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Roy Glashan's Library
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Based on a painting by John William Waterhouse (1849-1917)
Fantastic Adventures, June 1944, with "The Bury Me Deep"
When Bill Rigger fled from the slave ship, he found
weird bird-women who thirsted for human blood.
CORPORAL BILL RIGGER ducked his head and listened to lead spatter the deck around him. Somewhere down the line a man moaned in pain. The moan was followed by an urgent cry.
"Stretcher case down here. Hurry up. This fella's bleeding bad."
Corporal Rigger shivered. The fighter plane zoomed upward again and the pom-pom-pom of the anti-aircraft guns followed it into the cloudy sky. The troop carrier plowed onward as though nothing were happening.
The corporal lifted his head slowly, like a turtle coming out of its shell. He stared across the billowing, spray-flecked water of the Messina Straits. There were ships in every direction.
The sky was dark with planes. Protection was good, but once in a while a Jerry would dive through the screen, drop his bombs and run for it.
They were going after the wounded soldier. He screamed with pain as they rolled him on to the stretcher. The sound made Rigger flinch.
Another Jerry plane broke through the protection screen and screamed downward. It dropped one bomb, then tipped over and fell into the water like a winged duck. A smoke trail followed it down, and hung above the water long after the plane was gone.
Rigger drew his helmet down tightly. He wished to hell that he could go below decks. It would be nasty down there, but at least he wouldn't have to watch what was going on. This was like sleeping without covers. A fellow had a false feeling of safety with blankets drawn tightly to his chin. Being out of sight below decks would be like that.
The trip was getting hotter than a seven-day tour of Hades. He saw red-faced Private Don Rance struggling toward him through the crowd. Rance was stumbling over everyone in sight, trying to keep his feet under him on the rolling deck. He crouched at Rigger's side.
"Ain't this a helluva mess, Corporal?"
Rigger nodded.
"If they keep us out here long enough, the beach will look so good we'll tear through the whole German army to capture a hunk of it."
Rance nodded his head vigorously. It was getting pretty noisy. The battle-wagons up ahead were lobbing heavy stuff into shore positions. Half a dozen P38's and a lot of Jerry fighters were after each other directly above Rigger's head. Between the roar of shells, Rance managed to make himself heard.
"I. been thinking," he said. "Not that there's any chance of it; but I got a couple letters for the folks—just in case."
His head dropped a little.
"Wonder—if anything went wrong—you'd mind taking care of my V-mail department?"
He removed two letters from his pocket; and passed them to Rigger. Riggers hand was shaking when he took them but he didn't give a damn who noticed it. He didn't feel a damned bit brave about what was coming.
"You aren't going to get hit, Rance," he said. "They'll take you for a cow and try to capture you with a rope."
Rance chuckled.
"Don't worry," he said. "If they get you first, I'll come back for the letters. Don't take any wooden centîmes."
He turned and started to work his way back through the crowd of soldiers. Bill Rigger shrugged. How much longer would the trip last? How long would they last?
Someone dug an elbow into his ribs.
"Duck—it's a heavy oriel--"
He leaned forward, still sitting cross-legged, his face close to the deck. He wanted to wriggle into the helmet, hide his entire body under it. Suddenly the deck seemed to expand under him, and blow wide open. He felt himself being lifted into the air; and in a detached sort of way he wondered what had happened. He didn't pass out. It was like watching someone else being blown high In the air, and dropped overboard. No pain—no fear.
THE transport was gone. The sky was clear of planes. Rigger felt himself sinking again, and struggled wildly to get fresh air into his lungs. Waves rolled over his head and he held his breath. It seemed hours before he came to the top again. This time it wasn't so bad. He didn't try to fight, but accepted the cool, green water as a matter of course. It was better than being ripped apart by high explosive stuff. He knew vaguely that he was drowning, but it didn't seem to frighten him greatly.
Then, as he came up for the second time, a terrible fear gripped him.
Three times and you're out.
The meaning of the words rolled back to him. Words spoken in boyhood days. If you're drowning, three times and you're out. Then he started to fight back. To struggle against the huge merciless beast, the sea. He threshed around, swinging his arms, kicking savagely. The waves knocked the wind out of him.
An Army doesn't wait for a soldier. Corporal Rigger realized that, at this moment, he was important only to himself. Now his breathing was more even. He paddled easily with both hands. The chill of the water gradually deadened the feeling in his arms and legs.
Five minutes passed. The old fear came back. He didn't have a chance. His teeth chattered and his arms were numb to the shoulders. Was it worth fighting for? He'd have to give up sooner or later. His heart was pounding like a hammer. The strain was terrific. He took a last desperate look around. As far as he could see, dark waves scudded before the wind. The sky was cloudy and pungent with smoke. Here, an army had passed, and left him in its wake.
Perhaps it had left something for him to cling to. He started to swim with all the strength that remained in him. A cramp seized his arm, and gritting his teeth against the pain, he twisted in the water and tried to move slowly ahead with the other. He was like the Jerry plane that wis knocked from the sky. Soon his body would go out of control, turning and twisting slowly toward the bottom.
Something was bobbing on the surface ahead of him. He struck out bravely, hopefully, toward it. Then tears welled into his eyes.
It was an apple. Nothing else—just a small, round apple.
Bill Rigger hadn't asked for food. He asked only for life.
He reached angrily, clutching the bit of fruit in his palm. He lifted it, swearing loudly, and tried to throw it away with his last bit of strength. It was Rigger's last gesture of defiance toward life. He couldn't let go of the apple. As his fingers held it, a strange, inexplainable warmth coursed through him. It was like a slight, warming electric shock. A shock that made him suddenly vibrant and alive once more.
He didn't want to fight. He had no thought of death. His eyes closed and his tired body shuddered and relaxed. Corporal Rigger felt soothing, restful water closing over him.
BILL RIGGER thought he had been dreaming. He floated on the surface of a calm sea. The water rippled slowly against his body. It was crystal clear, and by rolling over, he could stare down at the sandy bottom and watch tiny fish as they darted around beneath him.
He still held the apple firmly in his hand. Once he tried to bite it, as he was growing hungry. It was hard as polished brass, and painted to represent perfect fruit. Rigger hadn't had time to think about the situation he faced. The transition had been too abrupt. He wasn't even sure that he was alive. This sun-warmed sea might be in another life. He floated on the water without effort. Somehow he credited that to the apple, for it was his possession of the apple that had changed things so much.
An hour—or was it more?—had made a great change in his thoughts.
Could a magic apple make a stormy sea calm? Could it keep him afloat?
He wondered if there was any chance of rescue.
He had hardly accepted that thought, when a tiny black speck appeared on the horizon. He watched it eagerly, afraid it would fade away.
What had happened to Don Rance and his buddies? Had they managed to land an establish a beach-head? Perhaps he'd know soon. The boat was growing larger, and as it came toward him, Rigger felt a queer uneasiness growing within him.
Things weren't so right, after all. Somewhere, somehow, a page in history had been torn from the book, and pasted back in the wrong place. Bearing down upon him was a square-sailed, ancient Phoenician galley. He watched it with widening eyes, seeing the clean, flashing sweep of the oars as they rose and fell in perfect unison. Water glittered from them and dripped back into the sea. The galley reminded Rigger of a model he had constructed in high school history class.
Even the history book description came back to him vividly.
"The galleys were propelled by slaves who handled the oars. There were sometimes more than five banks of them. The sail was square, and rigged on a single mast. The Phoenicians were masters of the sea for many centuries."
But that was William Rigger—tenth grade history class—U.S.A. Was this a dream? If it were not for the war, he would assume that some millionaire, living on the Italian coast, had spent a fortune on this reincarnation of the past. But people weren't doing things like that now. The Mediterranean was a war-field. It was being plowed by the prows of fighting ships. There was no place for dreamers on its stormy surface.
But the galley wasn't of dream stuff. It swept in close. The oars hesitated in mid-air-, as though waiting the command to fly again. Men became visible on the deck. The galley was richly maroon in color with new yellow rails and deck. The stern was high, built to run with a stormy sea.
The craft drifted swiftly, then lost speed and sulked along-side. A lean, bearded man stood at the rail. He wore a loosely fitted blue robe. His hands were cupped to his lips.
"You drift upon the water like a god who is not afraid of drowning. By the grace of Melkart, swim this way, will you?"
Rigger realized that he must look very odd, stretched out as though he were on a couch, watching the galley with dreamy eyes. He struck out toward the ship, swam under the shadow of the oars and grasped a rope that hit the water near him. Drawing himself up, hand over hand, he reached the rail and leaped to the deck.
Now the apple was safe in his pocket, for he had a feeling that to remain safe, he must keep it near him. He dripped like a bottomless bucket. His clothing was gone, except for torn shirt and pants. Now that he had been rescued, and by such a strange company, he felt a strange weakness coming over him. Worse than the weakness was his fear that this crazy existence was only beginning, that fate was playing a deeper, more significant game.
Rigger appraised the man before him carefully. The stranger might be merchant or prince. He definitely wasn't acting the part. Nor was he alone. From all parts of the ship, others came running. Most of them might, had they been dressed differently, have fitted nicely into Rigger's platoon. They looked hard and well-cured by the wind and sea. Their clothing was good, consisting of brightly colored jackets, wide-bottomed trousers, and boots.
THE captain, for it seemed to be he who had ordered Rigger aboard, walked completely around the American before he spoke again.
"You are neither curly-topped Greek nor haughty Roman."
Several of his friends chuckled at this remark.
"You could hardly have floated here from the shore of our own land."
He rubbed the bridge of his nose thoughtfully, and sniffed.
"In the name of the god Melkart, I don't see how you floated here from anywhere."
This speech was greeted with loud sounds of merriment. From below the deck, the loud crack of a whip sounded. Several voices shouted in unison. The galley leaped forward as the oars churned the water once more. The group around Rigger had grown, until men of all classes stared at him in open delight. The captain was giving a great show at the new-comer's expense.
Rigger realized that he must make the best of the situation, at least until he understood what was happening. He forced a smile.
"I'm from the United States," he said. "I was thrown off a troop carrier and managed to stay afloat until you picked me up."
The captain was plainly confused and a little angry at Rigger's explanation.
"United State? Troop carrier? Are you a spy, by any chance?" His voice became gruff with suspicion. "If you are, remember that we Phoenicians are still the power of the sea. We pay homage to no man, unless his trireme overhauls and sinks this galley. I, Acko Sideon, fear no man. I bow only to Melkart."
Rigger didn't have an idea in the world who Melkart was, or what Acko Sideon expected of him. He did know that until he was in a better position to argue, he must win the captain's friendship.
"I, too," he said with all the humbleness he could muster, "am a worshipper of Melkart."
-At once the faces about him were wreathed in smiles. Acko Sideon grasped his hand slapped him on the shoulder.
"A Phoenician, and lost at sea? You sail from Tyre? Tell me quickly, with what galley? Perhaps I know the master."
AH eyes were on Rigger. Tyre? He grasped at that one clue and tried to remember his history. Bits of it were buried deep in his inner mind.
"Tyre—and Sidon, two powerful cities of the Phoenicians that rose to power together. Tyre grew to a position of eminence which it kept for many centuries."
"I sailed from Tyre many months ago," he lied. "We were tossed by a stormy sea and our galley was wrecked. I drifted on a makeshift raft, and only today it sank beneath me."
Acko Sideon nodded impatiently.
"Go on," he urged. "Who was the master?"
Rigger gave up. He had hoped that Sideon would be easily satisfied. How could he go on answering questions, when he was doomed to be caught sooner or later. He knew nothing of the city or the people of Tyre, if in truth such a place still existed.
"Go on," Sideon shouted. "Your tongue is not tied."
"I didn't know the master of the ship," Rigger said. He saw immediately that he couldn't have said anything that could have hurt him more. The men about him scowled and looked at each other significantly. Acko
Sideon rubbed his nose thoughtfully and a crafty expression came into his eyes.
"So! You didn't know the master? You know only that you were wrecked, and rescued by me?"
He grasped Rigger's arm and twisted him savagely around.
"Perhaps you are a debtor? Perhaps you are an escaped slave?"
Bill Rigger's temper had been fanned white hot. He jerked away suddenly, and his shoulders straightened.
"Cut the comedy," he said. "I don't like being pushed around."
Sideon's expression was a mixture of anger and cunning. He decided that his reasoning was good. Here was a debtor, a galley slave, and a strong one.
"You act as though you had never felt the lash of the whip," he said calmly. "How long have slaves been allowed to speak so boldly?"
Rigger scanned the angry faces that ringed him in, decided he didn't have a chance, and, without warning, lashed out furiously. His fist connected with Acko Sideon's precious nose, and with deep satisfaction, he felt flash and cartilage give under the impact of the blow.
Rigger ducked quickly and tried to fight his way out of the deadly ring of men that immediately closed in upon him. It was useless. A dozen arms reached at once. He watched, with a nicely balanced sense of justice, as Acko Sideon folded up on the deck. Then something clipped him a powerful blow on the side of the head and he passed out cold.
JIGGER tasted something wet and spicy against his lips. Voices were building up in volume somewhere near him. It was like coming out from under ether, as when he once spent a month at a base hospital in North Africa. He swallowed and tried to keep from choking. He opened his eyes.
The heat was intense, and the stench of unwashed bodies made him gasp. It was dark, and his back ached badly.
"The slave has revived. His back looks strong. Put him on the bench, where we can use strong backs."
Rigger looked around slowly. He had been stripped of every ounce of clothing, and was lying on the rough planking of the hold. Two men jerked him to his feet. Then he understood what the smell had been. Knew what they planned to do with him.
He was below the deck of the galley. In the eerie half light, he saw row upon row of rough benches stretching the full length of the galley. The benches rose one upon the other, so that dozens of slaves, five men to an oar, could work together.
They were a motley collection, most of them black, stripped and gleaming with sweat. The boatswain and his crew moved slowly up and down the benches, applying their whips constantly, with varying results. The oars moved in rhythm. Each man came forward, rose to his feet and sank back with a groan, his full weight against the oar.
Rigger staggered weakly between two men, and was pushed upward to one of the top benches. They threw him down beside a huge blackamoor, twisted a ring of iron about his ankle and turned the key.
"Make the oar a part of your broad back," one of them shouted. "Don't fight against it or you'll feel the caress of the whip!"
Still dazed, Rigger didn't understand. His hand touched the oar and fell away. He tried hard to grasp it. The other five slaves were drawing at it steadily, more frightened than ever at being the object of special attention.
Rigger heard a hard laugh behind him. The long whip slashed a strip of flesh from his shoulders. He cried out in pain.
"Ha! What sort of slave is this?"
The whip snaked out once more, making a bloody X across his back. This time he knew he must do something to escape the pain. He grabbed the oar as it swept back and tried to fit his body movements to it.
The man with the whip chuckled and moved away. Rigger continued to pull at the oar. Fifteen minutes passed, then twenty. Sweat poured from his naked body. Then, because he had been toughened by long training, the task became simpler.
He glanced at the blackamoor and found the big man grinning at him. His teeth were very white and even. There was great respect in the black's round eyes.
"You get tired, Master, you ride the oars," the slave whispered. "Santo strong enough for both of us. You too fine a man for this."
Rigger didn't dare to answer. The boatswain's eyes were upon him. The whip was poised to lash out again. He continued to row with all his strength.
Gradually the pull on his muscles became too great. He tried to keep up, but he couldn't. Two hours, as close as he could guess, had passed since he was thrown into the hold. It was as though he had been here for years. He wondered how long they had to row before they were allowed to rest.
He chanced a look at the boatswain and saw that the man was occupied. He turned to the blackamoor.
"How—long—before we—rest?"
The words jerked out between strokes. The black slave grinned a little.
"Sometimes twenty hours, Master," he admitted. "You rest—ride oar. Santo will pull harder."
Rigger was filled with the desire to cry like a baby. Twenty hours? His body wasn't hardened for slave labor. These slaves had spent months, some of them years, hidden in this murky suburb of hell.
Gradually, not because he wanted to, but because his strength was gone, he leaned on the oar and "rode" it as Santo urged him to do. The extra weight meant nothing to the giant black. His shoulder muscles and biceps swelled and glistened in the lamp light. He never complained, and only aroused Rigger when the whips came close.
Santo had accepted Rigger as master and not as slave. Later, Rigger realized that Santo had saved his life on the galley. Now, he had only the strength to move backward—forward—backward; his throat was dry and his eyes were on the powerful, sweating figure at-his side.
Santo was a slave. He had always served; and now, in the hold of a galley, he had found a white man who appreciated his servitude.
HOW many hours he had spent in the hold of the galley, Bill Rigger couldn't guess. One torturous, half-awakening minute followed another. He worked when he could, and only to escape the lash of the whip. The remainder of the time, Santo was like a protecting wall between him and the rest of the world.
Then the order came to cease rowing. The oars halted and a deathly silence pervaded the hold. The men leaned forward like dead flesh and slept without moving a muscle. Bill Rigger could not sleep. He wondered if he might be removed from the hold.
Ten minutes passed. Then came the boatswain's coarse command.
"Row, you yellow-livered sons-o-scum."
His whip cracked out and snapped at the ear lobe of a yellow-skinned slave. The yellow man screamed in pain, and grasped at the bleeding gash that was left on the side of his head. The whip came down again.
"Row!"
The slave, minus an ear-lobe, leaned forward and fell into rhythm with the rowers. For the remainder of the afternoon the galley hesitated on its journey many times. Rigger was convinced they were near land. He dared not talk with Santo. At last, when the galley remained halted for some time, they were given coarse bread soaked in cheap wine. The wine was sour and, on the bread, it resembled bloody flesh. Yet he sucked at it eagerly and felt strength returning to his body.
Santo wolfed down his food, then turned to Rigger. He was grinning almost contentedly.
"You need not fear them now," he said. "They have all gone on deck. We can talk safely."
Rigger looked around. The slaves were talking excitedly. The boatswain and his men were gone.
"Thanks for being a right guy," he said to Santo. "You saved my life this afternoon."
Santo continued to grin.
"I served in Tyre and in Sidon," he said quietly. "You do not belong here. Do you owe money to Acko Sideon?"
Rigger shook his head.
"Then why are you in chains? Where do you come from?"
Rigger didn't know how to explain.
"To begin with," he said, "my name is Rigger—Bill Rigger. What's yours?"
"My name is Santo. That is the only name I have."
"It's a long story, Santo," Rigger went on. "I don't think you will believe me. I can hardly believe it myself."
Santo looked puzzled.
"You are not Roman or Greek?5'
"I'm Irish," Rigger said.
Santo shook his head. He was completely baffled.
"I thought you might be a man of Tyre," he said. "I am poorly educated, and have never heard of people called Irish."
IT was a hopeless task, Rigger thought. Yet Santo was a swell person. He deserved some sort of explanation.
"I came from a different part of the world," he said earnestly. "A world of the future. They call it America, and the Americans are fighting a war. It is a war of the land and the air, and even under the sea."
Santo weighed every word carefully. As Rigger spoke, Santo's face mirrored the bewilderment within him.
"I don't know how I came here," Rigger said. "Suddenly I was drawn from my world and dropped into yours. Oddly enough, I seem to understand and be able to talk your language."
Santo was a little frightened that so great a man had fallen into his custody.
"The god Melkart protect me for being a fool," he said. "You must be a god. A god dropped from a place where men stride in the clouds and walk beneath the sea."
His head bowed in respect.
"Hold everything," Rigger protested. "I'm no god. I'm not even a man, compared with those who handle oars the way you do, I told you I'm perfectly normal. I just don't understand what happened."
Santo, however, could not overlook the modesty of a god who accepted his, Santo's assistance. His head remained bowed, and he hoped that the god, Rigger, would not single him out for any special attention. Santo faced the task of serving a god with certain doubts in his poor mind.
One of the boatswain's crew, a dark-skinned man of Tyre, climbed swiftly down into the hold. He ran its full length to his own cabin. He was greatly excited and seemed very happy.
On deck, Rigger could hear men singing and shouting. He wondered what was responsible for the celebration. Then a second and third man came down the ladder. The boatswain himself followed, swaggered half the length of the ship and paused. He felt suddenly that his own good fortune should be shared with the others.
"Rest a few hours," he shouted. "We have dropped our anchor in the warm waters of a magic inlet. We have seen an island such as none of you have ever dreamed. You are indeed unfortunate for having no part in the exploration of such a place."
Beads of perspiration stood out on his face.
"Perhaps you wonder at the excitement of the men. Acko Sideon had given us leave to go ashore and drink our fill of wine. There are other pleasures beckoning to us."
He turned and his smile faded into a frown. Without further words, he went to his cabin. He was angry, for his fine speech had brought no tears or moaning from the slaves.
Magic island?
Rigger shook his head. Magic apples and island. He was too confused to know what was happening. Every muscle in his body felt as though it had been torn loose of flesh and lay exposed to the air. His brain was spinning. He wanted water. Fresh water to help a parched throat and aching stomach. His skin felt dry.
He watched the members of the crew climb out of the hold. He wondered, as they went up into the sunlight, if the slaves were ever allowed above decks.
Then came the sound of boats scraping against the planking, and the splash as they hit the water along-side. He heard bits of shouted conversation as the crew went over the side.
"They are still beckoning us. Row, you fools! Row!"
"Lovely women--"
"They hold fruits aloft, begging us--"
"It will be a feast of the gods."
CANTO'S eyes were bulging.
"When the master seeks earthly pleasures, we must await his return. It does not happen often, but should he be greeted too pleasantly, he may forget his slaves. It would not be pleasant here in a few hours."
Rigger shuddered. He hadn't thought of that. Here were men, chained by the ankle, unable to seek food. If Acko Sideon didn't return in a few hours, how would they eat?
Half an hour passed and no sound came from above. The sun warmed the ship and gradually he forgot the terrible odors about him, and slept, slouched over the oar. Around him, others relaxed for the first time in months and snored loudly.
How many hours passed before Rigger awakened, he could not guess. Opening his eyes, he sat very still, staring into the gloom. It was night. Not a lantern was lighted. Sideon had not returned.
Though he was still weak, some of the strength had flowed back into Rigger's body. He was very hungry. He tried to see beyond Santo into the darkness. Then Santo was moving, leaning close to him. He spoke in a whisper.
"Make no sound, Master. The slaves are angry. They plan to cut the chains and escape."
"But they aren't mad at me," Rigger insisted.'
Santo's face was just visible. He nodded.
"Santo knows. But you are a white man. They will be afraid you might betray them. The less they think of you, the easier our escape will be."
The men all around him were talking quietly now. At the far end of the benches, he could hear the dull scraping sound of iron against iron.
"It is one of the old slaves," Santo explained. "I had forgotten, but many weeks ago his family smuggled some keys aboard. They stole them from a slaver. Now he says it is time to use the keys, and mutiny."
The heavy clank of dropping chains sounded closer to them. A low, vibrant voice offered thanks to Melkart, and bare feet started to hit the boards under the benches.
Rigger waited with every bit of patience he could muster. This might be his single chance to escape. But where to? He shook his head impatiently. No use worrying. At least, once free of the hold, he could think more clearly
"They will fight over the food and wine," Santo was whispering. "They know little of freedom. They will become violent with drink."
A voice grunted out of the darkness behind Rigger. He saw Santo reach eagerly and knew that the blackamoor had the precious keys. Others hands were reaching toward Santo.
Santo slipped the key swiftly into Rigger's metal ring and freed him. Then, releasing himself, he sent the keys speedily on their way.
Rigger staggered to his feet, stepped over the bench and dropped to a catwalk. Santo followed and they jumped to the bottom of the hold. They found the ladder and swarmed up' it, fighting their way with the mob of blacks. On deck, Rigger found himself bathed in a cool, tropical breeze.
The sight above decks was unpleasant, but he could not bring himself to blame the slaves. They had been treated as animals, and they reacted as such. Chests of clothing, food and wine had been torn open and scattered wildly. From their actions, he knew that they would drink too freely and trouble would soon start.
"Hurry after me." Santo drew him swiftly along the rail. "Trouble will come when they have discovered that there is no more booty to find."
THEY went along a narrow passage and into a tiny cabin that remained well hidden in the shadows. Santo barred the door swiftly.. He turned to the wall and lighted a tiny lantern. Rigger stared about him. The cabin was hardly over eight feet square. It was so well furnished that it evidently belonged to a man of great importance.
"You wonder why the others have missed this place," Santo said. "It is Acko Sideon's cabin. Many years ago he was my master, I was a free servant on his galley. I displeased him and he threw me into the hold."
He moved across the cabin and threw open a big sea-chest. He started tossing clothing out on the floor.
"Choose what you need," he said. "We must escape at once. When they are overcome by wine, all white men will look the same to them."
"Look here, Santo," Rigger said awkwardly. "You don't have to do anything else for me. They are your friends. If you team up with me, they'll kill you too."
Santo shook, his head.
"I have always served white masters," he said. "These slaves will steal the ship. They are not sea-faring men and cannot follow a straight course. Soon another galley will overhaul them and they will become the property of a new master. It is always that way."
"But—where can we go?" Rigger had chosen a pair of brown trousers, brown sash and gray jacket lined with wool. He donned them quickly.
"There is an island close by," Santo said grimly. "Perhaps we will be playing directly into Acko Sideon's hands, but there is no other choice. It's the only way left open."
He looked Rigger over quickly, having found trousers that he could force over his own legs.
"Find boots near the door," he said. "Carry them while we swim."
They moved silently back along the corridor, aware of the growing volume of sound ahead of them. Out on deck once more, Rigger saw that Santo was right about the slaves. Some of them had hoisted anchor. Others tried inexpertly to run up the square sail attached to the yard on the middle mast. There was no wind stirring.
"Quickly, before they see us."
Santo faded silently over the rail and slipped down a rope to the water. Rigger followed. The boots were tied about his neck with a bit of twine. He turned to the black man and saw San-to's toothy, friendly grin in the darkness.
"If you hold your ear close to the water you will hear the surf."
Rigger tried it. From the east came a faint splash-splash of water against rocks.
"Swim slowly and save your strength," Santo cautioned him.
He kicked himself gently away from the ship, floating on his back. Then, turning over slowly, he followed Santo with long, smooth strokes.
He looked back once to see ghostly figures wandering about the galley's deck, like lost souls. He pitied these slaves. They would sail the ship away from the island. Then, when the first thrill of being free had worn off, they would be without a leader, or knowledge to shift for themselves.
THE distance to the island wasn't great. They were in the surf before Rigger realized it, and staggering forward over sand and rocks to the stony beach. Santo cautioned him in a low voice to be careful of making more noise than was absolutely necessary. They sat in the shelter of a boulder while Rigger drained the boots and put them on. Then removing their clothing piece by piece, they wrung the water out until they were once more warm and nearly dry.
The land back of them was low, and covered by groves of trees. They were barely visible in the darkness. A strange eerie silence had settled over the world into which they had come. Not a sound came from the island. Nothing disturbed the endless wash of water that rolled up the beach.
"Better look around and find out where we are before morning," Rigger said. "We'll have to find a place to lie low when the sun comes up."
Now Santo seemed to forget that it had been he who engineered their escape. As long as Rigger needed him, Santo gave the orders. Now he was content to do as Rigger suggested.
They started slowly up the beach, keeping behind boulders as much as possible.
They rounded a point at the end of the island. Here a grove of olive trees grew close to the beach. Rigger motioned silently toward the grove and Santo nodded. Rigger left the safety of the rocks and stepped on to the sand that stretched up toward the grove. Something hard and brittle crushed under his heel. It sounded like a huge nut cracking. Startled by the sound, he looked down. Lying on the sand, where his weight had broken it in two, was a human skull. One empty eye socket stared up at him. A jagged jaw bone, only half filled with teeth, grinned crookedly.
He jumped away as though it were a snake. He heard Santo cry out with fear. Then to Rigger's horror, he saw that the beach was covered with bones. There was no guessing as to what kind of broken skeletons these were. Thigh bones—arm bones—parts of broken ribs. They were all from human carcasses.
Cold sweat broke out on Rigger's forehead. Santo was standing near him and the blackamoor's breath came in rasping, frightened gulps.
"Why are Acko Sideon's men so silent?" Santo was trying desperately to retain his courage. "We have not seen a light. There have been no sounds."
Rigger nodded.
"Let's get out of here now," he said, and moved as silently as he could up the beach toward the olive grove. "Sideon's men said that there were beautiful women begging them to come ashore."
They reached the shadowy trees and went in among them, feeling a little safer once they had left the bone-strewn sand.
"Men often hide in the branches of trees," Santo said. "If wild animals are about, it will be safer."
Rigger stared at the broad, good-natured face, in the darkness.
"Santo, let's not kid ourselves. Sid-eon came ashore because women beckoned to him and his men. He wasn't killed by animals. Somehow I don't think it will be animals that we will have to avoid."
Santo nodded slowly.
"There are stories of sirens who lure men to their deaths."
"That's what I was thinking of,"
Rigger admitted. "We'll hide in a thicket tonight. We're not going to make Sideon's mistake. We won't listen to the call of beautiful women."
DIGGER hadn't slept a wink. The sun was rising above the water in the east. It tinged the sea for miles around with a rich, golden hue. Acko Sideon's galley was gone. Sometime before morning it had drifted away under the inexpert handling of the slaves. J
The morning grew warm and birds started singing in the olive grove. Rigger felt a little foolish, now that day had come, over his fears of last night. Yet, two facts remained to trouble him and prevent him from leaving the safety of the tree.
Sideon's men had not returned to the beach. Not a sound came from inland. Secondly, the beach was strewn with human bones. From his perch, he could see half a dozen skulls, half buried in the sand.
Across from Rigger, sleeping on a heavy limb, lay Santo. Then he stirred in his sleep, stretched, flexed his muscles and opened his eyes slowly. He stared at Rigger, then complete understanding came into his sleepy eyes.
"Morning chases away the many devils of the darkness," he said. His lips parted in a wide grin. "Men of my race fear darkness more than death itself."
Even in the sunlight, Rigger noticed that Santo spoke softly, almost in a whisper. He knew that Santo was still frightened, and only trying to act as cheerful as he felt he should, to impress his master.
Corporal Bill Rigger of the United States Army was gone. He had been lost somewhere during the past three days. In his place remained Rigger, a man who was lost in the labyrinth of history. Rigger, who fought his way toward safety and yet did not know where safety would lead him. He faced incident after incident for which he could give no explanation. Yet, death was still dogging his footsteps, and he had no choice but to go on fighting against it. He was as much on guard as he would have been in a fox-hole on some machine-gunned Italian beach.
He studied the ground under the trees. The grove stretched inland until the trees hid his view. A silvery stream ran toward the sea and opened into a deep, sparkling pool of water, only a short distance away in the grove.
Did he dare trust himself as far as the pool? A bath would do him good. He looked at Santo. The black's eyes were on the bone-strewn beach. Santo evidently had no intentions of leaving the tree in the daylight.
Rigger slipped silently toward the earth. He heard Santo's breath suck in loudly. Stopping short, he waited. He stared back up at Santo and saw him pointing toward the pool. Santo's hand was shaking and his lips had turned a sickly blue.
Rigger crawled silently back to his perch and looked toward the pool. Wading in the water, so that it covered all but the upper part of them, were two of the prettiest girls he had ever seen. Their skin was dark and glistening. Their faces were oval-shaped and delicately framed by long, golden hair.
Rigger's heart leaped. He realized suddenly how lonely he was. How lonely Acko Sideon and\ his men must have been. How eagerly they must have rushed to these waiting girls.
For these girls were not ordinary fishermen's daughters. They had been molded as though by a master's touch. Yet Rigger hesitated. Why was Santo so frightened of them? The black hadn't uttered a sound. He kept on pointing, as though he wanted Rigger to see something that the American had not yet noticed.
THE girls sank into the water up to their necks. They shouted and splashed each other, flailing the surface with slim, shapely arms and hands. Their sounds of merriment, drifting upward, nearly drove Rigger mad. He continued to stare at them, unashamed that he was not playing fairly. He grew angry at Santo for behaving so much like a child.
Then the pair seemed satisfied with their frolic. They rushed toward shore and as the water drained away from their flanks, fearful disgust swept over Rigger.
From the thighs down, all resemblance to the human race was lost. Their legs and feet resembled the scaly bony structure of monster water fowl. Their talons glittered unsheathed on scaly toes, and wide webs separated each toe. The webs dug deeply into the sand, and sent them swiftly up the bank into the woods. Then more of them came. Their cries of merriment grew to screams. They sounded like vultures who have been well fed. They had come to wash away the filthy mess that clotted their faces and hands.
Dark, scummy blood covered the surface of the pool. A dozen of them were floundering in the water. They washed and preened themselves like birds.
Neither of the men in the tree moved a muscle. Now that he had seen the whole sickening sight, Rigger felt as awed as had Santo. Yet, these creatures were animals and not too clever. It might be possible to outwit them.
At last they were gone, shouting and screaming up the trail and out of sight toward the center of the island. Rigger made his way painfully to a place closer to Santo. They were both afraid that more of the creatures might come at any moment.
"It's clear now what happened to Acko Sideon and his crew," he said.
Santo nodded his head. He was too awed to speak.
"Women—eat—flesh," he mumbled at last. "Human flesh."
Rigger felt sorry for him. Never had he seen such terror on any man's face.
"Look here," he said sternly. "It's pretty bad, I'll admit. There's nothing we can do for Sideon now. The bath in the pool evidently ended the party. Now we've got to think about ourselves. The women are cannibals and they aren't quite human. I don't think, though, that they are god-like or blessed with any special power. Therefore, we've got a chance to outwit them and escape."
"But—where can we go?"
Rigger shook his head.
"Damned if I know. We're up against a group of cunning animals. Unlike Acko Sideon, we've been warned. We'll have to construct a raft and get off the island at our first opportunity."
Santo's courage was rising. Fear was a terrible power over Santo, but Rigger's presence helped him overcome it. They had only their own poor planning to fear. If they gave up fighting, they were lost.
"We must find food, and wood for the raft," Santo suggested.
Rigger grinned sourly. It was bad business, wandering around with those bird-women on the loose. They didn't have much choice. You can't eat and build rafts while you're sitting up a tree.
"We can't go to them for diet suggestions," he said.
"Perhaps, deeper into the forest, there is fruit. These olives are too green to eat yet."
Santo stared at him soberly. "And if we meet these women again?"
"We'll have to chance that," Rigger answered. "There are two ways to die. We can sit up here like treed squirrels until we starve to death, or we can take a chance to fight our way through."
Santo slipped silently down the trunk of the tree and waited for Rigger to follow. They looked around hurriedly and found two heavy, well-balanced clubs. Rigger chose one for himself and passed a twisted, knotty branch to Santo.
"Those bird-legged beauties may look nice from the waist up," he said. "But if they attack us, don't be afraid to crush a skull or two."
"I will save my own bones from being picked by their delicate fingers," he promised.
THEY started slowly up the trail that led around the pool and into the forest. They had walked for some distance when Rigger placed a restraining hand on Santo's arm.
"Wait!" he said, "Did you hear that?"
It was almost dark among the heavy, leafy trees. They had been forced to come a few yards at a time, fearful that at any moment they would stumble into a camp of the bird-women.
Santo leaned his head to one side, listening carefully. The sound of the surf was gone. There was only the rustling, unhappy sound of the wind in the trees. Then, far away, came the thin scream of a bird. Or was it a bird? It came again, wafted by the wind, shrill and blood-curdling.
"They follow us," Santo said, and his eyes were suddenly round with holy fear.
It was true, Rigger thought. The sounds were closer now. Much closer. He started to sprint up a short hill toward a dense growth of oak trees. Santo was behind him, crashing through the low bushes.
"We'll have to throw them off the trail," Rigger panted. "Speed counts now."
Santo's breath was coming hard. Both of them knew what would-happen if they were captured. In Rigger's mind was that relentless, frightful picture of the skull that had cracked under his boot. Of dried blood, the blood of Acko Sideon, covering the pool with thick scum.
They reached higher ground, and Rigger worked his way in among the bushes that covered the ground. Yet they weren't safe, even here. With uncanny speed, the screams came closer. It was like trying to run away from blood-hounds,
Rigger stared back with frightened, yet coldly appraising, eyes. There was no place to run to now. He had to wait—to fight it out. The skin seemed to creep on the back of his neck and his grip on the heavy club tightened until his knuckles hurt.
There were three of the bird-women. They ran swiftly, more swiftly than anything he had ever seen. They skimmed over the ground like ungainly ostriches, moving so fast that their legs jerked back and forth like pistons.
Could he stand up to them?
Rigger looked at Santo. The women had almost reached the blackamoor, but Santo, now that he was cornered, stood his ground well.
"Come on," Rigger shouted. "We've still got a chance."
He turned to run again, then realized that Santo hadn't moved. He started back toward his companion. How would they attack? How did they fight.
He didn't have to wait to find out. The foremost bird-woman was about ten feet from Santo.. She didn't slacken her speed and her eyes were burning with greed and hatred. Her mouth opened and an angry cluck-cluck sound came from deep in her throat. With terrific speed she launched herself into the air feet first. Santo whirled his club desperately and tried to avoid the wicked spurs that drove toward his head.
Rigger had only a second to realize the terrible power of those scaly legs and needle-like spurs. He waited breathlessly, hardly remembering that there were two of them who had not yet attacked.
The spurred feet struck Santo's head a glancing blow, but his club caught her at the knee. The bird-woman crumpled to the ground. Her legs had broken squarely but the spurs had done their job. Santo's face and chest were dripping with blood. His cheek was laid wide open to the bone.
THEN Rigger was in it. Another of the creatures attacked him with the speed of the wind. She landed in his midriff. Fortunately, Rigger's wind was good. He swung the club as he had been taught to handle the butt of a rifle. It missed her head by inches and glanced off her shoulder. Rigger stepped back and aimed another blow. Before she could get out of the way, the club had connected with her skull and she sank down with a muffled croak of pain.
Rigger twisted about, to find Santo on his knees with the third bird-woman astride his shoulders. She was raking his sides cruelly with the spurs. Santo, unable to rise, shook his big head slowly from side to side. His eyes were hidden behind a mist of blood.
Weakly, Rigger staggered toward them. Even as he lifted the club, his blood froze. The creature was literally ripping Santo apart with those long, wicked spurs.
There was no fear in Rigger now, nor was there pity. He brought the club down with all his remaining strength and watched coldly as the woman rolled over and hit the ground with a thump. He was at Santo's side, helping him to his feet. They weren't out of danger yet. Far away, from still deeper into the forest, came the screams of the main horde of women. Rigger knew Santo could never go far. Although his own wounds hurt him badly, he was untouched compared to the black. Santo was weak, and worse than that, he had been so impressed by the strength of the attack that it left him mentally unbalanced.
He stood before Rigger, blood running down his body, blubbering like a child. Fear had at last penetrated his mind so badly that he couldn't control himself. He had lost all power to fight, to survive. Rigger could well imagine the effect of these bird-monsters on so simple a mind.
"We've got to get out of here fast," he said. "There are more of them coming."
Santo nodded his head dumbly. He remained silent. Rigger looked down the far side of the hill. In the late sunlight a small stream was visible. It came from the hills, and was partly hidden among the trees. His eye could follow its course until it disappeared into a series of small gulleys.
He had an idea. It wasn't new. It wasn't even very clever. At the same time, it had worked before.
He grasped Santo's arm.
"Follow me," he said sternly. "And hurry."
He knew he should bind Santo's wounds, but he didn't have time. The bird-women were coming closer all the time. A minute one way or the other, and perhaps their fate would be sealed.
Santo was obeying him mechanically and they trotted steadily toward the stream. No need to worry yet. Their followers were a good distance behind. They reached the small, swiftly rolling stream.
"Into the water," Rigger panted. "Follow me, and make sure you don't step out of the water."
He pitied Santo from the bottom of his heart, but they had to keep going. If either of them faltered now, they were both lost. He hoped that the water trail would throw off the bird-women. There was a fifty-fifty chance that, without tracks to follow, they would go the wrong way.
Could they smell the blood from Santo's wounds? Would it run In the water and betray them? He thought not. The black was strong, and the wounds on his face and sides were clotting.
They were forced to move more slowly. The water was knee deep and the current ran swiftly against their knees. The icy water chilled them both, but seemed to revive Santo a little.
The cries of the bird-women persisted, and Rigger knew they had reached the stream, now a good half mile below, where he had entered the water. He went on, his teeth chattering, legs numb. He prayed that they would go in the opposite direction. They would think that he and Santo were trying to escape to the sea, from the same direction they had come.
Then the sounds of the pack grew faint and it was like escaping the blade of a knife and being allowed to breath again.
He must take care of Santo now. The blackamoor was hurt even more badly that he had first thought. There was a tiny dirt valley ahead, where the stream had cut deep into the soft earth.
Grassy banks were undermined so that they made an excellent hiding place. He looked back at the staggering figure of Santo. Blood had dried around his mouth and his teeth were red with it. His cheek was half gone.
ONCE hidden under the hanging banks, he helped Santo find a comfortable spot on the sand. He cleansed the wounds with fresh water and bound them tightly with bits of his shirt and sash. All this time Santo stared up at him with dumb, worshipping eyes.
Rigger looked down and smiled. He had never felt so much like a small boy in his life. There was a lump as big as an egg in his throat.
"Don't worry," he said softly. "They won't find us here. We'll find a way out."
Now that he had relaxed, two of Santo's wounds started to drain badly. The bandages were soaked in blood. Rigger was growing desperate. There was nothing else he could do. He kept bringing water, and forcing it into Santos bleeding, shapeless mouth.
Santo pointed a mournful finger at himself and shook his head slowly from side to side.
Rigger tried to act cheerful.
"We both get out of this mess," he said. "You'll feel better by morning."
Santo smiled sadly and shook his head again.
"Santo be dead in morning."
His voice was so low that Rigger could hardly hear it. He bent closer toward the bloody lips. A frightened shudder suddenly swept over Santo's body. He stared wildly about, as though seeking someone else.
"Bury Santo deep!" he implored.
Rigger remembered the skull—the blood on the pool.
He knew what Santo feared most. He couldn't deny the blackamoor's fears. They were silent for a long time. The moon came up and the night grew warmer. Santo's voice came again, with all the intense pleading of a child.
"Bury Santo deep."
Rigger knew he had to promise, and yet it was like admitting that all hope was gone. That he, Rigger, expected Santo to die. In truth, he did; but he hated to admit it even to himself. It was the one last request of a man who had served him and saved his life, only for the pleasure of serving.
"Deep, Santo!" he promised in a voice broken with emotion. "Under stone, where they'll never find you."
Santo's whole body relaxed and he smiled softly. Rigger watched the last quiver of life pass from the spent, tired body. Then, with tears rolling down his cheeks, he started scooping a grave in the sand with tired, torn hands.
BILL RIGGER crouched behind the wall of stones that had been vomited up by some long forgotten volcano. He watched the scene on the beach with narrowed, appraising eyes. He had left Santo's grave three nights ago, and followed the stream to where it emptied into the sea. He had drunk fresh water and eaten some partly ripened olives. He felt better, but the memory of Santo still clung to him like a cloak of mourning. In spite of the sun and the sparkling sea, he had been unable to shake loneliness from him.
In the distance, a galley was moving slowly toward the island.
From the forest, the bird-women had come to lure more sailors to their death. They had chosen a spot on the beach where stones, hid the lower parts of their bodies. He realized that the smiling faces, the bared torsos, must be tremendously appealing from the sea. The women-were waving and smiling pleasantly. The galley swept in slowly, driven by a languid breeze.
But now Rigger became alarmed. Even the bird-women who waited so eagerly for blood, seemed puzzled.
The galley had not dropped anchor. It continued to sail toward the rocky beach. The oars were lifted but the winds in the sails drove it' in steadily. No sound came from the bird-women. This was not a time for their screams of merriment. This was time for their gentle art of luring men to death. Rigger shuddered. There were over a hundred of them here.
Even though it meant his own death, he knew he must somehow warn the men on that galley. He couldn't let a hundred men, perhaps more, meet death because of his selfishness.
If he could collect his strength for a dash into the surf, perhaps his cries would reach them. He smiled grimly. If they didn't hear, at least the bird-women would have to betray themselves to capture him.
But what was wrong aboard the ship?
Before the wind, the galley had driven to less than a quarter mile offshore. It came ahead steadily. Fascinated by what was taking place, Rigger remained in his hiding place among the rocks, forgetting his plan.
The galley was very close now. It hit a sand bar and the bow pushed out of the water. The galley seemed about to tip, then righted itself slowly.
There was no sign of men on deck.
The bird women knew now that their quarry was where they could reach it. They leaped over the rocks and rah into the surf. They splashed into deep water and paddled with powerful, webbed feet. In a moment the beach was deserted. Rigger continued to stare with horror-stricken eyes as they reached the galley and swarmed over the rail.
Then he knew suddenly why the galley had hit the bar, knew why the oars had been idle.
This was Acko Sideon's galley, and the stiffened, black bodies that were being pushed over the rail, were the starved slaves who had tried to sail away the night he and Santo swam ashore.
For the next half-hour, he tried to ignore the scenes that took place near his hiding place. They came back, carrying their stiff booty, seemingly as happy with it as they had been with living men.'
Even Rigger, who was schooled in the horror of modern war, could not face the things that happened on that beach. When, after hours of screaming and chattering, they returned to their forest, he still dared not look at what they had left behind. There would be more skulls on the beach now. And later, probably the white bones would pile even higher, as other galley captains gave men shore leave.
THIS was a date with fate that he, Rigger, was keeping. The ship had returned, perhaps for him. At least it presented a manner of escape. He was thankful for that, and for the powers that protected him from the fate of Acko Sideon's crew. He swam with long, powerful strokes, letting the water roll off his sides and cool his tired back.
It Had been a long time coming, this velvet night that hid him from the shore. He reached the galley and grasped a tattered, torn rope with which he pulled himself aboard. The deck was empty of life but littered with the filth that starving men leave behind them. The stench in the hold was so bad that he didn't attempt to enter it. He moved automatically toward the high poop-deck.
Into his heart came a new hope. He had noticed that since sundown, the wind had changedand was blowing stiffly toward the sea. The sail had filled and the timbers below deck groaned and shifted under the strain.
If the galley had not buried its bow too deeply into the sand bar, the wind might force it back into deeper water. He considered this, and realized that he knew little of how it could be controlled, even if such good fortune came to him.
He wandered around the deck at the high stern of the craft, remembering that these galleys were built in this manner so that they might run before a high wind without being pooped by a large wave.
The steering rudder was simple enough. A long tiller was connected to it, so that one man might, in a fairly calm sea, steer the galley.
Satisfied that he was ready, should the wind work in his favor, Rigger waited for it to freshen. Below him, the groaning timbers told him that the galley was trying to break free. The keel shifted occasionally, throwing the deck over at a sharp angle.
Still,'no sign of a complete separation from the bar was evident. Rigger was growing angry at his own helplessness. It might be better to depend on a raft. If the wind didn't grow powerful during the night, he could drift away from the island before daybreak. He started to work, and in an hour had constructed a fair-sized raft from timbers and casks he found about the wrecked deck.
He managed to work the raft across the deck to a spot where he could tip it into the water. There wasn't a drop of food or fresh water with which to provision it.
The wind increased while he worked on the raft, and he hurried back to the tiller, ready to work the rudder around and straighten his course. The galley remained fast in the sand.
It must have been close to midnight. Rigger stood in the light of an overcast moon, leaning dejectedly on the tiller. Then his heart skipped a beat.
Something—someone—moved, farther down the deck.
He dropped out of sight behind an empty cask. He could see them clearly now. Two bird-women were standing there. They seemed to sense his presence, yet he was sure they hadn't seen him. How had he missed them? They must have been in the hold, enjoying the night in their own manner. He shivered.
There was more anger than fear in his body. White-hot anger that chased horror and fear from him and made him want to put these two creatures through torture to avenge Santo.
Yet he knew he could not hope to face them without a weapon and stand a chance of living.
The hold. There were whips there. Whips that had cut and torn at his own flesh. He started to creep cautiously along the deck. The women had gone to the rail. They were muttering to each other apparently reluctant to leave the galley. Rigger thought he could guess why. There were more dead men below deck.
He must allow nothing to stop him now. He reached the ladder, and went down it swiftly. At the same time a gust of wind hit the ship and it lurched back and slid into deep water. At once he felt the full force of the wind as it-filled the sail and drove the galley out to sea.
He started to search in the darkness, as he remembered where the whips had been hung on hooks beneath the benches. His fingers closed around a thick handle and he grasped it firmly in his right hand.
Here was power. It felt good in his palm. He had seen the things handled and knew how to swing one for the best results.
But now the galley was swinging around wildly with no one to control its direction. He had to get back to the tiller. To right the ship and put open water between him and the island.
RIGGER reached the top of the ladder and breathed deeply of the fresh air. The bird-women were running up and down near the shore side of the ship. Their screams of fright made him grin. They didn't like to see their precious island fading away.
Rigger wasn't afraid now. He reached the tiller and threw his weight against it. The wind blew his hair out straight and whipped against his naked body. Slowly the ship came around and put its high stern against the growing waves.
Then he knew that the women had seen him. They were deathly silent, puzzled. They moved toward him cautiously, forgetting their own plight, knowing only that a man was near them. He pretended not to notice.
The first was only ten feet away now, slinking along in the darkness. His hand gripped the whip handle and he tensed for the blow. Rigger pivoted and a snarl of hate parted his lips. His right arm bulged as the whip snapped out and wrapped around the knees of the bird-woman. The lash cracked like a rifle shot, winding around and around the skinny, scaly legs.
He pulled it toward him with all his weight and she fell to the deck. The lash unrolled and came back to him. The scream of the bird-woman didn't effect him as the whip darted out again arid sang around her neck. Her scream was cut short as life jerked out of her.
He drew the whip back slowly, staring down at the body on the deck. All emotion was drained out of him. He had hot murdered. He had cleansed the world of something corrupt and unspeakable. >
The other bird-woman retreated swiftly to the shadows of the cabins.
"That's for Santo," Rigger said unsteadily. "And for Acko Sideon and his men."
He couldn't leave the tiller, or he would have pursued the other flesh-eating monster. Each time he turned away, the rudder twisted over and the galley started to turn broadside to the wind.
The moon was gone now and the sky was black. The other woman made no attempt to attack him. She stood a short way down the deck, her wolfish, burning eyes on him. She clutched some small object in her hand. He strained his eyes to see what she was holding.
She held the magic apple Rigger had found floating on the sea.
But how had she gotten it? Then he remembered that he had been stripped of his clothing when he came aboard Sideon's ship. The apple was in his pocket. She had found it while looting the ship.
Suddenly Rigger knew that he must have that apple. It had saved him once before, and brought him into this world of the past. Perhaps it would take him out again. But how could he get It?
The wind had turned into a gale and the sea frothed and whipped at the sides of the galley. As long as it ran with the wind, the galley would remain afloat. If he left the tiller, the ship would twist around and be swamped almost at once. The woman kept her distance. She was trying to eat the metal apple. He saw her grimace when she found it was only an imitation.
Yet she continued to nibble at it, not realizing that it was of no use to her.
The storm grew steadily worse. Rigger clung to the tiller grimly. He had little time to note the bird-woman's movements, and he shuddered to think what would happen if she attacked now. An hour passed and the woman left her spot near the cabin and moved toward the rail. Half-way across the deck, she slipped and slid to the rail. This time, making her way slowly to safety, she was satisfied to remain near the cabin.
RIGGER had never been to sea before the trip from New York to Sicily. Yet he fought the sea with a cunning born of desperation. The galley groaned and cracked under the force of the waves, and he expected it to fall apart at any moment. The sky broke wide open and sheets of rain poured down, a slanting, driving mass of blinding water. He could no longer see the bird-woman-. His thoughts persisted in going back to the magic apple. It had been floating on a stormy sea, and when he grasped it, the sea became calm.
He had heard such weird terms as time-travel, but no machine had been involved in his case. Perhaps war conditions, the heavy guns for instance, had broken open some sort of pocket in time and he had fallen through. Regardless of how he came here, the apple had kept him safe.
He had to get it back.
Fate had thrown it within his grasp once more, and as the storm grew wilder, he thought he could guess why. The galley was almost out of control. Rain formed a blanket of white that pounded down on the deck. In the darkness, huge waves lashed over the cabin and the woodwork around him glistened, cleansed by the fury of the storm-There were no ropes near with which he could lash the tiller in place. It might be possible to use the whip for a rope, but he needed it to protect him.
Yet he had to get that apple, and get it before a wave threw him overboard. They were almost large enough now to swallow the galley in one gulp. He'd have to take a chance of getting the apple and returning to the tiller before the ship foundered.
Rigger dropped the tiller and dodged as it swung toward him. He ran swiftly down the deck, lost his balance, came up on his knees and started to crawl on his hands and knees. A wave almost took him overboard, but he dug his fingers into a crack in the planking, and held on until it was gone.
He saw the bird-woman disappear down the hatch into the hold.. He reached the ladder, gripped the whip handle in his teeth and dropped.
Here it was dark as a cave. The timbers groaned like living things. He was on guard. Somewhere down here the spurred feet were waiting to kill him. Driven forward by the urgency of finding the apple, he felt his way toward the front of the hold. The ship rolled dangerously under him.
He started to run. He saw a movement to his right and turned, balancing carefully as the ship lurched over. The bird-woman ran toward him, partly hidden in the darker shadows of the benches. The lurching ship made her miss him by inches. Before she could regain her feet, Rigger lashed out with all his force. He heard her cry of pain and saw the whip wrap around her neck. She fell, but the whip slipped away before it choked the life from her.
Rigger went toward her warily. She still clutched the apple. He reached for it and she struck him with her other hand. Blood streamed from his face where she had clawed him. A startling, eager cry escaped her lips. She had drawn his blood.
"You damned vampire!" he howled.
He tried again, this time getting a firm grip on the apple. Her foot shot out and caught him in the chest. Blood shot from the deep wound that resulted.
The ship trembled from bow to stern, struck something strong and unyielding and broke wide open.
Rigger toppled backward, but in his hand he held the magic apple. His head hit something that sent his mind reeling into impenetrable blackness.
"BADLY wounded man here," a dull, expressionless voice said. "Bring up a stretcher."
Rigger groaned and tried to go back to sleep. He heard more voices, and gradually they began to make sense. They came closer and were full of meaning. It was like coming out from under ether.
"This man's been hit in the chest. He needs first aid. The Germans must have left him behind. Someone stole his clothing."
Rigger felt someone prying an object out of his hand. He rolled over on his stomach. He opened his eyes and closed them again tightly. Then he tried to struggle to his knees but the sun against the cobble-stone street blinded him.
"What the hell's wrong with those Red Cross men?" someone said. "Hey, Private, come over here."
"Yes, Lieutenant?"
Rigger's mind was growing clearer now. He wasn't on the galley. Somehow he had escaped and was lying in the middle of a street. Soldiers were around him. Gun-fire sounded in the distance.
"Private Donald Rance, sir," a voice said.
"Run back' to the corner of the last block," said the first voice. "Tell those first aid men to come on the double. We need--"
"Rigger—Bill Rigger!"
"Do you know this man?"
Rance dropped to his knees and turned Rigger over gently.
"Know him, sir? My God, yes. He was blown—"
Rigger opened his eyes and started to grin weakly.
"—blown to Italy on the same boat you were, wasn't I, Don?"
Rance realized what he had been about to say. He controlled his voice carefully.
"That's right," he said in a puzzled voice. "I thought you were a goner."
"Now that your friend's safe," the lieutenant said. "You'd better get help."
Rance stood up quickly. "Right away," he said.
Rigger lay very >still after they were gone. The sun was hot on his face. The wound didn't hurt much. The sound of a rattling machine gun came sporadically from the next corner. In the distance the heavy guns thundered and a lone plane wheeled around in the cloudless sky overhead.
He heard footsteps approaching and tried to smile as they rolled him on the stretcher. It was like coming home again, just to see his own kind of people.
"AND that's the story," Rigger concluded. "I can't blame you for laughing at it. It isn't the kind of yarn that a fellow would tell his commanding officer."
Don Rance stood up and walked to the foot of the hospital cot. They were on the second floor of a small Italian bank. The sun shone in glassless windows. A row of cots had been placed down the center of the room. A nurse was talking to a shell-shock case near the door.
Rance returned and sat down beside Rigger. Bill Rigger felt good in the clean hospital gown. He looked so supremely contented that Rance almost wished he could change places with him.
"I'll admit it's a bed-time story," Rance said. "And told with more than the usual amount of imagination."
Rigger nodded sourly.
"I couldn't expect you to—"
"But I believe it," Rance went on calmly. "I'm forced to."
Rigger stared up at him, unable to speak.
"Because yesterday," Rance continued, "I took that metal apple away from you. Before that, I figured that somehow you had managed to swim ashore and had been, living with the Italians."
Rigger nodded.
"I swam ashore all right," he admitted. "But not where I wanted to."
"Now, about the apple," Rance said. "I thought this morning I was going crazy. You've made me feel better."
"Go on."
"Well, I took that apple up front with me when I went after a Jerry machine-gun nest. It was in my pocket and I forgot it. I was in a bombed building, trying to smoke out some Jerries who had a sand-bag gun position half-way down the block.
"I tossed a couple of hand grenades, but it didn't move them."
Rance sighed.
"Then for no damned reason at all, the whole street was full of Romans. They were dressed in helmets and ancient battle clothing. Honest to God, Bill, I could have died on the spot. I tell you, this war is breaking down some time barriers that may effect the entire world. The hellish explosions of our big guns are cracking time wide open."
"But the Romans," Rigger asked. "What happened?"
Rance grinned broadly.
"They kept coming toward me," he admitted. "I was in their way and I knew I'd soon be a fresh slice of beef. I reached for another grenade and tossed it into the middle of them."
"It worked?"
"Worked?" Rance grinned. "The damned thing exploded like a blockbuster. When the smoke cleared, the Romans were gone. So was every last sand bag of that Jerry nest."
Rigger sighed.
"Then the appearance of the Romans convinced you that I'm telling the truth? Is that what did it?"
Rance looked both ways along the row of cots. The nurse was still some distance away.
"The hell it did," he said. "I could have been seeing things. You get batty at times like that."
"Then—what—?"
"The grenade did it," Rance admitted. "I reached for a grenade, but somehow I musta forgotten I didn't have any more. The thing I heaved into the street—the grenade that exploded like a block-buster—was that Gad-damned apple of yours.
"The lieutenant says I'll get decorated for cleaning up the machine-gun nest. It seems that it was keeping us from reaching an objective. He doesn't seem to realize that I also wiped out half the entire Roman army."
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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