had caved in, and the pit was filled with fiery, red lava that boiled up to the surface. The heat was terrific.

Mason paused. He remembered Fitch's words:

"The volcano is growing nicely."

Fitch's words made sense. Mason was witnessing the birth of a volcano. Lava spewing over the edges of the pit, was building up a wall already three feet high. Mason knew that the most powerful force in Planta was not the few human beings who had come here. The hellish force of the place would be blamed on a small part of logic that had gone hog-wild. The strange valley contained all that was old and new, and a few things that even cold logic could not unravel.

HE was startled by a loud snort be-hind him. Mason pivoted and a chuckle escaped his lips. "Mo!"

Dina-Mo looked ludicrous standing there in the dim light, his tail thumping the surface of the street. With the light of the newly born volcano on Mo's face, the dinosaur looked like a dragon. Mason shivered. He hadn't seen a dragon yet. Perhaps he stilt had that little surprise in store for him.

Then the meaning of Mo's presence dawned upon him.

"The girl," he asked forgetting that Mo couldn't talk. "Where is she?"

Mo seemed to sense what Mason wanted. He turned and lumbered away sedately. The street shook beneath him, Mason followed at a fast walk, careful to stay out of range of Mo's tail. He hurried down the street after Mo who seemed to know just where he was going.

At last Mo halted and pushed his neck through the entrance of a large building. The dinosaur tried to heave his vast bulk into the hall, but a few bricks fell and he remained wedged. While Mo was in the way, Mason couldn't get in himself. He had no doubt now that Faun and her father were somewhere inside.

He went as close as he dared to the tail, and kicked it gently with his boot. Mo backed out, staring down at Mason with hurt expression. Mason dashed past him into a dark hall. Inside, he could hear nothing. Mo's head came back through the door and stared at him expectantly. The long neck swished through the darkness and indicated that Mason should follow the stairs that led downward. Mason hurried across the lobby and down the steps at which Mo pointed. It was even darker below the street level. He moved cautiously and at last reached a basement.

Somewhere ahead of him in the long hall, he could see a light. He ran toward it. There was a small door at the end of the hall. The light came through a small barred window. Thoughtlessly, Mason threw the door open and stepped inside.

Freaze and Fitch were seated calmly on a long bench at one side of the cell. On the other side, Edward English and his daughter sat on the floor. From their expressions, Mason knew he wasn't alone in his grief for pulling a blunder.

Freaze drew a long barreled gun with a huge handle, and pointed it gravely at Mason's chest.

"We've been expecting you," he said. "Rather inconsiderate, getting us up in the middle of the night."

"My goodness, yes," Fitch chimed in. "Now you've spoiled everything. We'll have to slice you and English at the same time. Quite bloody, don't you think?"

Neal Mason was blind with anger. He owed a lot to the pair who were held prisoner here. More than he could pay back if he didn't make a break soon. He forgot the pistol that Freaze pointed at him. He forgot his personal safety in an attempt to help Faun.

"You dim-wits," he shouted. "Now I'm doing the talking. We're going out of here, and we're leaving right now. If either of you try to stop us, I'll...."

Freaze had turned to Fitch, as Mason shouted. Fitch winked and nodded his head calmly. Mason tried to dodge, but it was too late. Freaze lifted the pistol and a blast of fire exploded in Mason's face. He heard Faun scream with fear, and felt as though his shoulder had suddenly shrivelled and fallen off. Then the whole building seemed to shake above them, and the walls started to crumble.

"Quick, outside," Fitch shouted. "The volcano."

He knew that they were running, and that Faun was kneeling at his side. Then the pain in his shoulder became unbearable and he passed out.

"WE had quite a time of it, sir," Mason heard the soft cultured voice close to his elbow and opened his eyes. His head ached badly. He saw Adam and Eva sitting close to each other. They were staring across the table at Edward English. Mason closed his eyes and sighed. He was safe again.

"I asked several men to help me." It was Adam's voice again, droning along smoothly. "We entered the city just as the volcano erupted. Only a minor eruption, but it shook things up badly."

"I know," he heard English say. "The building from which you rescued us crumpled just after we escaped. I think the American is all right. I'm worried somewhat about Faun. She was struck on the head by a flying brick."

Mason's eyes flew open. He struggled to one elbow.

"Faun—hurt?"

English turned to him gravely.

"Yes. She's still unconscious. I'm afraid the blow might effect her mind."

Mason realized at this moment just how much the girl really meant to him. He didn't care if she was sane or crazy, he wanted her to recover. Wanted her to know how much he cared for her.

"I'm glad that you're feeling better, sir." Adam arose and rambled over like a huge wolf, to arrange the dressing on Mason's head. "Freaze and Fitch escaped, but my men managed to get you back safely."

"But the volcano?" Mason asked. "What happened to the city?"

English chuckled.

"The city is still there," he said. "Although I wish it wasn't. The volcano is only a small one. It started last night and is growing swiftly. It may cause trouble sooner or later, but at present it topples a few deserted buildings to the earth and subsides."

"May I see Faun now?" English nodded.

"She's in her room," he said. "Eva, will you...?"

Eva gathered her ponderous legs under her and stood up.

"If you'll follow me, Mr. Mason?"

Mason wasn't too sure of his legs. He walked slowly, following the huge Eva down a short hall and into Faun's room. Mason stood in the open door, staring down at the girl on the bed. Eva hovered over the girl for a minute, then retreated and closed the door behind her. Mason went to the side of the bed and bent close to Faun's face. She was breathing evenly, eyes closed, one soft arm stretched above her head on the pillow.

She looked so helpless that Mason wanted to pick her up and ride away on Dina-Mo to a place where they could never be found again. He placed his hand on her arm and she stirred in her sleep. Her lips parted.

She was regaining consciousness.

Mason rubbed her wrist gently and watched as the wide eyes opened and stared up at him. She rose weakly on her elbow and stared around the room. Then her eyes returned to him, and her pupils dilated with fear.

"Who are you?"

Mason gulped. Good Lord, had she lost her memory?

"Faun," he said gently. "Don't talk. Don't tire yourself. You're very sick. You need rest."

The fright didn't leave her face. She shrank back, drawing the covers close to her.

"Who are you?"

"Mason," he said patiently. "Neal Mason. Perhaps I'd better call your father."

He started to leave, but she grasped his hand tightly in her own and held on.

"Why did you call me Faun?" she whispered.

Mason shuddered. It was worse than he thought.

"I'll call your father at once," he said. "He'll explain."

The girl continued to hold him lightly.

"Don't go, Neal," Her voice was suddenly tender. "I can't imagine why you act so queerly. After all, you have every right to be here."

MASON could feel it coming. By now, he sensed the things that were to happen in Planta. They were always twice as bad as he thought they would be, and his mind told him to prepare for a shock.

"Mrs. Neal Mason," the girl said dreamily.

Mason's body grew tense. Had he heard correctly?

"Mrs. Neal Mason," she repeated solemnly. "Neal, dear, you can't pretend you don't know me. We've spent so many happy hours in Buffalo."

Mason felt the hair prickle on the back of his neck. He drew away as far as he could, not daring to force her hand from his arm.

"Faun," he said. "Faun, for God's sake, stop the raving, will you?"

She didn't seem to hear him.

"It's wonderful to be with you again, Neal." Her voice was romantically tender. "We have had so much fun together, and I'm looking forward to doing it all over again."

"Doing what?"

"Riding in the barrel," she said wistfully. "Over Niagara Falls in a barrel."

Her eyes closed and a pensive smile lighted her face.

"Thank God," Mason said thoughtfully. He watched her fingers relax and slip from his arm.

He left the room quietly.

"MY daughter suffers under the delusion that you are her husband," Edward English said sternly. "It is your duty to discourage her in every way."

Mason stared out over the valley toward the dead city. It was close to night and shadows played across the spires until the whole scene seemed like something out of a dream. He thought of Faun's suggestion that they spend their happy hours going over Niagara Falls in a barrel. The idea didn't appeal to him.

"I'll do everything possible," he promised. "Just what is wrong with the girl?"

English acted surprised.

"Nothing," he said, "other than this foolish idea that she has had since the accident in the city."

"But Planta—the animals here—the way various people react? Surely you don't claim Planta and its inhabitants are all sane?"

Edward English bristled visibly.

"And just what have we done to suggest that our minds aren't sound?"

Mason remembered something he had heard in college. When a person is entirely sane, he sometimes worries about going crazy. Actually, the very fact that he worries about it is a pretty good sign that he is normal. On the contrary, the person who never doubts his own soundness of mind, is perhaps moving in the wrong direction. For example, he thought, I've seen a Napoleon at the state institute who never for an instant doubted that he personally fought Wellington at Waterloo.

English was like that. To him, the valley was a normal place. Therefore, English himself couldn't even stand Mason's reference to the subject. Mason wondered dully if there was any way of curing the girl.

"I suppose you haven't discarded your plan of escape from Planta," Edward English asked almost too eagerly. "No," Mason admitted. He wondered why English had been so anxious for him to stay before. Now he seemed ready and willing for him to get out speedily.

"I'm glad," English admitted. "You aren't safe now, because Freaze and Fitch will try to kill you again. I think I can lead you to their air-ship. I know something of its motors as I helped design them. I'll do everything possible to help you out."

Mason wasn't listening. In the direction of the dead city the sky started to glow an ugly red. The volcano was building itself higher, starting to throw out its nightly barrage of lava and flame.

The ground rumbled slightly and the sky grew bright.

"That volcano is going to cause plenty of trouble," he said. "You may feel the effects of it here sooner or later." English chuckled.

"Freaze and Fitch will get a hotfoot," he said. "The volcano will never be large enough to effect us."

As he spoke, Mason could see the distant rim of fire growing higher into the air. Last night it was a few feet above ground. Now it had risen until even at a distance, the rim seemed dozens of feet in the air.

"I'd like to start as soon as possible," he said. "If we could reach that air-ship tonight, I'd get out of here and stop imposing on your hospitality."

English was visibly pleased with the idea.

"No hurry," he said. "We will wait until morning."

Mason grimaced in the darkness. English wasn't in a hurry, but he intended to see Mason out of the valley before another twenty-four hours passed. Mason didn't mind much, except for Faun. He lay awake a long time that night, wondering about Edward English's charming, slap-happy daughter.

WHEN morning came, it seemed almost impossible to venture into the valley where Freaze and Fitch had hidden their machine. Mason awoke early and went out to the ledge that overlooked the valley.

Nature had gone mad again. The sky was filled with bits of flying pumice and the sun was blotted out almost completely. In the dimness of the valley he could see the faint outline of a huge mountain. The top of the mountain was seething with molten rock. Lava flowed steadily over the rim of the huge crater, and spread out below.

The volcano had grown to full size overnight.

Mason turned toward the cave to arouse the others, but English was already on his way out.

The man was choking and coughing because of the dust filled air.

"For Heaven's sake, Mason...."

English stopped short, staring down at the thing that took place below them. His mouth dropped open alarmingly.

"Talk of a volcano, and there it is," Mason said solemnly. "Everything happens in this place."

The sky was growing black. The steady roar of the growing mountain killed every other sound.

The valley of Planta couldn't stand many hours of this. They would all be doomed.

"But—but I said it couldn't happen," English protested. "It's impossible."

Mason nodded.

"Supposing you go down and tell it," he suggested dryly. "I've seen volcanos, but I've never watched one being born. Perhaps this is not the correct procedure."

English turned back to the cave.

"We will arouse the others," he said.

"How about the air-ship?" Mason asked. "Weren't you going to lead me to it this morning?"

English shrugged and looked apprehensively into the maw of swirling darkness below.

"Perhaps I'd better take Faun with us. I'm quite sure we are all safe, but if anything should happen to the valley . . ."

"We might make an escape in the ship," Mason suggested.

English didn't answer. He had disappeared hurriedly into the cave.

THE air was terrible. Mason held tightly to Mo's back, his arm around the girl. English was sitting behind them, trying to pretend the whole thing didn't trouble him. The valley wasn't pleasant, but the air was still clear enough to breath.

"The air-ship is hidden east of the city," English said. "If Freaze and Fitch haven't already escaped, we will find it there."

Mason couldn't quite understand on what terms he should accept Faun after her declaration of last night. She hadn't spoken since they started. Her eyes darted suspiciously toward her father, then into the semi-twilight of the dust laden air. Her grip on Mason's arm remained firm.

Mo turned away from the trail and started to push his way through dense jungle. For a long time none of them spoke. Then the roar of the volcano stopped and the dust started to settle. The air was better, and they stopped at a stream for a drink.

Toward noon the country cleared and they found themselves on an open meadow. Mason recognized places he had seen when he first came to the valley.

Ahead of them the flash of metal touched by the returning sun caught his eye. English kicked Mo gently on the side and Mo moved forward more swiftly. The air-ship, a bright cigar-shaped thing sat on the floor of a small gully. Mason stared with admiration as Mo eased his bulk down into the gully and stopped. The ship was a dream craft of the future.

"Be careful when you approach," English's voice was low. "They may be here already."

Mason followed him to the ground and helped Faun down. She held his hand tightly and they walked toward the ship. Mo remained where he was, his neck swinging back and forth rhythmically.

English reached the door. He drew it open, then stood there, his expression changing from triumph to deadly fear.

"Freaze!"

The ponderous bulk of Freaze eased out of the door. He held his huge pistol before him, aimed straight at English's chest.

"Step inside, folks," he said in a hearty, welcoming voice. "You walk into more traps, don't you?"

Fitch's voice came from within.

"Come on in Mr. English. The volcano is quite a problem, isn't it? We thought we'd meet you here, because we were careful to let you know where the ship was kept."

The three of them stood in the sunlight near the door, watching Freaze's weapon and wondering what would happen next. It took a lot of nonsense to bewilder Mason, but this was the end to all of it. Something in Freaze's eyes told him that Freaze meant to use the pistol, and use it soon.

"LOOK here," Mason said. "I'll see that you all get rewarded for the job of getting me out of there. You haven't anything against English's daughter or myself. How about letting us go."

Freaze's eyes flashed dangerously.

"English's daughter," he bustled forward, pushing English aside. "Faun's our daughter, at least as much as she is English's."

Mason felt the girl shrink against him.

"I don't think I understand," he said slowly.

"Then I'll make it clear," Freaze said loudly. "We three left our home together." He pronounced 'our home' haltingly as though seeking the right words. "We stole Faun together and she belongs to all of us. That's fair, isn't it?"

Mason's mind was working a mile a minute. They had kidnapped the girl. Then she wasn't necessarily crazy at all. He thought of the reference Freaze made to 'our home.'

"You didn't escape yourselves, did you?" he asked calmly. "Perhaps from a place with barred windows and high walls?"

Freaze's eyes became cunning. He turned and stared at English. Fitch's thin face appeared at the door of the ship.

"Be careful, Freaze," Fitch caution. "He's trying to trap you."

Freaze's gaze returned to Mason.

"He isn't trapping anyone," he said coldly. "Sure we escaped from a place like you describe. They all think we're crazy. We aren't crazy. We like Planta and we understand it. You're going to escape, sure enough. Escape through the door of the ship when we've gone a mile or two above the valley. It won't hurt. You won't even feel the earth when you hit it."

Mason's teeth clicked together tightly. His fists clenched. The girl at his side seemed to understand. She threw her arms tightly around his waist.

"You can't kill Mr. Mason," she said quietly. "He's my husband."

Freaze pivoted toward English.

"Is she married? Is she telling the truth?"

Edward English smiled. He smiled deliberately, as though he had just played a fine joke on someone and intended to get the full benefit of it.

"Yes," he said calmly. "Adam married them last night. They are man and wife."

Freaze seemed stunned. The pistol hung loosely in his grasp. He turned to Mason and two large tears welled up and dripped down his cheeks.

"Married," he gulped solemnly. "And all the time I had hoped...."

Mason wondered what had prompted English to say what he had. There must be a terrible hatred among these men. A hatred that made English's words a gesture of triumph.

Little Fitch stepped out of the ship and walked to Freaze's side. He patted him on the shoulder.

"There, there," he said. "This complicates matters little. We can straighten out everything by killing the husband."

Freaze brightened.

"That's right," he admitted. "Now, if you'll all step inside, we can take off."

IN the next half hour, Neal Mason had little opportunity to plan escape. Freaze threw him into a small cabin and locked the door. For some time he thought the ship had taken off. He heard the motors roar fitfully, then die down to a smooth hum. The ship rolled over slightly and rocked back and forth.

Then a loud commotion came from the corridor. The door to Mason's cell flew open and Freaze rushed in.

"You'll have to help us." His expression was desperate. "The insects are attacking."

The monster's teeth clashed against the metal of the hull.

Mason knew enough about the insects to realize that, were they all the size of the ants he had seen, the ship was in for trouble.

Outside the cell Fitch was running excitedly up and down trying to explain to Edward English how the huge turret-guns were fired. Freaze dragged Mason down the corridor talking excitedly as he ran.

"We are unable to take off. The insects have been trying to break their way into the ship for some time. For a while we were able to keep them away with our side arms. We have two heavy cannon turrets, but it takes two men to load and fire them. We're all in this together, you know."

Mason had no intention of refusing to help. They reached the stern of the ship and Freaze led the way up through an intricate system of ladders into the small turret.

Mason was amazed at what few details he had seen inside the ship. The turret was large enough to hold two men. It swung about swiftly in any direction simply by pressing the turning lever with the foot. Freaze seated himself in the revolving saddle of the gun and drew down the lever that opened the barrel.

"Just watch me, and when I fire, reload from the shell carrier that comes up from below," he howled.

Mason threw a shell into the breach and stepped back. His eyes were on the narrow slits of the turret watching the scene outside the ship. As he watched, the enormous head of a grasshopper reared into sight and felt the impact of the mammoth insect as it came down forcefully against the outer armor of the ship. At that instant, Freaze swore and let go a charge directly into the grasshopper's underside. The thing crumpled up and slipped slowly out of sight.

At the far end of the ship, the other cannon opened up on a monster that was at least the size of the ship itself. The crawling alligator, like a lizard, shot out a tongue that wrapped around the turret and threatened to tear it from its moorings. At that instant, Fitch and Edward English evidently got their cannon working, because three shots came in rapid succession, blowing the tongue into red, bloody shreds. The lizard backed away and roared in pain. It scuttled into the jungle, leaving broken and uprooted trees in its wake.

HOW long Mason fought, he didn't know. Each moment seemed a repetition of the last. The guns were never cool, and the insect horde swept toward them endlessly.

The giant ants were here and their solid, armored bodies were difficult to knock out. Mason watched the ponderous Freaze closely. Freaze was beginning to wear down under the battle. Finally he had enough. He climbed out of the gun-saddle and turned a sweating, dirty face to Mason.

"This isn't getting us anyplace. Fitch couldn't get the ship off the ground. I'm going to try it. If you can keep the gun going alone, we might be able to break loose."

Mason nodded and took his place in the saddle. Freaze tossed in a shell and climbed down the ladder into the body of the ship. For the next ten minutes, Mason loaded and fired the gun alone. It was a slow, back-breaking job, but it worked.

The insects were drawing away gradually, reluctant to face the death meeted out from the two turrets. As he loaded for the tenth time, Mason heard the engines turning over slowly somewhere up front. Then the sound increased to a roar of power and fire shot from the exhaust tanks of the stern.

Now he knew why the insects were retreating. The sky was growing dark once more with volcanic dust. He turned the turret until he could look in the direction of the city. It wasn't visible. A black curtain hid it from sight, and as he watched, fire shot thousands of feet into the sky, and floated down like bloody rockets.

The ship lurched into an upright position, and before he could grasp the situation, the earth was falling rapidly away below them.

They were flying.

Flying so swiftly that the earth seemed to fade away below at a dizzy pace. Rising above the valley, Mason stared back and thanked his stars that the ship had finally taken off.

Everything below the rim of the cliffs was covered by black, pumice-like dust. Out of the dust, the flames of the volcano roared with increasing power.

Even to the last, Planta had remained true to its history of doing things wrong. A volcano, mountainous in proportions, had been born in a few short days. A volcano in which Nature outdid herself and destroyed the other things she had worked so hard to build.

IN the control room of the air-ship, Mason, Freaze and Fitch, English and his daughter met for a conference. Freaze acted as spokesman. He was ill at ease, but seemed determined to see that justice was done.

"Fitch and I have been thinking it over," he admitted, "and we've talked with English about it. We think we'll return to the United States and give ourselves up."

Mason, taken completely by surprise, was amazed by Freaze's words.

"But—I thought you were English. That you came from somewhere in England?"

Fitch chuckled.

"We came from Brooklyn," he said. "At least, from a place just outside of Brooklyn. Faun, that's just what we call her, is a nurse. Her real name is Sally—Sally Peters."

Mason turned swiftly to Edward English.

"Is he telling the truth?"

To his amazement, Sally herself answered him.

"He certainly is." She crossed the tiny room and looped her arm through Mason's. "Perhaps I ought to say a few words at this confession party. I was in charge of these three men at the institution. Honestly, Neal, you wouldn't believe it, but they're three swell fellows. I knew they planned to escape, and I just humored them and pretended not to know."

Fitch chuckled.

"She thought we were going to run away where we could be easily caught, but we fooled her. We asked her to go along, and she promised to do it. But when she found out we had stolen an airplane, she got scared."

Mason looked at Sally Peters and the girl smiled.

"They were clever. They took me aboard the plane and I tried to talk them out of the idea. I talked to them for a long time. In fact, until we crashed in Planta."

"But—why did you act so strangely when I was with you," Mason asked. "You could have told me. Instead you seemed as—as odd as they were."

"I know," Sally admitted. "But, I had a job. I had to take care of these three until somehow we could return. I pretended to enter into all their schemes, because I knew they were harmless to each other. But you were an outsider, and if I paid any attention to you, they'd all be angry. I tried to act as I thought they'd want me to." Edward English chuckled. "Only a madman can act like a madman," he said. "We thought Sally looked pretty silly. Last night, when I told Freaze and Fitch that you two weren't really married, they flew into a rage. We all think that you should marry Sally just as soon as we get back."

"Back?" Mason asked. "Back where?"

Freaze consulted the instrument panel on the wall.

"Back to the States," he said. "We're about five hundred miles off New York right now."

"But why do you want to return," Mason asked. "It will be safe to leave us and escape before the authorities find you."

Edward English sighed.

"We're tired of wandering around," he admitted. "It used to be so quiet before we escaped."

"So quiet," Fitch echoed.

FITCH, Freaze and English were safely in New York. Mason, with one arm around the girl at his side, the other at the controls of the cigar shaped air-ship, sighted Lake Erie and figured his bearings for the Buffalo airport.

It wasn't officially recorded what reception the strange ship received, but it can be imagined the greeting Neal Mason and his bride got upon landing in Buffalo after the first stage of their honeymoon trip was completed.

Sally Peters, now Sally Mason, waited proudly as her husband greeted friends who had given him up for dead. Then, with the ship in the hands of curious engineers and mechanics, the newlyweds retired to a hotel room overlooking Niagara Falls, and proceeded to forget all about the idea of going over the falls in a barrel.

Neal Mason's return to the airport on the following afternoon can be recorded by reporters who were there at the time, clambering all over the ship and predicting that it was a new secret weapon designed by Mason's employers.

Mason himself had carelessly dropped the remark that the ship would probably be valuable to the war effort.

To find out how valuable it was, he went at once to the office of the Chief Engineers, and confronted Charlie Waters, the big boss.

Waters was a robust, red faced little man who had designed a dozen fine planes. His expression told Neal that something was wrong before they exchanged words.

"Did you have a chance to look the job over?" Mason asked.

Charlie Waters nodded.

"Well, what's the verdict? At least I brought something home to make up for wrecking a good plane."

Waters shrugged.

"Don't let this come as a shock, Neal," he begged. "But if you'll explain to us how that ship works, we'll be glad to copy your plans."

"But it's simple," Mason insisted. "They showed me how to work the controls and I flew it in from New York."

Waters shook his head.

"Neither you, nor any other man, could fly that tin cigar. There isn't a part in it that makes sense. It must have been tossed together by a maniac. I tell you, Mason, it won't even fly."

Mason was getting angry.

"But it did. I flew it myself."

Charlie Waters shook his head slowly back and forth.

"I'm sorry, Neal, but the thing hasn't a single feature that makes sense. If I saw you land in it myself, I'd still claim it couldn't be done. Better go home and stick to flying our crates, Neal. That hunk of junk won't sell for the cost of the metal that's in it."

All of which proves it's the other man who's crazy.

THE END

Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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