The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack. H. Bedford-Jones

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      “Thanks. I’ll not. Any particular instructions?”

      “Nope. The sky’s the limit. Stratolines backs any play you make.”

      Duane said goodby and walked out. He knew nothing about the trouble or what he was to find or do. He knew this would be in the report, and that it was probably something so utterly insane that everyone had flung up their hands and quit. So it was, too.

      That evening found him snugly berthed seven miles high aboard the giant six-engined Planetoid that made only one stop, at Edmonton, before Irkutsk in the heart of the booming Siberia…a hurtling 26-hour flight.

      The post-war world, arising on the wings of invention and science and progress from the destruction and ashes of global conflict, had reached almost fantastic heights. Siberia, once a barren frozen waste, was now pouring forth wealth in metals and oil; China and central Asia were close behind. Even during the war, Russia had withdrawn from Turkestan, restoring this desert province to China by one of those great-hearted gestures which the Soviets made in so many directions.

      Turkestan, under the wise guidance of the new China, was waxing rich and great. Swept bare for centuries by jangling armies, now she enjoyed all the blessings that had come to a world where war was done forever. Great water and power systems, a flood of new population, an outpouring of economic wealth, marked her advent in this air-age. Korla, once a miserable huddle of mud houses, was now a city of half a million. Within her borders, however, the new still elbowed the old; Tibet, across her southern frontier, still blocked progress.

      * * * *

      The ancient Buddhist monasteries that had studded the wastes of the Gobi and Taklamakan deserts were still existent, although the deserts were becoming fertile gardens. Duane, poring over the typed report in his snug berth, was quick to perceive the astonishing situation which he—and Stratolines—now faced.

      Bounding the great Tarim Basin, formerly all desert, were the Tien Shan or Celestial Mountains. In their heart, still almost unknown territory, was the Eternal Peace Monastery, of which Ming Shui was the abbot or ruler. She was a woman. She was also an incarnation of the Living Buddha. She had enormous influence, and the monastery controlled mineral deposits being opened up by the new government—deposits of such incalculable wealth that she was a personage of real importance.

      Duane still did not see how a woman could hold such a position, nor did he care a hang. The fact was sufficient. But now arose something composed not of facts but of foggy superstition. Ming Shui was willing to play ball provided her ends were served. She declared—and the Turkestan government took its orders from her—that air traffic over the Celestial Mountains must cease because it frightened the spirits away.

      Stratolines was working under an expired franchise from the Turkestan government, and was seeking a new twenty-year franchise. Ming Shui was willing that it be granted, provided Stratolines placed in the Eternal Peace Monastery—within ninety days—the famous Buddha of Miracles. Otherwise, not. Stratolines, and its airfields under construction at a cost of a hundred millions, could clear out and stay out.

      The catch lay in this Buddha of Miracles; there was no such thing. It was, supposedly, a miraculous image of Buddha that talked and performed miracles. It was a legend, and nothing else. And yet, on this perfectly fantastic basis, Stratolines stood to lose not only fat profits but huge construction works. For the government calmly backed up Ming Shui. Duane realized what it all meant, and cursed savagely. No wonder.

      “Either this dame is sincere, and a superstitious fool, or else she wants a fat slice of graft,” said he. Studying the report, he concluded that she was sincere, and a staggering conclusion it was. However, his first job was to get into contact with her and decide for himself; then he could go to work.

      The Planetoid settled down at Irkutsk, and an hour later Duane was heading south in one of the ships on the Korla run. He landed in Korla at dawn; no one met him, he was entirely on his own, and he went straight to the Yakub Beg Hotel, an enormous modern structure run by the government.

      He bathed, shaved, left his room—and came slap upon two figures struggling in the corridor by an open room door. The man was cursing and fighting wildly, the woman was trying to control him. White-faced, she looked at Duane and cried out.

      “Help me—help me! He has fever—” Duane pitched in, got the delirious man back into the room, threw him on the bed and held him there—then recognized him. It was Lawton, vice-president of Stratolines in charge of construction, an engineering genius.

      “What the devil’s all this?” he cried out, amazed. “Bob Lawton, here?”

      “Shut up. Hold him till I get this medicine into him,” said the woman. Duane obeyed. Lawton swallowed the dose, coughed, and weakly subsided on the bed.

      “Thanks,” said the woman. “Who are you? Do you know my brother?”

      Duane identified himself. Agnes Lawton slid into a chair and stared at him.

      “I’m Bob’s assistant,” she said. “He’s in charge of the Stratolines development here—millions poured into it for nothing. He has a touch of fever and tried to kill himself. Everything’s gone to pot here. It means his reputation and everything else.”

      * * * *

      Duane liked her cool, level eyes, her capable air. Blueprints on the wall showed the enormous construction under way for Stratolines; they ran for miles along the flat desert surface. Any freight terminus large enough to handle the giant Planetoid transports, with sheds, shops, hangars and connecting rail terminals, formed a city in itself. And this work, employing men by thousands, was checked by the superstitious whim of a barbaric old woman in a monastery.

      A nurse showed up, taking charge of the patient, who was conscious now. Duane sat beside him, talking to Lawton like a Dutch uncle, and after talking sense into him, took Agnes Lawton into the next room.

      “I’m here to clean up this mess,” he said. “I want your help. Turn over the job to one of your assistants and get ready to buckle down to work. I need a helicopter and a guide to fly it. I’ll be back for lunch and you be ready to talk with me then.”

      Miss Lawton put him in touch with a brisk young Chinese named Wang, who had a helicopter and who knew the Celestial Mountains. Wang showed up, and with him Duane went over to the government buildings. The city was a welter of Chinese, Turkoman, Russian and American business men, oil men, merchants, with a smattering of Anglo-Indians. But, by nine o’clock, formalities were completed and Duane was on his way to the new passenger field at the edge of Korla.

      Here in Turkestan the air was policed as rigidly as in New York. Not a plane could take off without permission of the Air Control; but Duane’s savage energy brushed aside all obstacles. By ten o’clock, Wang’s little helicopter was in the air and on its way.

      Until yesterday this journey to the Eternal Peace Monastery would have required weeks, with the help of camels and motor cars and guards. Now it was a matter of forty minutes. The jagged, snow-tipped crags of the Celestial Mountains opened out. Those recesses hidden for uncounted ages were laid bare, and the golden roof of the monastery appeared on its sheer hillside of naked granite.

      Wang, who had no reverence for monasteries, set down his helicopter in the courtyard. The monks did not like this, but little cared Duane. He had Wang to interpret, and after some parley the two visitors were taken into a room where Ming Shui sat behind a lacquer screen and talked with them.

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