LEROY YERXA
(WRITING AS LEE FRANCIS)

STONE GODDESS OF YUNAN

RGL e-Book Cover 2019^©

First published in Amazing Stories August 1943
This e-book edition: Roy Glashan's Library, 2019
Version Date: 2019-0-29
Produced by Matthias Kaether and Roy Glashan

The text of this book is in the public domain in Australia.
All original content added by RGL is protected by copyright.

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Amazing Stories, August 1943, with "The Stone Goddess of Yunan"

When this Flying Tiger flew in pursuit of an elusive Jap plane, it led him to the cave of a murder cult and to a stone goddess who was alive!

Headpiece from Amazing Stories, August 1943.

THE room was large and furnished with cast-off furniture, typical of rented conference rooms in middle class hotels. There were thirty-five men, lounging about in various stages of boredom. A blue haze of cigarette smoke drifted like fog through the sun rays that came in the window. The "old man" sat behind a plain, pine table.

He was about thirty, but he looked much older. His hair was stone gray and bushy eyebrows drooping down almost covering the healthy brown eyes and the crows-foot wrinkles that darted from their corners.

"Part of the story was outlined to you months ago," his voice was low and clear. "You've heard the rest of it this afternoon. You will meet at Dock 17 tomorrow and be prepared to leave the States for a period of at least one year. Any questions?"

Bob, Reagan arose from the chair where he had been fidgeting for the better part of an hour.

Reagan was young, not over twenty-three. He was slim and well built and his voice reflected a certain recklessness that effected everything he did.

"Yes, sir. If you don't mind, why not tell us the ship we sail on? It's too late now for that to do any harm."

Commander Walker smiled. The smile wrinkled the crows-feet and made them deeper. His lips remained firm.

"It's never too late for a torpedo to stop us," he said. "Reagan, I know you fellows can't realize quite what you're up against. This job demands a hundred pilots because that's all the planes we can buy at the present time. Out of the hundred boys who go over, it's hard to tell who will come back."

He hesitated, his face growing sober.

"I feel it's only fair to say that not more than thirty percent will return here alive."

There was silence in the room. Walker let his eyes wander back to Reagan's.

"It's not too late for any of you to change your mind," he said.

Reagan grinned.

"If you're saying that for my sake, Commander, forget it. It's just that I'm supposed to get a cake from home in a few days. I hate like hell to miss it."

Laughter swept the room, and Walker stood up.

"That's all, fellows," he said. "Tomorrow night at seven. Dock 17. You'll be registered as salesmen, businessmen and every other classification on the books. Until we reach Rangoon, just remember none of you ever saw a plane."

He stepped off the slightly raised platform, and went out the side door.

The group of men broke up. Pairing off, they went out into the early San Francisco afternoon.

AT the hotel door Bob Reagan waited. A stout, moon-faced boy came out and stood grinning at him. "Well, Bob, looks like it's come." Reagan grinned.

"Good thing you guessed it, Crash. That diet last week put you just two pounds under the flying limit."

Walton walked at his side toward the down-town district. Below them the broad, circular bay shimmered in the sun. A Catalina flying boat ripped up the surface and took to the air with a roar.

"What was the gag, Reagan?" Walton asked. "I didn't get that question you asked the old man. You ain't got no one who'll be sending cakes."

Reagan looked behind him quickly. The street was deserted.

"It's that Chinaman, Wong," he said slowly. "Walker refuses to tell us the ship we sail on, and yet I'll swear Wong already knows. He's sailing tomorrow night and I'll give you odds that he'll be on the same boat."

They reached the hotel where Reagan had taken a room, picked up the key and started toward the elevator. The desk clerk called after them.

"Just a moment, Mr. Reagan, a gentleman was here. Left a message for you."

Reagan turned back.

"Message? I don't know anyone in Frisco."

The clerk seemed surprised.

"This gentleman was Chinese," he insisted. "Knew your name and all about you. He left this letter."

Reagan took the letter and followed Walton to the elevator. Once inside he opened it. To the elevator boy he said, "Seven," and then started to read hurriedly. A puzzled frown crossed his face.

"Well I'll be damned." He folded the letter and pushed it into his pocket.

Walton stared at him.

"Out with it," he begged. "Mystery notes and you won't let me read 'em?"

"Seven," the elevator boy announced.

Reagan's room was at the far end of the hall near the fire escape. As they walked down the hall, Reagan took the note out again and passed it to Walton. He read the message while Reagan produced his key and admitted them.

Your last visit to China was not pleasant. I predict a vastly more unhappy journey this time, unless you change your mind at once.

Beware of the twisted rope.

Wong.

A whistle escaped Walton's lips. He followed Reagan inside and closed the door carefully. Reagan crossed the room and looked out on the fire escape. He drew the curtain and pressed the light switch.

"Interesting warning," he was burning with anger. "Wong is going to step too far out of the line some day and be sorry for it."

WALTON flopped down on the bed.

The springs protested under his weight.

"Bob, who the hell is this Wong?"

Reagan seated himself in a small chair and put his booted feet on the bed. He took a cigarette from his case, lit it, and started to puff on it slowly.

"When I was in China," he said, "I came out by the way of Burma and took my boat at Rangoon. I found a Chinese shop there and picked up a little stone Buddha. You've seen it often at the barracks."

Walton nodded.

"A five-inch affair; a fat-bellied buddha with a rope twisted around his neck?"

Reagan nodded.

"It seems that after this Chinaman sold me the thing, he found out it was very valuable. He met me at the dock and tried to bully me into selling it back."

"Which made you stubborn and you told him to go to hell," Walton added. Reagan grinned.

"That's the story. He threatened me, saying that if I ever returned, he'd make the place miserable for me. After that I forgot about him. I came back home, got tired of doing nothing and joined the flying service. Last month Wong came to me himself, asking about the buddha. I told him I guessed I had lost the thing. He wasn't satisfied. Told me he knew I planned to return to China and gave me another warning. I kicked him out."

Reagan went to his suitcase and drew out a small stone object. He tossed it to Walton.

"This is the buddha Wong sold me in Rangoon."

Walton moved ponderously from the bed. He picked up the stone image and turned it in his hands.

"Something about this thing don't make sense," he said.

"I know," Reagan agreed. "Most buddhas are alike, but this one has a rope about his neck, twisted into a knot behind the ear. Its expression is tortured. That's why I picked it up. The damned thing still intrigues me."

"One more thing," Walton asked, "you wanted to know what ship we sail on. What's this about Wong sailing with us?"

"Just a matter of guess work," Reagan assured him. "I found out that Wong registered at this hotel but checked out the same night he came in. I figured he saw my name on the register and decided to head elsewhere.

"I called half a dozen hotels and at last found he was registered at the Downing. They told me I'd have to see him at once because he was leaving tomorrow night on a Dutch ship, the Holland Maid..."

CRASH!

THE glass of the window behind Reagan crushed in, showering splinters on the carpet. A man with small slanted eyes hit the floor and bounded forward. Walton, still holding the buddha, slipped it quickly under the mattress on his side of the bed. Reagan whirled around.

"One moment please."

Reagan whirled again, this time toward the door.

The door had opened silently. A tall, distinguished looking Chinese stood just inside. He held a silencer-snouted automatic pistol trained on them. The little oriental who had come through the window crouched before Reagan.

"Wong," Reagan's eyes widened, "what the hell...?"

Wong's yellow, wrinkled face held a triumphant expression.

"Good afternoon, Mister Reagan. I trust my man did not frighten you. It was necessary to focus your attention on the window so that I might enter."

Unexpectedly Reagan swung hard, hitting the oriental with a terrific uppercut. The man twisted and fell with a groan.

At the same time, Wong's gun spoke. Reagan dropped to the floor, rolled over and was on his feet again, weaving in with incredible swiftness. Wong raised the gun to fire, but Walton came across the room, hitting him like a freight train. They went down in a ball of clawing, fighting flesh. The gun coughed again as Reagan started to separate them. The shot tore into the ceiling.

The oriental Reagan had knocked down was arising slowly, cautiously. He had had enough. Unseen he slipped toward the window.

Reagan managed to wrench the automatic from Wong's grasp and Walton sat on the Chinese's belly.

"Get the other one," Walton shouted. Reagan turned. At the window he stopped. The man was already two floors down, dropping from floor to floor with great speed.

Reagan returned to the pair on the floor.

"Let him up," he said.

WALTON crawled off his captive and Wong stood up. He brushed dust off his suit carefully.

"Your friend is rather rough," he said.

"The next time you show your face around me, you'll be on the receiving end of this thing," Reagan snapped. He held the automatic in Wong's face. "Now, get out before I change my mind and call the police."

Wong's face expressed no emotion. He turned and left the room. Reagan waited until he heard the elevator door clang. Then he chuckled.

"Plenty of action before we start fighting," he said. "Where in hell did you manage to hide that statue so quick?"

Walton went to the bed and reached under the mattress. His face turned an embarrassed red. Furiously he felt around on the spring but he couldn't find the buddha. He straightened, his mouth hanging open foolishly.

"I—I—damned if I know what to say. I put it there under the mattress. The little guy who came in the window must have taken it. It's gone."

Reagan's face was grim.

"So Wong managed that little production all by himself," he said. "I might have known it was too smooth. Shouldn't have let him get away."

"Can't we follow him?" Walton asked eagerly.

"I don't think it will be necessary. Wong is smart. If he has tickets to sail tomorrow night, our being on the same ship won't frighten him. I've an idea we can turn out to be a little more clever than he thinks we are. The buddha wasn't so important, but if I get another crack at Wong, he's going to, think an earthquake hit him."

FRANCES WALKER sat quietly in the taxi as it rolled through narrow streets and halted near the end of Dock 17. It was just six forty-five in the evening. The cab driver turned in his seat.

"Seventeen, Miss," he said, and released the catch on the door. He pulled the bill from the meter and passed it to her.

Frances Walker, was a very resourceful young girl. The dark green suit, smoothly combed black hair that came neatly down to the white collar of her blouse, were marks of a business-like, self-contained woman. She bit her lip impatiently, gave up trying to corner a last quarter in the depths of the purse, and passed the driver two dollars.

"Thanks. Keep the change. I'm in a hurry."

She ran across the rain-swept dock and found cover under the high roof. Walking swiftly she found the outer end of the wharf and faced the huge bulk of the ship. Holland Maid was painted in black letters on the bow. The girl carried two light- colored bags, a green purse and that was all. Looking in both directions and seeing nothing, the girl was evidently satisfied. She walked swiftly toward the gangplank, her head down not so much to save her face from the storm as to keep herself from being identified.

Once aboard, she went direct to stateroom twenty, tossed her bags in a corner and stripped out of the wet clothes. She wondered now if she had done the right thing. Daddy Walker couldn't send her home when they were once at sea. She had registered carefully under the name of Myrna Lacey.

Before the mirror, with only soft underthings visible on her slim body, Frances Walker realized how utterly feminine and alone she really was. She was suddenly frightened at the task she had chosen, and slipping into bed, she buried her head in the pillow and tried hard not to cry. Her mission in China was definite and clearly outlined. Nothing must stop her.

REAGAN had been right about Wong. The aged Chinese came aboard the Holland Maid at ten to seven. Reagan stood on the upper deck and Wong climbed the gangplank without seeing him. He stepped away from the rail, waited until he was sure that Wong would be out of the way, and then went below himself. Walton was sharing his room. They were traveling together according to the ship papers. They were salesmen, interested in selling American- made goods in China. Reagan smiled. A lot of American-made goods were on their way, via the Holland Maid.

He wondered who the girl was. She had come aboard hurriedly, making sure she wasn't being watched. Kids like that didn't usually travel alone.

Walton was already lying full length across the bed. He had tossed away his street clothes and was clad in a voluminous blood-red robe.

"My God," Reagan said. "You look like the corpse died red."

Walton sat up slowly.

"If you're trying to be funny..."

Reagan chuckled.

"Forget it," he said, then added, "our friend Wong is on board." Walton reached for his cigarettes. "Then you were right!" Reagan nodded.

"At least one very good-looking girl, also," he added. "She came aboard soaked to the skin."

"I'll bet you liked that," Walton said. "Good chassis?"

Reagan nodded.

"The best," he answered, "something out of a fashion book."

Reagan slipped out of his wet shoes and started to dig for some dry ones.

"Funny thing," he said, "I got the idea she was running away from something. She sneaked on board as though a devil or two were following her."

Walton laughed.

"Forget her," he advised. "Probably the law got hot for her in Frisco and she's going to set up business in Rangoon."

Reagan nodded absently.

"Hadn't thought of that," he admitted. "Guess I'll go up and watch us shove off. Want to come along?"

Walton flopped down on the bed again with a groan.

"You and your extra muscles," he said. "Go tiring yourself out. Me, I'm staying comfortable."

REAGAN went out. It was still raining. A few men were on deck but most of his crowd were out of sight below. He went along the deck toward the gangplank.

Someone came through the fog and bumped him on the elbow in passing.

"Pardon me," he said and the man turned around. Reagan was conscious of hateful, narrow eyes focused on him. Then the man turned away quickly and went into the night.

Hardly knowing why, Reagan followed. He stayed in the shadow of the staterooms until his man went around the corner. Then following quickly, he saw the oriental go down the steps toward the lower deck.

The slant-eye was sneaking along the line of lower staterooms, looking furtively through the portholes as he walked. At last he stopped and studied someone through the glass.

Seemingly satisfied, he drew a small pistol from his pocket, and looked each way along the deck.

Reagan felt the service gun hidden in its holster beneath his coat. He slipped it out quickly. The fog was still thick and it was raining harder. The oriental lifted the pistol until it pointed straight through the glass.

Coolly Reagan lifted his own weapon and pulled the trigger.

CRACK!

The man at the porthole grasped his wrist. Blood spurted from his arm and he turned and ran swiftly along the deck. From the stateroom came a high-pitched scream of terror. Doors started to fly open along the deck.

Reagan slipped into the shadows, and made his way back along the deck to his own room.

WALTON was in his trousers when Reagan came in.

"That shot," he said. "Did you hear...?"

"Get your clothes off," Reagan said. "I fired it myself. Get into bed in a hurry. You didn't hear anything."

"I don't get it," Walton said in bewilderment.

Reagan was already out of his jacket. He slipped the holster from his waist and put the gun under his pillow. In two minutes he was in bed.

"We aren't supposed to carry firearms during the trip," he said. "The old man would toss me out of the whole show if he found out."

He told Walton what had happened.

"Those guys are gonna get in trouble yet," Walton said when he finished. "Who was he firing at?"

"He was going to fire at a woman," Reagan said. "I think the stateroom would have been about number 20 or 21. A girl screamed as I shot. If I'm not wrong, it was the girl in the green sport suit."

Walton said softly, "Well I'll be..."

"I know," Reagan agreed dryly, "you'll be damned. Now go to sleep."

The ship was quiet. Reagan, partly awake, was trying to piece the puzzle into workable parts. He heard the anchor rattle up sometime around midnight. He rose and looked out of the porthole. The black-out on the dock was perfect. He could see only a few feet of the deck. Sharp, low commands punctuated the fog. The engines under him started a slow, even vibration. The Holland Maid was away from the dock and headed for the Pacific.

Before he returned to his bunk, Reagan found two life preservers and placed them beside the bed. He dropped into bed, felt the pillow to make sure the pistol was where he could reach it and dropped off into a fitful, dreamy sleep.

"CAN'T find out a thing about last night." Walton came in from breakfast and flopped on the edge of the bed. They were well out to sea. The ocean was rolling smoothly and the Holland Maid forged ahead speedily through the dark, oily water.

Reagan finished tying his shoes and started to buckle his holster under his tweed coat. He thought better of it, and returned the gun to its hiding place under the pillow.

"I'm not surprised," he said in answer to Walton's statement. "There's a lot of monkey business going on. It seems to me that there isn't one person on the Holland Maid who cares much about letting his real life become public."

Walton was silent. The whole problem was deeper than he cared to think about. Reagan opened the door to the cabin.

"What's on the stove?" he asked.

"I had eggs and bacon," Walton said. "Not bad, but not enough."

"That's your usual complaint," Reagan said and went out. The sun was trying to burn away a ten o'clock haze. As he walked along the deck, the steady swish-swish of water came up from the side of the Holland Maid. He went in the dining room. At least twenty of the boys eating there were fast friends of Reagan's. They showed no sign of recognition and Reagan ignored them studiously. The old man would raise hell if they gathered in groups or revealed their friendship in any way.

The dining room was warm and smelled of frying bacon. Reagan took a small table in one corner, sat down and ordered. In ten minutes he put away the large helping of food. As he was about to leave, the girl of the green suit—wearing a brown sweater now—came in. Her face was very pale.

Her eyes caught Reagan's and for a moment he thought she was coming directly to his table. Half-way across the room she stopped, her face whiter than before. She turned and left hurriedly.

Reagan looked in the direction she had been staring. Commander Channing Walker was seated partly behind a screen, a few feet to the left of him. Walker had a briefcase at his side and was clad in quiet business brown.

Then the girl was afraid of Walker?

Puzzled, Reagan stood up and walked toward the bar. From this vantage point he was able to see Commander Walker's breakfast companion. He turned casually and his eyes widened with surprise.

Half hidden behind the screen, talking with Commander Walker, was the dignified Chinese, Wong.

HOPING he had not been seen by the pair, Reagan turned and hurried to the deck. The girl in the brown sweater was walking toward the other end of the ship.

Reagan caught up and loitered along perhaps ten feet behind her. The girl turned once, seemed about to speak to him and then went on.

A heavy wind was blowing. It whipped the girl's skirt sharply. Reagan came abreast of her.

"A bit stormy for a morning walk," he said.

She turned toward him and fright was etched deeply in her eyes.

"I'm—I'm afraid I should have dressed more heavily," she confessed. "I hadn't expected ..."

Now was the time for it.

"You hadn't expected to see someone who was in the dining room," Reagan said gently. "I know you're in trouble. I wish I could help you."

Her expression changed abruptly.

"I don't know who you are," she snapped. "It's none of your business if I am in trouble, but I'm not."

"What about last night?" Reagan persisted. "Oriental gunmen don't prowl around with automatics pointed through portholes at pretty young girls unless there's a reason."

He was staring straight ahead, but he heard the gasp of surprise escape her lips.

"How did you know...?"

The question was breathless—strained.

Reagan took her arm firmly. She stopped, turning toward him, her eyes staring into his.

"Look," Reagan began, "I don't know who you are and it's none of my business. I saw you come on board last night and I knew you were trying to hide from someone. Later I followed a man to your stateroom and shot a pistol out of his hand. Several people must have heard the commotion and yet nothing was said about it this morning. Frankly, Miss..."

"Myrna Lacey," she said.

"Miss Lacey, I don't give a damn what your business is here. I want to help you. You need me."

Her cheeks regained some of their color and she smiled gratefully. "I want to thank you for saving my life," she said. "I'm sorry I can't answer your questions. I don't think I'll need your help again, and for your own good I suggest you don't try to see me.

"But," Reagan protested, "the loveliest girl this side of Rangoon. Surely you're not becoming a hermit?"

She drew away from him and they retraced their steps along the deck.

"I'm afraid I will have to stay close to my room for the remainder of the voyage," she admitted. "Perhaps we'll meet on deck some evening."

"Not if I can help it," he answered grimly. "I advise that, after dark at least, you stay close to your cabin. Those killers won't muff another chance."

She shuddered, but made no attempt to answer. They reached cabin 20.

"Someone you saw in the dining room has frightened you into staying in your cabin," Reagan said.

She halted, took her key from her purse and slipped it into the lock.

"All right, Sherlock," she said over her shoulder. "Who was it?"

"A gentleman named Wong," Reagan answered. "I don't like the man much myself."

A low chuckle escaped Myrna Lacey's lips. She pushed the door open.

"I'm afraid, my hero, that you are entirely wrong about Mr. Wong. He happens to be in charge of purchases for the Chinese Government."

She closed the door quickly behind her and he heard the key turn from the inside.

The girl had placed her thunderbolt well. Reagan would have to keep his lips sealed a little more tightly if Rangoon and Kunming were to be pleasant places for him to stay.

HOW did this girl know so much?

Either she was in a high government place or a clever spy. Reagan's emotions played havoc with him during the next half hour. If she told the truth, Wong was an honest and powerful man of China. If this were true, why had Myrna Lacey been frightened in the dining room? Surely she wasn't afraid of Commander Walker.

She had uncanny knowledge of the group of which Reagan was a member. Myrna Lacey was a good woman to stay away from. Whether spy or not, she had power.

Reagan wandered back to the dining room. Walker and Wong were still at their table. Their heads were low over a number of papers. Disgusted with the mystery, Reagan went below.

He found Walton sitting in a deck chair outside their door.

"Education is good stuff," Walton said as Reagan looked over his shoulder. The book was titled Night Life In Rangoon.

Reagan grinned.

"That book is five years old," he said. "Right now Rangoon is closed up tighter than a tin can."

Reagan sensed that something was bound to happen soon that would disturb the routine of the Holland Maid. There was more human dynamite aboard this tub than he had ever seen packed into ten years of living.

He spent the afternoon drinking at the bar. No mention of the shooting incident came up in the conversation of the day. Someone had thoroughly hushed the whole affair. Once he thought he saw the man who had tried to murder Myrna Lacey. He couldn't be sure, and before he came close to the fellow, he had disappeared into the labyrinth of passages below.

Miss Lacey's cabin was where Reagan could watch it from the upper deck. He stood for an hour, his head bent slightly over the rail, watching her door. No one entered or left the cabin. Reagan had dinner and resumed his post where no one could go near cabin 20 without being seen by him. Soon after dark she came out. She was swathed in a heavy coat, much heavier than the weather would merit. She went quickly to the rail. She carried a small package in her hand.

Reagan saw a man, a dark shadow against the deck, dash from the door of cabin.21. Myrna Lacey's arm went up as though she were about to toss the package overboard. The man reached her side, grasping her upraised arm.

In the brief moment it took Reagan to reach the iron steps, he could not see the couple below him. He went down on the double.

He heard a low cry of horror and saw a body arc over the rail. It hit the water with a faint splash. He reached the deck. Neither Myrna nor the man who had attacked her was in sight. He bent over the rail and saw a black blob floating swiftly toward the stern of the ship.

He shouted as loudly as his choked voice would allow.

"Man overboard," someone down the deck took up the call. A white uniformed officer reached his side.

"Where—who was it?"

Before Reagan could answer, the First Mate was beyond him, loosening the davits of the life boat.

The next ten minutes were a confused uproar. The ship's engines halted and started to grind in reverse. The sea was quite calm. Reagan heard the shouted orders as the boat was lowered into the water. He wanted to go with the boat, but he could only stand there in the dark and wait.

HALF an hour passed. The boat came back. It was lifted up the side and placed in its proper place. The First Mate walked toward Reagan.

Reagan saw the stern jaw and the keen, suspicious eyes of the man and decided to be careful of what he said.

"I think you were the first man to give the warning?"

Reagan nodded.

"I saw someone down there," Reagan said. "I think it was Miss Lacey of cabin 20. She stood by the rail. Then I heard her shout and a splash in the water. I rushed down, but I saw only faintly and I couldn't be sure."

The First Mate snorted.

"I'm afraid you've been seeing things," he said. "Miss Lacey is in her cabin."

Reagan wheeled about. The light was shining from Myrna's stateroom and he could see her moving about inside.

"Wait a minute," Reagan begged. He crossed the deck and knocked on the door. Myrna Lacey opened it. She was clad in pajamas, covered by a heavy, pale blue robe.

"Good evening," she said sweetly.

"I wanted to ask you if you'd been on deck," Reagan said lamely. "There was someone who fell ..."

The girl nodded gravely.

"Yes! I know," she admitted. "I heard you shout and rushed on deck. After the boat came back, I decided it was a false alarm. It was, wasn't it?"

Reagan hesitated. The First Mate was waiting behind him. A small group had gathered around the rail.

"I—I guess it must have been," Reagan answered weakly. "I could swear—"

"I wouldn't if I were you," she said gravely and closed the door.

"You realize, I hope, that you caused a lot of trouble by this alarm?" The First Mate asked.

"I know," Reagan pivoted around, his eyes blazing. "Someone on this boat is nuts and it isn't me. I saw a man go overboard. I saw him in the water waving his arms. By God, I'll stick by that story."

The First Mate frowned.

"Every name on the passenger list has been checked while we were in the boat. No one is missing from the Holland Maid. Good night, Mr. Reagan."

THE Holland Maid was two days out of Rangoon and Reagan still fought against a blank wall of misinformation. Myrna Lacey had become a first class mystery woman. Although the men of the group dared not gather in numbers, the story went around that the girl, always by herself in her cabin, was a second Mata Hari.

To Crash Walton the story had its funny side. Reagan, emotionally stirred up by the drama he had watched unfold, thought the story was far from funny.

When Walton came down from the dining room on Friday night, Reagan was deep in a book on Hindu mythology. He dropped the book as Walton came in, and saw the worried expression on Walton's face.

"What's up? Dinner too small for you again tonight?"

"Miss Lacey's sick," Walton said quietly.

Reagan felt his nerves snap alert.

"Seriously?" He tried to be casual.

"I'm afraid so," Walton said, "don't know much about it. The story got around among the boys that she has malaria."

Malaria! The word left Reagan cold.

"How long has she had it?" He was on his feet, pacing the cabin. He tossed a half-burned cigarette on the floor, stepped on it and absentmindedly lighted another.

"I don't know," Walton admitted. "Guess they don't expect her to live."

Reagan left the cabin and walked swiftly to the steps that led below deck. He went straight to 20 and knocked. To his surprise. Commander Channing Walker answered. The leader looked worn out. His wrinkled, lined face was a sickly white.

"Yes, Reagan. What do you want?"

"I—I, that is, I hadn't expected to find you here, sir. I came to inquire about Miss Lacey. I just heard ..."

"She had the malaria," Walker said tonelessly.

"Had?" Reagan choked. "Then she's better?"

"Miss Lacey died an hour ago," Walker said. "Now, if you'll please go?"

The door closed in his face. Walton looked up as Reagan came in.

"Bad news?" he asked, noticing Reagan's expression. Reagan nodded.

"She died an hour ago." He sat down. He felt empty and washed up. "Damn it, Crash, there's a lot about this whole thing that I don't like."

Walton nodded.

"Me too," he agreed. "Shooting, and a man overboard. Somehow Miss Lacey didn't seem the kind of kid who got mixed up in murders."

"One more thing," Reagan added. "Commander Walker knows the girl. It was he who came to the door of her cabin and told me she was dead."

Walton whistled.

"Then it seems as though Wong, Walker and the girl are in the same boat. Reagan, I could believe that they are all on the up and up if Wong hadn't pulled a gun on us at the hotel."

"Don't forget his men aboard the ship," Reagan cautioned. "They made two attempts on the girl's life."

"I can't forget any of it," Walton admitted sourly. "I'm sorry the kid's dead, but I wish we'd never got mixed up with the mess to begin with."

Reagan went to the porthole and stood there for some time, staring across the open deck at the rolling green water. He turned away finally.

"As long as Commander Walker is mixed up in this, we'd better lay off," Walton suggested.

Reagan nodded.

"Agreed," he said. "We'll be in Rangoon in another day."

RANGOON is the city of a million crows. It's a hodge-podge of India, Burma and China all dumped into a steaming, tropical mass.

When the Holland Maid docked, the Japanese had been raiding Rangoon for weeks. Freight was held at a standstill and millions in lend-lease materials were stacked on the docks. A small British R.A.F. group flew from Kyedaw Airdrome at Toungoo, using Brewster Buffaloes. The Burma Road, Rangoon and all water approaches were virtually held at a standstill by the cobra- striking Japanese fighter and bomber squadrons.

The city presented an odd collection of Chinese merchants, Hindus, Burmese and British leaders.

Bob Reagan stood at the rail of the Holland Maid. Walton had already taken care of the luggage. The gangplank went down as Reagan stood there, watching the coolies working on a huge pile of American goods.

Wong went down the gangplank first. Once more in his home city, the Chinese gentleman wore a long, embroidered robe, black hat and carried a wide fan to waft the stench and heat of the city from his nostrils.

Reagan watched Wong as he approached a long, black car parked at the land end of the wharf. The driver started to back slowly through the crowd of coolies toward the freight door in the side of the Holland Maid.

Reagan leaned over cautiously and saw that Commander Channing Walker was at the opening in the ship's side. The car backed to the edge of the wharf. A dozen husky deck hands pushed a long, dark-colored box across the narrow chasm of water and Wong helped slide it carefully into place. The doors closed quickly. They must have radioed from the Holland Maid, Reagan decided. The car had been ready and waiting.

Reagan went swiftly along the deck and down the gangplank. Walker was ahead of him. Reagan ignored the car, went to the shore end of the dock and hailed an antiquated taxi cab. The dark car rolled past him. The driver, Wong and Channing Walker were squeezed into the front seat. The car moved across the intersection and slowly into the traffic. Reagan didn't worry about keeping up.

Dozens of rickshaws and bullock carts trundled slowly along the street. He tapped the taxi driver's shoulders, pointed after the car and said:

"Don't let them get out of sight. I'll double the price of the ride, get it?"

The driver, a broad-faced Anglo-Indian grinned, showing betel nut stained teeth.

"Me savvy."

The taxi grumbled, jerked twice and rolled away after the car. Reagan found the task of following a simple one. Once or twice as the car rounded a corner, he signalled his own driver to stop. When he was sure he hadn't been discovered, they moved on once more.

REAGAN knew this part of Rangoon well. It was on this very street that he had purchased the strange buddha from Wong. Reagan wondered why a man of Wong's importance had posed as a merchant. Five years was a long time. Perhaps Wong had only recently come to power.

The car halted before a large, Chinese-lettered shop. Reagan recognized it. He motioned his driver to the curb and jumped out.

"How much?"

"Six rupees." The driver grinned, trying to hide the fact that he was charging twice the usual fare.

Reagan passed him three one-dollar bills, well over the figure the driver had mentioned.

"Ding Hoa," the driver beamed. "You are number one fine fella."

Reagan moved swiftly out of sight in the crowd that swept past the shop of Wong.

He approached carefully and stopped at the corner of the building. Wong and Commander Walker were already out of the car, removing the long box from the rear. A murmur of superstition went up and the flow of people swept to the opposite side of the street. Reagan stayed well back in the shadows.

Three Chinese boys came from the shop of Wong and took their places beside the two men. They carried the coffin toward the door.

Reagan's eyes were on that box. It was a plain, wooden affair with rope handles.

Myrna Lacey's body was in the coffin. He was sure of that.

What implications the entire venture held, Reagan could not guess.

He waited for several minutes, wondering if he should try to find his way into the store from the rear.

Commander Channing Walker made up his mind for him.

Walker came out suddenly, walked swiftly past Reagan without seeing him and headed for the dock. Reagan darted across the street and jumped into a rickshaw. It wouldn't pay to be caught away from the boys when Walker arrived They had strict orders not to mingle with people in Rangoon until they had received definite instructions. The American Volunteer Group was still a highly inflammable and well hidden enterprise.

ON the following day, Reagan, Crash Walton and fifty men of the A.V.G. went by river-boat up the Rangoon River to Kyedaw Airdrome. Reagan's mind was continually on Myrna Lacey. However, he noticed that Commander Walker seemed more at ease now, and Reagan let the Commander's attitude influence his own feelings during the day.

There was work to be done, and plenty of it. Nightfall found them installed in the teak and bamboo huts ranged around the field at Toungoo. The R.A.F. had a single line of Brewster Buffalo fighters hidden in the jungle near the drome. The ground crew of the A.V.G. was in, and already at work tuning up and assembling the Curtiss-Wright P-40's. Walton managed to get a bunk with Reagan. At six o'clock Frank Pastur, first squadron leader, dropped in and they went to dinner at the British mess.

Channing Walker left orders on the bulletin board for a general meeting of the A.V.G. to take place that night at eight. Reagan made up his cot, folded the mosquito netting where he could find it quickly and went outside. The air was hot and still. It smelled of jungle vegetation.

The mess-hall was filling quickly as he went in. Commander Walker sat at the far end, his elbows braced on the hard table. Walker waited until the last of them was seated. He crushed out his cigarette with a calloused thumb and started to talk. His eyes were hard as steel and his face was solemn.

"You men, thus far, have done a nice job. It will take a little time to get our planes into the air. We'll have a fighting power here of about fifty P-40's at one time. I've got to split the force up, taking part of you into China and up to Kunming.

"The Japanese are bombing hell out of Rangoon and Kunming. They are doing their best to stop all movement over the Burma Road. It has been said by a very prominent Chinese citizen that the Burma Road is the 'jugular vein' of China. With the men and planes we have, it's our job to keep God knows how many Japs from putting that road out of commission.

"Each man will take orders from his squadron leader, and each man will do what he has to, while in battle, to bring down the most planes with the least harm to himself, and his plane.

"Remember that the odds against us are so heavy that we won't even think of them. For every plane you bring down, and prove you bring down, the Chinese government will pay you five hundred dollars.

"Tomorrow we start drilling and I'm going to tell you everything I know about the Japs and the way they fight in this country. I trust every man of you to fight for the American Volunteer Group with a sense of pride that will never waver. You are working as a team, each man helping his buddy. If the going gets too tough, hit the silk. Remember that as few planes as we have my men are still the most valuable item of the command. That is all..."

BOB REAGAN left that meeting with a fierce, new pride. For the next week he forgot the incidents aboard the Holland Maid. He thought only of the long hours in the air, the lengthy "chalk-talks" given by Walker. He found that the P-40, with its two fifty-caliber machine guns, and the four thirty- caliber guns in the wings, was flying dynamite. In a dive he could hit six hundred miles an hour, but in quick turns the Japs had the upper hand.

Some of the boys had tough luck. Frank Pastur's job acted up and burst into flames over Rangoon. Frank nursed it out into the country, hit the silk and came down in a rice paddy with a broken ankle.

Still no Jap planes came over Rangoon.

Reagan and Walker, with Frank Pastur bouncing gayly along on crutches, went into Rangoon and spent one evening at the Silver Grill. It was the finest night club in the city. That evening turned out to be hell. The wealth of loveliness displayed on the dance floor started Reagan thinking once more of Myrna Lacey.

The following day at mess, Commander Walker seemed more excited and gay than he had been for a month. After he had eaten, Walker rose, waited until the men, were silent and started talking.

"A number of things happened aboard ship during the trip that may have caused gossip among you men." He hesitated and Reagan fancied Walker's eyes were boring into his. "I'm sorry I can't give you a full report. Unfortunately some things have to remain political secrets.

"I can say that an attempt was made on a certain Myrna Lacey's life. At the time I did not know that Miss Lacey was aboard ship. Later, when Wong gave me the full details, we acted to save Miss Lacey from further trouble.

"Miss Lacey was spirited ashore and news was given out that she had died of malaria. The danger, at least for the present, is past. I would like very much to present..."

Walker stopped talking as Myrna Lacey walked calmly through a side door and stood quietly at his side. She wore the same green suit that Reagan had seen the night she came aboard ship. She was more lovely than ever, tanned and smiling happily. She nodded her head slightly in Reagan's direction and he grinned foolishly, dazedly at her, not knowing what else to do.

"I feel it only fair to the men of the group," Walker was saying, "to introduce my daughter, Frances Walker."

Reagan started, felt his blood turn cold then hot again. Color mounted to his cheeks. There was no doubt that Channing Walker's steady smile was aimed directly at him.

Reagan felt like a fool. The Commander hadn't known that Myrna (it was Frances now) had come aboard at Frisco. That explained why she had acted so oddly. She didn't want her father to know at the time, fearing he would send her home.

"Frances has told me that one of my men saved her life that first night aboard the Holland Maid," Walker was talking again. "I'd like to thank Robert Reagan, Second Squadron Leader, for firing the shot that saved her life."

A round of applause followed the announcement. Reagan slumped down, trying to hide himself in the crowd.

NEW incidents piled up so speedily in the next minutes that Reagan never quite classified them properly.

The lights on the mess hall dimmed, flashed bright and went out. The siren at the far end of the field wailed, low at first and then with the scream of a banshee. A man from the interceptor office dashed in.

"Japs approaching Rangoon," his voice, young and excited, sent every man toward the door. Reagan heard Walker shouting.

"Squadrons one and two get to twenty thousand and wait over the bay region. Squadrons three and four stay on the ground. Be ready to take off when you get the command."

Reagan dashed down the field. The P-40's were already idling. The moon was up and the ground crew hovered over the ships, waiting. In the ready room Reagan found his own men, Walton, and Frank Pastur.

"What the hell, Frank," he was worried about Pastur's ankle. "Can you fly with that thing?"

Pastur's eyes were shining.

"Sure," he said, "I waited a month for this. I'd fly a wheelbarrow without a wheel."

Orders were to take off at once. Reagan checked his men quickly. Swanson, Waterbury, Reynolds—down the list. They were all there. In five minutes he was in the air with his men spread out on each side. Dipping his wings slightly, Reagan gunned the plane and went into the clouds above the city. Rangoon was visible below, through the floating cloud banks. Then came the endless sweep of the green ocean. He spoke over the radio mouthpiece.

"See anything, Crash?"

Walton, flying close to Reagan's left wing tip, chuckled.

"I think I see big rats about twenty miles out, at about fifteen angels."*

[* The new group had already coined its jargon. Big rats were the Japanese Nakajima bombers. Small rats were the Nakajima fighters. Fifteen angels was fifteen thousand feet. —Ed.]

"Bombers at fifteen thousand feet," Reagan said to himself.

He strained his eyes, picked up the specks over the water and said:

"Get upstairs, boys. We're in for some fun."

There were at least twenty bombers coming in. They flew low and straight, headed for the docks at Rangoon. Above the bombers, small, speedy Jap fighters soared at about seventeen thousand.

They were almost underneath Two Squadron now. Reagan's ship nosed over and pointed down into the formation.

"Leave the fighters alone. We want those bombers."

He heard Walton chuckle over the earphones and saw his buddy's plane nose down after his own.

Reagan put his sights on the first bomber. The Japs saw them coming and the fighters peeled off and came up. Reagan didn't even open fire as they swept past. He was close to the big job now.

The Japs' turret cannon was pounding lead up at him. The P-40 hit six hundred, the bomber seemed to grow large, blotting out the sea underneath. Reagan pressed the firing button gently and felt the force of the guns hold him back. Then he tripped the P- 40 up in a sharp turn, shook the fog from his eyes and looked back.

The bomber was rolling downward slowly toward the water, thick black smoke pouring from its engines. He had no time for a second look.

TWO Jap fighters dropped out of the clouds and came down straight for him. He had lost the members of his squadron, but knew by now One Squadron would also be in the thick of it.

He banked, flew straight away from the Japs, and his superior speed took him out of range. Doubling back, he flew low. The fighters were trying to get out of his way.

Reagan went straight up under them, climbing fast. The Japs saw him coming, lost him in their blind spots and tried desperately to get out of the way.

Reagan knew what the P-40 would do. He kept climbing under their bellies, ready for a swift uppercut. The first plane was in his sights now. He pressed the firing button, tipped the nose down slightly and fired the guns again.

The first fighter went to pieces in the air. A part of the wing hurtled past Reagan's plane. The rest of it just disappeared.

"Damned caskets," he whispered. "Should have bullet-proof tanks."

The second fighter was fleeing. Reagan got on its tail and stayed there. He kept his finger on the button and watched the lead pound into the plane ahead of him. The Jap pilot stood up suddenly, tried to bail out and his chute caught. The plane and pilot dove toward the water, hurtling downward at full speed. It hit, sending up a small splash and a quick mushroom of smoke.

Reagan looked around. He must be ten miles out. Not another plane was in sight. Toward Rangoon, all had been silent. Had they turned all the bombers back? He looked at his tank.

Nearly empty.

He turned, found himself on the compass and headed straight for the Kyedaw Drome. He landed with a pint of gas left in the tank.

Walton met him as he climbed wearily out of the plane.

"I got my first," Walton was jubilant. "Fought off a fighter and knocked one of the big boys straight to hell."

"I put three out of commission," Reagan admitted. "Saw two of them hit. The third one blew up."

Walton crossed the field with him and they met Commander Walker just outside the communication shack. He shook hands with both of them.

"Nice work," he said. "With the help of the R.A.F. we turned back sixty bombers and half as many fighters. You boys got blooded nicely. Squadron One took a dozen down with one loss. Your gang cleaned up on another ten."

"Any of our boys killed?" Reagan asked.

Walker smiled.

"The A.V.G. doesn't kill easily," he said. "No, Frank Pastur had trouble with that ankle of his. Went down in a swamp near the city. He just called from Rangoon and said he'd be 'home' by bullock wagon in a couple of hours."

"Good," Reagan said. "I'd—I'd like to thank you for saying what you did before we went up. Could I possibly see Miss Walker?"

Walker'S face clouded slightly.

"Look, Reagan," he sounded very concerned, "you did me a great favor. At the same time, you've pushed yourself into a lot of trouble that doesn't concern you. It might be wise if you stayed away from my daughter, at least for the present. I'm afraid the trouble here isn't over with."

Reagan felt a stubbornness grow inside him. Walker was the high man here, but a man's liberties should be determined by himself, at least so far as private life was concerned.

"About this man, Wong," Reagan persisted, "he pulled a deal on me that I don't like. It's all intermingled somehow with your daughter. I'd like an explanation from someone."

Channing Walker seemed for a moment to be deep in thought. At last he made a decision.

"I'm sorry, Reagan, but for the present we can't discuss it. Wong is a famous and very powerful man. Take my word for it. Whatever he did that seemed to hurt you, was for your own good. Don't get the idea that Wong is a crook. He's placed here by the Chinese High Command to finance and take care of this flying group. Whatever he did to you, he did with my consent."

"But I don't..."

Walker was impatient.

"I don't understand it all myself, yet," he admitted. "Just do your job and stand by for trouble. If I need your help, I promise to call on you. I owe you a lot and I won't forget it. Gonna be good?"

His eyes twinkled suddenly and he held out his hand.

Reagan grasped it firmly and they shook.

"I'll be good," Reagan agreed. "But—if I can help, let me know."

Walker nodded and turned away. Reagan went down the path toward the living quarters.

THE little men of Nippon knew at once that a new and terrible fighting force had assembled near Rangoon. Radio Tokio guessed wildly and broadcasted that hundreds of American planes were in the fight. Commander Walker put ten planes in the air and made them fight like a hundred.

The Japanese had a religious fear of the shark. The A.V.G. adopted the red tiger shark's mouth, fierce white teeth and evil eye. They painted this insignia on the noses of the P-40's and whined into battle, tearing hell out of every Jap formation that came over.

Bob Reagan, Crash Walton and Number Two Squadron were in the thick of it. Number One, commanded now by Frank Pastur, left in the early summer for Kunming.

The Southwest Transportation Company hauled all freight from Rangoon into China. Their huge, bulging godowns* filled with Lend-Lease material gradually emptied. Shipments were going through on time.

[* Godown: warehouse. —Ed.]

Reagan took no time off for entertainment. Number Two Squadron had lost three planes and one man in five weeks of fighting.

Reagan spent most of his day in the ready shack, waiting for the warning net to broadcast Jap locations. The Chinese had established radio men, sometimes within a stone's throw of Japanese flying fields. Every Japanese plane to take the air was carefully reported long before it came over Rangoon.

Reagan grew hard in those weeks. He suffered from a slight flesh wound on the cheek that left a glowing, red scar. His eyes grew deep set and he forgot to shave for days on end. The fight was stiff and up hill. Sometimes he had five men in the air with him, against fifty Japanese bombers and fighters.

Channing Walker went to Kunming in November. He left Reagan in charge of two squadrons, the second and the fourth. Reagan was becoming irritable. He drove the men and they resented it. Finally, late in the month, Walton cornered him when Reagan came in from mess.

"Some of the boys going in to the Silver Grill tonight," Crash said hopefully. "How about going along?"

Reagan shook his head.

"Sorry," he said, "I'll have just five men here. I want to see that those two ships that were shot up today get a good doctoring."

Walton took Reagan's shoulder and turned him around gently.

"Look, Bob," Walton was deeply concerned. "You've been hitting this thing too damned hard. The boys say you're getting as tough as the old man. Just relax for a few hours, will you?"

REAGAN jerked away rudely, found a crushed cigarette pack on the table and lighted the last one. He ripped off his jacket and flopped down on the bed.

"This field is going to give over to the Japs one of these days," his voice was low and bitter. "If we had a hundred more men we could lick the whole damned Jap Air Force. As it is, they need me here all the time."

Walton grinned in spite of himself.

"We ain't doin' so bad," he protested. "Two raids today. Ten planes against their hundred and we knocked down six for sure and ten probables."

Reagan twisted around.

"Did you ever hear any more about Miss Walker?" he asked.

"Oh!" Walton sat down at his side. "So that's it? Carrying a torch for the kid?"

Reagan crushed the cigarette out between his finger tips.

"It's been bothering me," he admitted. "I haven't any right to fool around the old man's daughter, and he as much as told me so. Crash, you and I are old friends." Walton nodded solemnly.

"Just between you and me, I fell in love with Myrna Lacey that first night in Frisco. When she became Frances Walker, it couldn't make any difference in me, but it made a hell of a lot of difference in our social standing."

"Nuts," Walton grunted, "if you like the girl..."

"I do," Reagan groaned. "But she hasn't shown up here since the night of the first attack. Doesn't that prove anything?"

Walton hesitated. He had seen Frances Walker several times in Rangoon since that night. She had danced with her father at the Silver Grill, before old man Walker went up to Kunming. She was still here, in the care of Wong. He hadn't spoken of this to Reagan because Reagan hadn't encouraged any talk when they weren't in the air.

"It proves that no girl on earth will chase a guy around if she has one ounce of character," Walton said coldly. "You haven't tried to see her, have you?"

Reagan turned red.

"Been so darned mixed up," he admitted, "I didn't think of that."

Walton turned to his locker and started to drag out his jacket.

"You'd better," he suggested.

"You say you're going to the Silver Grill tonight?"

"Right," Walton admitted. "Got two or three little half-caste babes there that are plenty potent."

"Leave your razor out," Reagan said quickly. "I'm taking a last look into the communication room. I'll see you at the Silver Grill in an hour."

THE Silver Grill was Rangoon's richest night spot. Before the war, the cream of the city danced and quenched its thirst there. A nice distinction existed between the daughters of the better families and the lower, half caste women who stayed away to save themselves the embarrassment of being asked to leave. The Grill had to about face when the Flying Tigers hit town. No man or woman in Rangoon turned away from the uniformed American boys. They were the honor guests of the city and the Silver Grill was turned over to them from wine cellar to dance floor. They chose to bring a few dark skinned, hot numbers with them, and this nearly created scandal. Nearly, but not quite.

The Tigers landed and they did as they wished. The Silver Grill changed its rules to fit their specifications.

Reagan came in, left his flying cap at the check room and drifted into the silvery, dream world atmosphere. It was just after ten in the evening. Crash Walton and a couple boys from the squadron were well occupied at the bar. Reagan, feeling very much alone, went among the tables and sat down. A waiter came at once and he ordered a martini.

He saw the stern, well-tailored figure of Wong, sitting alone on the far side of the room. Reagan took his drink, crossed the room and stood before Wrong. The old man looked up and a smile flashed across his face. He arose and offered his hand.

"Mr. Reagan, you haven't been in Rangoon for some time?"

Reagan shook Wong's hand and sat down.

"No, sir," he admitted. "Been pretty busy up at Toungoo."

"Yes," a flicker of a smile crossed Wong's lips. "Miss Walker and myself have often watched you being busy, over the city."

Reagan blushed.

"Miss Walker is well, I hope," he tried to say it without appearing too anxious.

"Quite well, thank you." The soft, feminine voice came from behind him.

Reagan twisted about in his seat. Frances Walker had been standing near his shoulder.

"Good evening, Mr. Reagan. I've been wondering if you forgot us entirely."

Reagan stood up quickly. Frances faced him with a friendly smile. She was clad in an evening gown covered with silver sequins. The white silk cape and tiny hat of the same material made her as rare as an angel.

"I—I didn't hear ..." Reagan gulped.

She put a soft hand on his arm.

"I came in quite silently," she admitted. "I thought perhaps you would say something nice about me if you didn't know I was here."

WONG and Reagan arose and the girl sat down. Drinks were ordered around the table and the conversation drifted quickly to the Flying Tigers and the chances of Rangoon being held.

"You Americans are doing a fine job," Wong admitted at last. "But there are a few dozen of you fighting the entire Imperial Japanese Army Air Force. We'll always be indebted to you for holding the Burma Road open as long as you have. Nothing can stop the Japanese for the present. They will take Rangoon before the next year is finished."

"Then you don't think the English or my own people will arrive in time to save Burma?"

Wong shook his head.

"It might be interesting for you to know that my store here in Rangoon is a clearing house for Chinese information and important material. We are planning on closing it in January. Miss Walker and I will go to Kunming in February. You and your squadrons will be in Kunming long before that. The dacoits and thugs are already robbing and pillaging in the lower city."

Frances Walker's breath hissed in suddenly. Reagan saw that her lips and face were white, her eyes focused across the room.

"Baumo Gali," she pronounced the name slowly, with hatred and fear in every syllable.

Wong did not turn. Reagan heard the Chinese's feet scrape across the floor under the table. Wong's face was expressionless, his voice calm.

"I didn't think he would dare come here," he said. He seemed to ignore, to forget Reagan. "You must get out at once. We will take a taxi direct to the store. I will see that he is driven from Rangoon."

Frances Walker stood up. She smiled wanly at Reagan.

"Look," he protested. "If something is wrong, I want to help. You both ignore me when trouble comes."

Frances hesitated, as though about to tell him something. Wong took her arm firmly. He turned to Reagan.

"This does not concern you," he said softly. "We have no time to waste. The girl's life is in danger."

He arose, and Frances followed him.

Reagan sprang to his feet. As he did so, his eyes caught the slightly built oriental who was moving toward the door on the other side of the room.

It was the same man who had tried to shoot Frances Walker aboard the Holland Maid.

"Baumo Gali," Reagan whispered musingly. "Wonder if you'd like a sock on the kisser?"

Somewhere on the roof an air raid siren started to blast its warning. Reagan heard one of the English Brewster Buffaloes roar over the Silver Grill. The Japs were on their way.

The lights went out and the room was vast and black. Somewhere in front of him, near the door, Baumo Gali was moving stealthily toward Frances Walker.

"Ching Pao," the Chinese warning voice cut the silence, "Air Raid."

THE faint hum of enemy craft sounded across the water to the south. Reagan went swiftly toward the door. Light was filtering in. The moon was bright and he saw Wong's figure silhouetted against the open door. Then Frances Walker went out swiftly behind him. Reagan tried to find Gali, tripped over something and almost fell. A gun cracked and an orange flame split the blackness.

Reagan side stepped and came even with the man who had fired the shot. He saw the ugly, squint-eyed Gali close to his elbow.

Outside Frances was running across the walk. Wong was with her, holding his hand tightly to his shoulder.

Reagan saw the outline of an arm come up. He grasped it quickly and throwing his weight against Gali, tossed him to the floor. Women were screaming and fighting their way to the entrance. The gun exploded close to Reagan's face. An oath ripped from the lips of the man under him. Gauging the distance quickly, Reagan sent his fist crashing down against Gali's chin.

He heard the gun clatter on the floor and the man under him was silent. Planes were overhead now. Already he could make out the thin, ripping sound of machine guns, cutting the night.

Reagan dashed out. The street was deserted.

He wondered if he could make the field. A stick of bombs dropped. The first one was a block away. Reagan saw them as they exploded, spaced so they would hit in a straight line.

There was a small, brick ditch running along the curb. He dropped into it. The bombs hit swiftly, pounding into the street and deafening him. The last of the stick carried on past his retreat and hit the corner of a building down the street. Half of it crumbled into the street and a fire broke out.

He wondered if be should try to make the drome, realized the Japs were already heading for home and thought better of it. Reagan decided to find Wong and the girl and get an explanation. If Wong was responsible for her continued danger, something must be done about it at once.

Rangoon was a shambles. Fires had broken out and were raging across the entire water front. Reagan fought his way against the tide of coolies headed out of the city toward the jungle. He found Wong's shop and managed to fight his way to the door.

WONG's establishment hadn't been touched. It was a fairly large place, housing oriental odds and ends. A combination dry goods and antique shop.

Reagan pushed the door open and went in. There was no one behind the counter. He wandered about for a minute, then went toward the wide flight of stairs that led to the second floor.

Hesitating, he climbed slowly, wondering if Wong had brought Frances Walker here or if they had been caught somewhere by the raid.

He reached the head of the stair and found himself in a plain, very large living room. There were several low divans, two teak chests and a small, well-built safe. Reagan went to the window that looked down on the street.

Frances Walker's head was just visible in the throng that moved toward the store. Wong was at her side.

Reagan sat down on a divan. He heard the front door open. Wong came first, seemed surprised at sight of Reagan, but controlled himself.

"It is Mr. Reagan," he smiled. "We meet often tonight."

Frances Walker came straight to him and held out her hands. He took them in his own.

"What happened back there," she shuddered, "after we escaped?" Reagan smiled.

"A number of things," he admitted. "For one, this Baumo Gali took another shot at one of you."

She squeezed his hands in her own.

"I want you to know we appreciate it." She hesitated and turned to Wong. "Can't we tell Mr. Reagan? He's helped me a great deal from the very first."

Wong shrugged. Reagan saw the bandage on his shoulder and knew they must have stopped to see a doctor before returning to the shop.

"Your father would not approve," Wong said meaningly.

Her eyes flashed.

"I'm tired of what he does and doesn't approve of," she said sharply. "I know he has to show authority to keep his men in line. This thing, however, has gone beyond that point. Mr. Reagan deserves an explanation."

A slow smile broke across Wong's face.

"I have waited for those words," he said. "I did not expect a woman to show such spirit. Yes, I think that Reagan should know the whole story. We are going to need his help."

He turned to Reagan.

"If you will sit down, I will try to be brief."

REAGAN, the girl's hand still in his, crossed the room and sat awkwardly on the divan. He felt the girl's hair brush his cheek, her body move against him as she breathed. There was a loneliness in her that made him want to put his arm tightly around her.

"You may have thought me your enemy," Wong said. "I assure you that although I may have lied and used methods of violence, I was attempting to keep you out of something that could only bring you trouble."

Reagan sat still, waiting. He didn't entirely trust Wong.

"It all goes back to your early trip to China and Burma, five years ago."

Reagan nodded.

"You showed certain, er, interest in a buddha I purchased." Wong smiled.

"That buddha was brought to me by a dacoit who stole it from the Shwe Dagon Pagoda."

"Shwe Dagon," Reagan said. "Let's see, headquarters for a sect of priests, is it not?"

Wong nodded.

"They are religious stranglers. They worship the patron goddess Kali. Every person they strangle is a sacrifice to the Goddess of Destruction. After I had sold that buddha to you, a priest, Shano Gali came to see..."

"Hold it," Reagan pleaded. "Any relation to this gunman, Baumo Gali?"

"Father and son," Wong said. "But let me go on. Shano Gali, was a political friend. He said the buddha, a precious thing, had been stolen. He asked that I watch for it, knowing that I dealt in such items. Naturally I asked what the reward would be for its return.

"The old priest's eyes grew hard. 'To anyone who touches the sacred symbol of Kali, will come the death of the thuggee, the strangler.'

"You can understand where this put me. I didn't want him to know that I had had the thing in my possession. I was afraid you would make your possession of it a public fact and bring death to us both. I rushed to the dock and threatened you in such a way that I thought you would be very careful not to mention the buddha as long as you remained in Burma."

"I can understand that," Reagan said. "But, why all the dramatic acting in the States. They surely couldn't reach me there?"

"That," Wong said, "is quite another matter. When I saw your name on the list of pilots who were coming here, I tried to warn you away. I was afraid that in some manner you would betray both yourself and me."

"Then why the devil didn't you tell me the whole story," Reagan exploded angrily. "I'm not a kid. I would have listened."

Wong smiled wearily.

"I don't think you would have understood then," he said. "It took the strange events that followed to open your eyes. You trust me now because you want to, and because you value the opinion of Miss Walker."

REAGAN realized that, in the unfolding of the story, Frances had not been mentioned once. He turned to her now, and saw that she had been watching him closely.

"He tells the truth," she said. "Wong is an old friend of our family. I sat on his knee when I was only five. He found out that somehow two thugs had followed him to America and were also trying to trace the buddha. Because he feared for your safety, he stole it from you that last day at the hotel."

"Then you know the whole story?" Reagan asked.

She nodded.

"Wong came to me and asked that I bring the buddha here. He knew that he would be murdered and that it would be found among his possessions. We both thought that I, traveling under an assumed name, would be completely safe from harm."

Wong looked concerned.

"Had I realized that Frances also was being watched," he said, "I would never have allowed..."

"You need not apologize," the girl said quickly. "I look the risk and I'm going to see it through."

"But the events on shipboard," Reagan protested.

Wong held one hand up in a gentle motion of restraint.

"I first realized that Frances was in danger the night you saved her life. Evidently one of the thugs knew she had the buddha, and decided to kill her and reclaim it at once."

"But why with a pistol?" Reagan protested. "I thought they strangled their victims."

Frances Walker gripped his hand more tightly.

"That is one of the things we cannot understand," Wong said. "After that, I told Channing Walker the entire story. We decided that Frances should toss the buddha into the sea. That it wasn't worth the trouble we had taken."

"That was the night you saw me," Frances offered. "A man tried to take the buddha from me. Somehow he slipped and went overboard. I was so shaken that I kept the buddha, returned to the cabin and refused to admit I knew anything about it. I didn't dare say anything until I had talked with Dad and Wong."

"After that," Wong added, "we knew that Frances was constantly in danger. We let the news go about that she had malaria."

"I know," Reagan said. "I followed you here. I saw the coffin."

The girl's lips parted in pleased surprise.

"You were that interested in me?"

Reagan colored slightly.

"I—that is—the whole thing had interested me," he admitted.

"There is little more to tell," Wong went on. "We wanted to return the buddha to Shano Gali, tell him our story and rely on his word that under the circumstances we would not be harmed."

"Before we could do so, Baumo Gali came to us, demanded the buddha and became very angry when we said we knew nothing of it. I did not dare turn the thing over to anyone else."

"But surely," Reagan protested, "it hasn't taken all this time to contact the high priest?"

Wong nodded gravely.

"Much longer, I'm afraid. The old priest Shano Gali is dead. He was killed in a raid the day before the Holland Maid docked. I do not trust this man Baumo. He tried to do away with us both."

Wong arose and crossed the room to the safe. He twisted the dial expertly, and drew out a small package.

"And all this difficulty over an idol."

Reagan tore the package open and stared at it with a puzzled expression. He turned it in his hands slowly.

"To think that men are ready to murder for such a thing," Frances Walker shuddered. "And you had it in your possession for five years."

Reagan looked at Wong.

"I'm afraid," he said, "that there is more to the story than even you have guessed. The buddha I owned had a rope twisted about the neck. This is not the same idol that you took from my hotel room in San Francisco."

FOR an instant the room was deathly silent. Wong's face held no expression, but his eyes glittered strangely. He reached out and took the buddha in his long-nailed fingers. "You are sure?"

"I owned the other one for a long time," Reagan said coolly. "It had a rope twisted about the neck. This is an ordinary buddha, and the only resemblance is in the size."

Frances Walker's eyes were questioning them both.

"I—I could be mistaken," Wong admitted. "It has been a long time."

"You are," Reagan arose. "Now, what does this do to the story you told me?"

Wong seemed deep in thought. He turned the buddha over and over in his hands.

"I was puzzled by several things," he said at last. "First, why should the thugs follow me after all these years. Why did they make those attempts on Frances' life, when..."

"I don't know," he said at last. "More and more, as time passes, I am sure that this buddha should not fall into the hands of Baumo Gali."

"Why do you say that?" Reagan demanded.

"Because," Wong said slowly, "although he claims to be the son of Shano, I did not know Shano had a son. Lastly, although I cannot be sure of his dominating caste, we are at war with Japan and I detect certain Japanese traits on the methods and appearance of Baumo Gali. We will have to hide the buddha well until its mystery is solved."

Reagan stood up. He took the buddha from Wong's hands.

"From now on," he said quietly, "I'll take care of it until we are able to find an intelligent explanation."

"But you can't," Frances protected. "You've already done more than you should."

"I believe Mr. Reagan is right," Wong said. "I now have instructions from your father that you and I leave for Kunming tomorrow by plane. Reagan can keep the buddha secreted near him and perhaps with us all out of Rangoon it will be the last of our troubles. At least he is better fitted to dispose of it than you or I."

Wong reached for Reagan's hand and gripped it tightly.

"We managed to involve you in a dangerous problem, and you have helped us greatly. Please accept my gratitude, for Frances Walker, myself and—for China." Reagan grinned.

"I hope it isn't that serious," he said. Wong was grave.

"I would not let that buddha pass out of my hands until we are sure of its significance," he cautioned. "You will see us in Kunming soon. Channing Walker can decide what is to be done with it. Until then, good luck."

FRANCES accompanied Reagan down the stairs to the main shop. They stood in the semi-darkness, both drawn close by the events of the past few months. Both ill at ease because they had had little chance to know each other fully.

"I'm very grateful," she said.

Reagan, the buddha tucked tightly under his arm, felt uncomfortable.

"I've been doing a lot of thinking about what I was going to say when we met again," he said. "Now I can't think of a darn thing.

"Anyway," he added, "I'll be seeing you in Kunming."

He turned and opened the outer door.

Across the street, Reagan saw the shadow of a man. He stepped back inside hurriedly. Frances was on the stairs.

"Is there a back door out of here?" he asked.

"Someone is watching?" Her voice was tense.

He nodded.

She led him through the collection of oriental things to a small door that opened into the alley.

"Be sure and make that plane tomorrow," he whispered. "I'll feel better when you reach Kunming."

She squeezed his arm warmly.

"Don't worry about me," she said. "Be careful of Baumo Gali."

Reagan looked down the narrow alley. No one in sight. He walked quickly toward the street, turned and saw the watcher still hovering near the store entrance. For the time being he was safe.

THE Kyedaw drome was badly wrecked. The Japanese had sent a special flight of bombers for the Rangoon mêlée. For weeks now, Radio Tokio had claimed and reclaimed that the Flying Tigers had been wiped out. After each flight, Tokio announced wild dog fights in which they said dozens of Flying Tigers were shot down. This, considering the entire force amounted to about eighty ships, provided Reagan with a chuckle.

Reagan could see the damage as he approached the field. Half a dozen Brewster Buffaloes had been caught cold on the edge of the field. They were still burning.

A P-40 sat nose down in a bomb crater with one wing crumpled under it. The rest of the Tiger planes were drawn into the jungle at the edge of the field and the ground crew was busy doctoring them.

Reagan went immediately to the operations shack. As he came in, Williams, swarthy-skinned Three Squadron leader met him at the door. Williams' face was sober.

"I shouldn't have gone into Rangoon tonight," Reagan said. "Needed both squadrons here under the circumstances."

"Forget it," Williams grinned. "I've got a nice bunch of boys. We shot a lot of them down at that, Reagan, but I think this is about the last week we'll go through."

Reagan went inside, picked up the reports and started to read them carefully.

"Sighted forty bombers, twenty fighters at fifteen thousand over the city—went upstairs and came down wide open. Tore apart the formation and shot wings from one fighter—got three bombers."

He turned over another page. There were more like that. Simple summaries of ten men against perhaps three hundred Japanese. Reagan tossed the reports on the table.

"Did Crash get back from Rangoon?"

Williams nodded.

"Got out here about an hour ago," he said. "Took his plane up and said he'd come back when he'd bagged a couple of slant- eyes."

Reagan swore softly to himself.

"He didn't have much gas," Williams added. "But all the same I've had some flares lighted on the field just in case he makes it."

Reagan took the reports over to the main office, and put them in the safe. He still carried the buddha that he had brought from Wong's shop. Slipping it into the safe also, he placed a stack of blank flight-check cards in front of it, twirled the dial and went outside.

THE fires of Rangoon still lighted the sky. The field was almost clean once more. The wrecked P-40 had been drawn to one side and the bad wing taken off. The bomb crater was half full and fifteen or twenty coolies labored at the task of leveling the earth.

Reagan lighted a cigarette and wandered to the communication room. A Chinese youth, Hoa Sen, was leaning over the set, earphones glued to his ears. Reagan tapped him lightly on the shoulder.

"Hear anything from Mr. Walton?"

The boy shook his head.

"Sorry, no pickup message since half an hour ago," he said quietly. "Warning net say interceptor near Salween River see Fei Hu* chasing two Nakajima fighters."

[* Flying Tiger. —Ed.]

Reagan turned quickly and ran out to the field. His plane was camouflaged under the trees close to the main office. The motors were idling slowly and the ground men were checking his instrument panel. Reagan saw a freckled red-head come over the edge of the cockpit as he approached.

"Going upstairs, Captain Reagan?"

"Guess I'll have to check up on Crash Walton," Reagan said. "He's been seen over the Salween."

The red-head dropped to the ground and a whistle escaped his lips.

"He'd better come back," he said. "That's bad country over there."

Reagan was already in the cockpit. The plane was in good shape. He gunned it quickly once and felt the surge of power shoot into the engine. With a grim look he took off and straightened out to the west toward the rugged country of the Salween.

For twenty minutes he flew like an arrow, staying high in the cloud banks. Checking the radio once he picked up the communication room at Kyedaw.

"Reagan reporting. Any word from Crash Walton?"

A negative answer sent him ahead with renewed speed. The Salween, a tiny winding stream that shone like quicksilver, came up under his left wing. Reagan banked gently and followed the canyon for five minutes. Once he thought he saw the flash of a plane a long way below him against the valley. He went into a power dive, leveled off at a thousand feet and found nothing.

He hated to give up. Planes and men were more important now than they had ever been. But he couldn't afford to crash himself. Reluctantly he turned and streaked for home.

REAGAN slept fitfully that night.

Walton had been the only close friend he had ever had. It was Walton's own fault that he went out alone and didn't have sense enough to turn back. Still, for all that, Reagan found little comfort in Walton's thoughtlessness.

There had been two more losses the day before. The P-40 that crashed on the field had killed a new man in the third squadron. One of Williams' men also had crashed on the roof of a go-down in Rangoon. The British had lost three Brewster Buffaloes.

Reagan took half a dozen men up at noon and stuck in the clouds over the sea. No Japs came over. He knew they were ready to strike the death blow soon. Rangoon was badly hurt. The British had long since given up Singapore and Thailand. Rangoon would be next, and then the closing of the Burma Road.

Reagan returned to Kyedaw, made sure that the warning net reported no more Japs on the way, and started to pack his luggage for the evacuation to Kunming.

Late in the afternoon the Asiatic Airways plane took off from the Rangoon field and flew low over Toungoo and the Kyedaw Drome. Reagan watched it roar over and hoped that Frances Walker and Wong were on board.

At five in the afternoon, a message from Commander Walker was posted on the board.

JAP INVASION RANGOON SCHEDULED SOON. PLAN EVACUATION AND STICK IT OUT AS LONG AS YOU CAN. SEND GROUND CREW KUNMING AND FLY YOUR PLANES UP TO COVER THEIR RETREAT."*

[* Feb. 20 was the E Day for Rangoon. Everyone who drove a car was permitted to take a car or jeep north to Lashio and turn it in at that point. Military materials were burned. The dacoits destroyed too. Murder and pillaging made Rangoon a burning hell. The railroad to Toungoo was cut off by the Japs. Lend-lease trucks tried to rush through at the last minute with vital goods for China. Refugees clambered on every truck. On Feb. 21, the Tigers flew out and intercepted a large squadron of Japs. On Feb. 23 (the last day Reagan spent in the air over the city), the fighting was about over, and on the following, the Tigers got word to "conserve matériel and personnel. Retire from Rangoon at the last moment." —Ed.]

THE next morning was fine for fighting. The sun came up clear and hot. Rangoon, deserted and smouldering, was a vast graveyard of war materials. The docks were strewn with stuff that was meant for China and would never go through. Reagan hid his squadron at twenty thousand feet, just at the edge of the city. The water glistened far below on the rice paddies. A layer of fleecy cumulus clouds protected the P-40s from detection from the south.

Reagan was on the radio, trying to learn what he could from the Kyedaw drome. A squadron of Jap bombers were on the way with fighter protection, according to the warning net.

The first group of Japanese bombers came over the horizon, appeared like fly specks against the blue sky and grew larger. Reagan felt no particular excitement. It had been like this from the start. Without Crash Walton at his right. Reagan felt alone. There were half a dozen planes with him and as many with Wallace, out over the sea.

The Japs kept coming. They seemed to spread out over the water until from that one pin point, hundreds of them swept in vast array toward the doomed city.

Reagan waited until the first sweep of fighters had gone under. Then, with three dozen great Nakajima bombers spread out beneath him, he dipped his wings.

"Pick your baby," he shouted, "and go in there fighting."

He tipped the P-40 down into a steep dive and let loose. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the others peel off and follow. Directly ahead, where its nose would meet his own, Reagan saw a bomber sailing along as though nothing had happened. The Jap heavy's didn't falter from their course under any circumstance. They had a load of bombs to be delivered and they never lost sight of their goal.

The P-40 was prowling down at 600 m.p.h. Reagan pressed the button. The bomber faltered in the air, rolled lazily on its side and started to fall.

Then he was high again, way upstairs over the mess. The bombers kept coming, and toward Rangoon the earth was heaving upward under the impact of their loads.

Reagan took a quick look at the scene under him. Three or four bombers were going down in flames. Every Tiger had a half dozen speedy little Japs on his tail. Reagan picked out a likely setup, peeled over again and went down with his guns blazing. He was fighting like a wild man now. Two Jap fighters literally went into pieces under his guns. A third one darted away as he was about to open up and hightailed it to the west.

Reagan swore and went after it. He flew for several minutes, but the Jap was still a mile ahead.

This was no good.

THE Nakajima had a good start and as fast as his plane was, he couldn't catch it. Reagan banked, started back for the battle and realized suddenly that he had come a long way. The engine started to sputter loudly. He looked quickly at the gas. Nearly gone.

Over the side of the plane was nothing but jungle. Jungle, and far to the east, a tiny sliver of water.

Had he come all the way to the Sal-ween?

He switched on the radio feverishly, at the same time trying to nurse more distance out of the plane.

"Kyedaw," he said. "Captain Reagan calling Kyedaw."

He wondered if the Chinese radio man had already pulled out for Lashio.

"Reagan calling—Captain Reagan calling Kyedaw..."

"This is Kyedaw... What is it, Captain Reagan?"

Reagan grinned. God bless the Chinese. They had guts. The boy must be standing by in the hell of the attack.

"Hello—hello—" The engine was silent. He was losing altitude fast. "Listen—tell Williams I got off the course. I'm somewhere near the Sal-ween—about due west of Pegu."

A hesitation, and then the radio spluttered again.

"Williams is here. He says it's free beer* for you now."

[* Free beer—the Flying Tiger radio code signal, meaning "return to drome."—Ed.]

Reagan shouted hoarsely.

"No, you damned fool. You didn't get me. I'm out of gas. I'm going to hit the silk west of Pegu on the Salween."

Reagan was already down to ten thousand feet, trying to get as close to the Salween as he could.

Williams' voice came in now.

"Reagan—Reagan?"

"I'm bailing out," Reagan shouted.

"Yes, I know. We'll get someone out there to look for you. Listen—the Rangoon plane went down somewhere near where you are. A Jap plane crashed it into the Salween Valley. Miss Walker sent a message just before they crashed."

Reagan felt cold sweat ooze out of his forehead.

"Go on," he said hoarsely. "Keep talking."

"She said, 'guard the buddha with your life. Our future will depend on it.'"

Reagan thought of the safe in the main office. He wondered dully if it had gone up to Kunming on the trucks.

The radio was dead.

Ripping his safety belt away, he pushed the glass cowling back and stood up. The wind cut his face. The solid green of the jungle was closer.

He took another look at the Salween, tried to chart its course in his mind and jumped. The parachute jerked him back rudely and he felt a sudden relief as it spread out in a protecting mushroom over his head.

REAGAN awakened with a dull ache in his right shoulder. He was lying in wet, sharp swamp grass that swept up three feet above his body. The parachute had lodged in a tree and sent him hurtling through the branches to the ground. He remembered the sudden violent pain as he hit the ground on his side.

He sat up slowly, felt of the arm and decided it was only bruised. Slipping out of the harness, Reagan looked around him, trying to take stock of the situation. He had fallen into a small opening in the thick jungle. Judging from the soft ground under his feet, he was fairly sure that the wind had carried him into the river-bottom country of the Salween.

Unfortunately, his problem was not simple. The Salween had roared and torn itself into a series of the deepest, wildest canyons in the world. The nearest town, probably Pegu or Prome, would be an impossible journey to the east through uninhabited jungle. He might, with luck, struggle through to the mouth of the Salween at Moulmein. The chances were a hundred to one against it.

Checking his direction carefully, Reagan started toward the Salween. The shoulder was bothering him badly, but with a full holster of ammunition he felt better. The sun started to sink, turned to a brilliant red ball and dipped into the jungle.

As the last color touched the western sky, he came out on the low, muddy bank of the river. He found a small meadow where he could start a fire and stand guard from night creatures. The river supplied water, muddy and terrible to drink, but a life saver alter the miles of jungle.

In the darkness, he built a huge fire and sat close to it, wondering if Williams would be able to find him.

Frances Walker and Wong were, if they had been lucky, stranded in just such a spot as he. Walton, also, had gone down near here.

Crash Walton had deliberately chased a Japanese plane into the Sal-ween country and been forced down. The big airline plane, Williams said, had crashed because of a Jap attack.

Reagan remembered too clearly now that he himself had pursued a Jap into the valley.

Yet there wasn't a Jap fighter to his knowledge that would outfly the P-40 on the straightaway.

The fire was crackling cheerfully now. Reagan tried once more to unravel the mystery of the strangled buddha. Wong, sincere and straightforward now that, his confidence had been won, was, Reagan decided, an honest man. The methods he had used were unorthodox, but when fighting a common enemy, how else could Wong have handled the situation he found himself in?

That left Baumo Gali.

Wong had said that Gali had a Japanese look about him. Gali had been desperate in Rangoon. He had spared no effort to murder those who possessed the buddha. Yet his methods were not the methods of the thugees.

Had Gali known a new buddha had been substituted for the old?

Reagan stood up, went as far as he dared and brought more fuel. The blaze was a good one, leaping up against the velvet night. He found a log, placed it close to the flames and lay clown with his back to it. The heat warmed him and gradually the pain in his shoulder diminished. At last he slept.

TO Bob Reagan, his awakening could never be one that could be classified clearly. He remembered the almost satanic faces that leaned over him near the dying fire. He remembered jumping to his feet, the sudden attack from the rear, a blind, stabbing pain as though his arm were being torn off, and again—blackness.

The second awakening was hardly less painful. At first he had no idea what caused his body to toss about. Then his eyes opened narrowly, and he knew he was on a rough stretcher carried by two of the dirtiest human beings he had ever seen. He tried to lie still, afraid that if he gave signs of recovering, he might be forced to walk with the rest of them.

His aching, exhausted body rebelled at the thought of keeping pace with these swiftly moving barbarians.

More confident of himself, he felt for his gun and found that it had been taken from him. The belt of cartridges was still about his waist.

The stretcher assumed a sharp downward angle, and he knew they were descending still deeper into the valley. Occasionally shadowy figures came close to him, guttural words were exchanged and faces leaned close to his. When this happened, Reagan closed his eyes tightly and tried to breathe the even, still breath of deep sleep.

Then the men grew more excited and moved at a faster rate. Harsh, unintelligible commands were shouted. Chancing a quick look, Reagan saw that they had reached a low place near the river. Gaunt, black cliffs rose on both sides and the roaring of the Salween grew loud in his ears. Then the moon was blotted out and their journey was at an end.

With rough, strong hands they took him from the stretcher and carried him through a dark, brush-covered hole into the mountain. Then he was dropped rudely on a sandy floor and he lay still as the footsteps departed.

After the men were gone, he opened his eyes, and found that the cave in which he had been thrown was a prison. The opening through which they had come was closed by a slab of granite.

Why he was here and what purpose he would serve, Reagan admitted his failure to fathom. He only knew that he was a prisoner of an unfriendly tribe of jungle people.

Reagan felt better in spite of the pain in his arm and shoulders. The cave was clean. Its roof was perhaps ten feet above his head. A single torch lighted its depths and revealed that the floor was white sand. No bench or table suggested previous occupancy, yet he had the feeling that this was not the first time men had been imprisoned here. His captors had known the way so well, and placed the granite door in place with an ease that suggested long practice.

HE covered every inch of the place, looking for a possible opening. There was fresh air, but Reagan held no story book illusions of escape. The air came down in a slight, cool draft from above, probably through an opening made for the purpose.

His gaze roamed the floor and stopped suddenly on a slight imprint near the back wall of the cave. He crossed the floor and kneeled. The print was clear and fresh, undoubtedly made by a woman's high-heeled slipper.

Frances Walker?

Why her name came to his lips so easily, Reagan could not guess. Perhaps his own eagerness to believe she was still alive? Perhaps by that strange faculty men have to understand when they are close to death.

It was crazy—impossible, and yet she had crashed near here.

But why a single print?

The sand was smooth. All traces of previous habitation were cleanly erased and yet he was sure others had come before him.

Then, if this one print had been overlooked, perhaps they had forgotten something else—some sign that would encourage...

Eagerly he covered the cave on his hands and knees. He scooped the sand with his fingers, wondering if by sifting it out, something might be uncovered. His fingers halted in their search and he drew a small fragment of cloth from the sand.

It was a square of the same green wool that Frances Walker had worn that first night on the Holland Maid, and afterward when he had seen her in Rangoon.

The cloth was shredded at the edges where thread had been pulled from its seams. It was the small, decorative pocket to the jacket of her suit.

HOURS later several guards came.

They jerked Reagan forward roughly, and led him from the cave. They took him to a small hut near the jungle edge. Its one room was small, and it held only a table and one chair. A man occupied that chair, a pistol carefully placed on the table before him. The guards shoved Reagan forward roughly and left him alone to face the man behind the table.

Reagan waited, his face expressionless.

"My friends," the man opened his lips in a toothy, gloating smile, "they are rough?"

Recognition flooded Reagan's features. Baumo Gali! Here was the first straw he had been able to grasp.

"I'll be damned," he said. "If it isn't the woman killer from the Holland Maid."

The speech did not please the man who sat behind the desk. His fingers closed over the barrel of the gun and his eyes turned flint hard.

"It will be well to remember that / talk here," he said. "Your life is worth little."

Reagan smiled. That speech, he knew was a lie. If Baumo Gali had engineered this series of accidents, he must value Reagan highly. He thought of the stone buddha he had left in the safe at Toungoo.

"I think my life," he answered evenly, "at least for the present, is a long way from being valueless."

Gali's face clouded slightly.

"If I understand Americans, Mr. Reagan, you would do a lot to save your skin?"

"I'd do a hell of a lot more to save the lives of my friends," Reagan answered.

"You were not called here for debate," the little man said. "I am forced to ask for your assistance."

Reagan grinned suddenly.

"You want my help?" he asked. "Haven't you got your signals mixed a little?"

Gali stood up. The revolver on the table was a common denominator for Reagan's greater strength.

"I said before, that debate wasn't my purpose for bringing you here!" Gali said. "I took great trouble to disguise a very fast plane as a Nakajima fighter. Working at a distance I managed to attract you and lead you here to the Salween.

"But—to remain on a straight path, I am having some difficulty in obtaining a certain stone buddha which was turned over to Miss Frances Walker on board the ship Holland Maid. Its possession seems to have narrowed down to you."

"And where did you get that information?" Reagan asked.

Gali waved an impatient hand.

"I know that at present the buddha is in the hands of Channing Walker at Kunming."

"Then you know more than I do," Reagan shot back. "I didn't..."

HE realized then that he had been neatly and speedily trapped. Gali smiled, this time in triumph.

"Then Miss Walker was correct," he said. "She told us that the buddha was in your possession. I assumed that you would send it to Kunming with your luggage."

"So what?" Reagan snapped.

"So I propose that you write a note that will be delivered to Kunming, asking that the buddha be turned over to the bearer of the message."

"And if I refuse?"

Gali's expression was unchanged.

"Have you ever heard of the thuggee? They are a Hindu clan who worship the Goddess of Destruction, Kali. They kill by strangling their victims with a knotted rope." He paused dramatically. "This village is the home of thugs who left the Rangoon area because of the Japanese invasion. They are ready to kill when I point my finger at the victim."

Reagan was silent.

"I might also mention that Miss Walker would suffer that fate, should you refuse to write that note."

"I don't believe Frances Walker is within a hundred miles of here," Reagan said. "How do I know you aren't lying?"

Baumo Gali's eyes grew sharper.

"You aren't dealing with a fool, Reagan," he snapped. "The Japanese government wants that buddha. I was sent with a member of my staff to America to obtain it. Fortunately, Wong sought a like fetish and I learned of his quest. It was convenient to substitute the buddhas, a rather clever substitution made when Miss Walker left her stateroom. Now do you believe I know what I'm talking about?"

"You attempted to shoot Miss Walker," Reagan said. Gali shrugged.

"It would have made the substitution a simpler matter. Her death would not have stopped the buddha from reaching Rangoon."

"I'm beginning to understand," Reagan said slowly. "She tried to get rid of what she thought was the first buddha by tossing it overboard."

"A point which troubled us at the time," Gali admitted. "In an attempt to save the buddha we had substituted, my assistant died. It was a necessary sacrifice."

"Sacrifice," Reagan snapped. "Bushido—Japanese code of honor. You've stabbed in the back in the name of that code. It won't win a war for you."

Gali picked up Reagan's revolver.

"We have wasted enough time," he said. "You will write that note, now."

Reagan knew that the man would not hesitate to shoot him down if he refused. There was a chance that getting Gali out of the way for a while might give him a chance... Chance?

That was it. Gali had taken paper and a small pencil from the desk drawer. He put it before him on the rough surface.

"Write."

With his tongue in his cheek, Reagan wrote. Gali was in a tight spot. This was his last card. Without help from Reagan, he had no chance now to get the buddha.

Reagan scribbled slowly, pretending that the task was difficult for him. His fingers were awkward on the pencil and once or twice he blurred the words so badly that he had to cross them out and make substitutions. At last he handed the paper back to Gali.

"I guess that will do it," he said.

Gali took the message eagerly and read it:

Gali fighting against Japanese. Do not follow but give him the safe in truck with force during Rangoon attack. In this village they promise our safety and lives. We are in no great danger.

The wording was stilted and awkward. Gali, unfamiliar with American writing, didn't seem to notice it for a moment. Then he slapped the paper back on the desk before Reagan.

"You thought you were very clever, didn't you, Mr. Reagan?"

Reagan's heart sank, but he managed to express surprise. "But—you asked...?"

"What good is that paper without your name signed to it?" Gali snapped. "Your signature—at once!"

Reagan signed his name slowly.

"Now—turn about and walk straight from the hut. Do not turn."

Reagan turned, waiting for the slug from the gun to rip into his back. He took one hesitant step, felt the barrel of the weapon crash down on his head and pitched forward into darkness.

DEEP under the towering cliffs of the Salween a great cavern extended. Lower than the bed of the river, the gigantic chamber stretched, down into the mountain, the temple of the Goddess, Kali. At first it was a tunnel, worn by water in ages past, meandering into the granite. Then it widened into a great opening with a roof so high that eyes accustomed to the yellow of torchlight could not see the top. Here, in a vast echoing underworld the thuggees gathered every eighth day to worship the goddess of destruction.

Now the sound of their voices in the chamber was louder and eager. Filled with a fierce, exultant note of happiness.

The Goddess Kali had returned.

At the far end of the cavern, a niche, perhaps six feet square had been cut from the stone. In this opening was a flat rock that extended into the main chamber and back to the dead end of the cavern's inner wall. Kali, her wild, passionate stone body nude in the flickering light, stood on that rock throne. She was symbolic of the lust and desire to kill that made men strangle their enemies and throw their bodies before her in stark happiness at fulfilling their trust.

Kali, years before Christians strode the earth, had possessed men's souls and made them kill to satisfy her love of destruction. Kali, her hands clasped before her, leaned forward as though eager to inspect each bloody victim tossed on the floor at her feet.

Her body was flawless and hard as the stone under her bare feet. Her hair fell about a gray, shapely face, waxen in its stillness. Deep, slanted eyes looked downward sightlessly and the mouth of rock was molded into an expression that was never appeased, regardless of the blood that flowed before her.

Kali demanded her victim on the eighth day.

He was coming, even now, dragged by the neck where the noose was fitted tightly. He came unwillingly, frightened at what he knew would happen in the midst of the torch bearing, screaming men.

Crash Walton knew he was walking the last mile.

He admitted to himself that he had it coming. He had had no right flying off by himself that last afternoon at Rangoon. Deep in the canyons of the Salween, Walton had realized the fool he had been. He had tried to turn back, but the powerful plane swooped dawn upon him and tracer bullets poured into his engine.

After that came the dizzy dive downward, the slow fall of the parachute, the capture by Baumo Gali's men. It had all been like a newsreel; quick flashes of incidents that ended when he was tossed hurriedly into a stone prison and left for the sacrifice to Kali.

Walton knew he would die, but he didn't know why. When he saw the shouting madmen gather around their idol, he remembered the story of Kali and the whole thing was clear to him.

He didn't want to die. The rope, already cutting into the flesh of his neck, was more than he could bear. Big men don't die gracefully. They take more punishment than others might. Walton pictured his heavy body threshing about at the end of the rope and wondered if he would cry out. Damned if he'd let the devils know how badly it hurt.

There must be a hundred of them, all dancing about like dervishes and falling before the stone statue.

He laughed suddenly, realizing that his thoughts classified the stone girl as though he had just met her walking down main street.

"Nice figure," he whispered to himself. "Nice looking babe."

Then emotions burst over him and brought cold sweat to his face. He was going crazy!

WONG, Chinese agent, had failed in his mission. He sat alone in a cave prison not unlike the one Reagan had occupied. Wong was a philosopher. If he alone were to die, it would not be bad. After all, he was a husk of a man, old and dried by the hot sun and fine dust of China. He had gone to America to make final arrangements for the Flying Tigers. The Chinese government had learned of certain enemy plans to smuggle a valuable buddha to Rangoon, through China and into the land of the Nippon.

Wong had combined his missions well, but his mistake had been as easily made as it was foolish. Wong could condone an error, but an error such as his, never.

He sat on the sand floor of the cave, his long fingers tracing the symbol of the dragon on the sandy floor.

At first he had been suspicious of the boy, Bob Reagan. Reagan's father had been a trader. He had worked with the Japanese years before the war broke out. Young Reagan had purchased a certain buddha from him, Wong, and that first aroused Wong's wonder.

When he found Baumo Gali was in San Francisco at the same time Reagan planned to sail, he linked them together.

Wong wanted the buddha and he had taken it. Only once had he made a mistake and that was his downfall. He had fought for and taken a harmless fetish and completely overlooked the statue that Baumo Gali had smuggled on board the Holland Maid.

Now he knew his mistake. He had, in a measure, saved face for Reagan by trusting Baumo Gali's buddha to the boy when he learned of Reagan's innocence. Now his own death would involve the murder of others. The girl, Frances Walker, had already been dragged from her cell. The pilot, Crash Walton, was dying now. He, Wong, honorable damned fool, would soon follow.

He heard a plane take off, and knew that Baumo Gali was once more away on his quest for the buddha. Wong wondered where Reagan was, and if the buddha that meant so much to Japan was still well hidden.

Regardless of situations that would arise, he was powerless to save himself.

But he would not die before the heathen goddess, Kali!

It was a gentleman's privilege to die at his own hand. Should the occasion arise, Wong had enough poison pressed into wax under his long nails to kill a dozen men. It was the custom of men who lead dangerous lives to leave an easy and honorable way out.

Wong smiled and the wrinkled skin of his face was suddenly alive with sardonic humor at his own dreaming.

Tap-tap.

The sound, a faint tapping on the rock, came from near him.

He smiled at the thought of a dispirited old man, dying by the simple expedient of sucking his fingers. It was fitting that he should employ a childhood act to return to the womb of his mother earth.

Tap-tap-tap.

He could die easily...

The tapping was a signal! A clear, sharp signal on the rock that guarded his cell!

SWIFTLY Wong arose and went to the rock. Tap-tap-tap- tap.

First to—then three and now four. That could not be coincidence. Someone was trying to signal from outside. He pressed his ear close to the rock and listened.

It came again, this time five distinct knocking sounds. He returned them eagerly. There was someone—a friend, who would know who was inside. The rock started to move slowly. Wong was surprised. There must be levers outside. He had tried to push the stone and failed to move it an inch.

There as an opening of a few inches.

"It's Reagan," the voice was low, eager, "who's in there?"

Wong leaned close to the door.

"Wong. Open quickly."

He heard Reagan's breath come hard as the rock slipped away and daylight flashed into the cell.

"The village is deserted," Reagan grasped his arm and drew him into the light. "Quick, across the compound."

Wong stumbled. His old bones were weak with imprisonment. Reagan helped him toward the village.

They found the one-room shack and Wong knew it was here he had stood across the table from Baumo Gali and heard his death sentence.

Reagan closed the door. He shook Wong's hand warmly.

"Miss Walker—Frances, is she all right?"

Events were far ahead of Wong. He tried desperately to collect his wits.

"I am afraid both Miss Walker and the pilot, Crash Walton, are dead," he said sadly. "Baumo Gali captured us all. We were questioned about the buddha. When Gali was convinced that it was in your possession, he turned us all over to the men who inhabit this place. The girl was taken away by Gali himself a fortnight ago. I have not seen her since."

Reagan scowled.

"Gali is on his way to Kunming for the idol," he said quickly. "I have reason to believe that help may be coming for us. What did they do with Crash?"

Wong nodded.

"They took him from the cell an hour ago," he said. "He is going to be sacrificed to Kali, goddess of the Thuggee. They were to return for me in eight days. I have had little to eat. I am afraid I cannot help you much. How did you come here?"

"Gali tricked me," Reagan said.

"He has a fast, camouflaged plane. I thought I could overtake him and knock him down. After I chased him to the Salween, I had to bail out." Wong nodded.

"Gali is clever," he admitted. "I owe you an apology. I knew Gali was to smuggle a buddha from America. He was smart enough to make me suspect you and the buddha you owned. I thought you were a spy in his employ. After you saved Miss Walker's life, I knew you were honest. It was too late to keep you from becoming involved."

"I know," Reagan answered impatiently. "Gali told me the whole story. He cracked me on the head and left me for dead. The men here have all cleared out. When I came to, I found a gun in his desk. I wondered if others were imprisoned as I was, in the caves at the base of the cliff. I found you there."

"Wait," Wong's eyes were suddenly bright, "you say all the thugs are gone from the village?" Reagan nodded.

"Then," Wong continued eagerly, "that explains the noise outside my cell. It was very faint, but I thought I heard many men shouting in a distance."

"The cave," Reagan threw open the door, "it may go deeper into the mountain than we think."

GUN in hand, he ran toward the small tunnel. Wong tried to keep up, but found it was impossible. He sank down, exhausted, near the cave entrance.

Reagan went ahead more cautiously once he was in the dark passage. The cells where they had been held were near the opening to the village. Reagan found the tunnel, passed the cells and went into the cliff. The tunnel was narrow at first, and then wider. It went down at a sharp angle and warm, fetid air drifted up from below. Pistol in hand, he moved swiftly.

The scene that met his eyes in the cavern was horrible. The cavern opened from the tunnel, and on the far side was a large group of the thugs from the village above. They sat on a semi-circle before a small, torch-lighted niche in the wall.

Reagan's eyes lighted eagerly at the first sight of the nude priestess Kali.

For that instant he thought...

But, no! The woman was made of cold, gray stone.

STRAPPED across the flat granite rock before her was the stout body of Crash Walton. Reagan drew into the shadows at the edge of the cavern. Three men stood over Walton. Silence greeted them. The final act of sacrifice was about to occur.

A rope had been drawn tightly around Walton's neck. Reagan detected movement in his body and sighed with relief. At least Walton was still alive. One of the men who stood over Walton drew the rope tight and placed his foot against Walton's face.

Reagan thought little of the chance he was taking. The strangler was a perfect target. Reagan aimed carefully and sent a bullet whining across the cavern into the man's head.

With a scream of pain, the thuggee fell forward across Walton. The pilot tried to struggle lose from his bonds. A cry of anger went up from the mob. They had waited to see the sacrifice to Kali. Instead, their own leader had fallen.

Reagan ran into the mob, firing wildly and trying to make as much noise as he could. They saw the man with the pistol and swept across the sand to meet him. Reagan fired his last shot, threw the gun at the first man and sent him down. He waded in like a crazy man, the odds overwhelming him in a wave of fanatical attackers. He went down, clawing and biting, still trying to reach Walton.

A rope was around Reagan's neck. It nearly pulled his right ear off, tightening cruelly as he fought. The cave swirled around in his eyes and bright stars seemed to fall at him from the blackness.

With his senses failing him, lie felt the entire cavern shake suddenly with a loud explosion.

BOOM!

The shock silenced the throng. The sound vibrated and echoed down the tunnel. The place was in a turmoil. Screams of terror arose and Reagan felt the rope loosen as they dropped him and started to run up the tunnel.

Bo-o-o-m! Bo-o-o-m!

Reagan sat up weakly. He knew that sound. The message had worked. Channing Walker's boys were sending heavy bombs crashing into the thuggee village. They looked around quickly.

The thugs were gone. A dozen heavy rocks crashed down from the ceiling of the cavern. Walker was doing his job well.

The heavy crash of the bombs came again and far away Reagan heard the sudden sound of P-40s as they dived. Then the rat- tat-tat-tat of the machine guns. Another boulder came down, rocking the floor under him. Reagan struggled across the floor on his hands and knees. Walton, bound and gagged, stared at him gratefully.

Reagan managed to stand up. He worked feverishly at Walton's bonds. The gag came free.

"Thanks, fella," Walton said weakly. "Better get out of here. Looks like Kali's temple is gonna do a crash dive."

Arm in arm, they went toward the tunnel.

Bo-o-o-o-m!

The whole cavern shook under the blow. Something fell with a thud behind Reagan. He turned.

"Good Lord!"

Crash's eyes followed Reagan's.

"Frances Walker!"

Kali, Goddess of destruction had fallen forward into the sand. Near her body lay a cruel wax mask. With the falling of the mask, the cruel slanted eyes, the hard mouth was gone. Instead, staring at them sightlessly was the stone-like face of Channing Walker's daughter.

REAGAN covered the distance between him and the stone girl swiftly. Seeing her here, turned to a merciless stone, was the hardest thing that he ever faced. Picking the girl up, he was surprised that instead of stone, her body was light and hard, as though a crust were formed over it. Together he and Crash carried the girl into the tunnel. They put the pitiful body on the sand and Reagan went to his knees at her side. He wanted to cry, to let go the emotions that had driven him so nearly mad in the hours it had taken to bring them together.

Suddenly, as though away from the spell of the cavern, the skin of Frances Walker's body started to soften. He was sure that the pressure of his hand against her arm pushed the flesh inward. Unable to speed the process, Reagan was very still, wondering if the girl would live again. Crash, looking over Reagan's shoulder, allowed his breath to suck in swiftly, almost frightened by the change taking place.

Frances was alive. Slowly her fingers flexed. Her cheeks came alive with the warmth of blood in them.

Unable to explain the transition, Reagan was silent, thankful. She shuddered then, the slight, fearful motion shaking her body from head to foot. The flesh was changing from stone gray to a living quivering ivory.

"Thank God!" Reagan breathed the words slowly.

Her eyes opened as though hearing his voice and she looked up at him.

"Bob—it's really you?"

Cradling her head in his arm, he pressed his lips feverishly to her own.

"It's me," he choked, and more words than that refused to come.

THE sight that met their eyes as they left the tunnel and came into the sunlight, was wonderful.

Five P-40's had landed and were drawn up in line near the village. The ground was covered with bodies of the thugs.

On the ground near the shack where Gali had lived Reagan saw Gali himself, firmly trussed in heavy ropes. Commander Channing Walker and Frank Pastur of the Second Squadron, were there. Reagan carried the girl to them.

Channing Walker saw his daughter and a cry of anger escaped his tight lips.

"What have they done to her?"

Reagan shook his head.

"I don't know," he admitted. He twisted savagely on Baumo Gali. "You know what happened."

Baumo Gali had lost. He knew now why they had delayed so long when he walked into Kunming to get the buddha. Someone followed him back to his plane hidden on the jungle field. Reagan, "that I can explain." Wong, safe. They had wiped out the thuggee village and captured him.

"I think," a quiet voice said behind Reagan, "that I can explain."

Wong, unable to help in the battle had waited in the tunnel.

He turned to Reagan:

"There is a legend that whoever stands in the niche of the Goddess Kali, shall turn to stone," he said. "Some say the cavern lies within a circle of power that comes from the underworld. Others believe in the superstition that Kali herself lies in wait to destroy and turn to rock anyone who dares take her throne. I should have guessed what happened. These thugs have had no goddess for centuries. Gali evidently gained his power by placing the mask on Frances Walker's face and placing her in the niche where the transformation took place."

Reagan had wrapped his jacket about Frances Walker's body. He held her firmly about the shoulders now.

Wong put a kindly hand on the girl's arm.

"I am glad that they spared your life," he said simply.

Frances took his hand in her own.

"It wasn't your fault," she said, "they put me in that awful place. I couldn't move. There was a mask on my face. I knew what was happening but I couldn't move."

Tears welled into her eyes.

"You are safe now," Wong said. "And the spell of Kali, will never touch you again."

"YOU have the buddha?" Wong asked.

Walker motioned to one of the pilots and the buddha was brought from his plane.

Wong took it in his hands, and turned to Crash. A grim expression touched the old man's lips.

"I believe rough treatment may bring the secret of the buddha from Gali's unwilling lips," he said softly.

Crash used his foot willingly, and Gali rolled in agony on the sand. Wong kneeled near the Jap.

"It might be well to explain, Tonjo Ferano, that I knew your real mission in America. I know that you took advantage of my ignorance and substituted this buddha for the harmless one that Miss Walker brought to Rangoon. I know that when she tried to toss it overboard, one of your spies lost his life to save it. Japan is not pleased when her sons fail on their missions. You will be thrown into a Chinese jail and rot there unless you tell us what value this statue holds."

The mention of jail and disgrace brought a pleading, childish look into Tonjo Ferano's eyes.

"By the power of Bushido my crime could be erased," he said pleadingly. "If I were to confess...?"

Wong nodded.

"You will be given the chance," he said tonelessly.

Tonjo Ferano's face lightened.

"A son of Nippon has collected data showing every army camp and gun emplacement on the west coast of the United States," he said hurriedly. "Our camera work prior to the outbreak of war could not contain this vital information. A map is traced on a smooth slab of clay, and hidden in the hollow chest of the buddha."

Ferano's head fell forward against his chest and his voice sank low.

"Now I will have my opportunity?"

Wong nodded.

"You will go alone into the cavern of Kali and we will not enter for a period of five minutes."

He started methodically to free the ropes that held the Japanese spy.

THE cool, screened porch of Channing Walker's home in Kunming was serving its purpose well. Crash Walton, Reagan, with Frances sitting close to him on the bamboo swing, and Walker himself made up the small party. Wong arrived from the communication office at dusk. He sat quietly near Channing Walker.

A long interval of silence followed Wong's arrival. None of them felt like reliving the past several days.

Tall wine glasses were passed and at last Walton, usually the one to break the silence, spoke:

"What I'd like to know," he demanded of Reagan, "is how did you get word to Commander Walker?"

Reagan looked at Frances' father.

"You can tell him better than I can, sir."

Walker smiled.

"I thought it was funny that a college graduate would write such terrible English," he confessed. "Pastur is somewhat of a code expert. It took him just five minutes to find out that by skipping every two words after the first one in Reagan's message, he could get an entirely different and obvious meaning from the note. After that, we did the rest."

He took a crumpled slip from his pocket and passed it to Crash. The code words were underlined.

Gali fighting against Japanese. Do not follow but give him the safe in truck with force during Rangoon attack. In this village they promise our safety and lives. We are in no great danger.

Bob Reagan.

"Nice going," Walton said with a grin. "Say, what was that business about Bushido that Gali, I mean Ferano, pulled on you, Wong?"

"The Japanese have a code of honor called Bushido," Wong answered. "To save face, Ferano wished to kill himself with his own Samurai sword. The Japanese have many queer ways of saving their honor."

Reagan drew his arm tightly around Frances Walker's waist.

"It's all been a pleasure," he said. "Now that the stone goddess of Yunan has once more returned to her own lovable flesh."

THE END