DOC SAVAGE: THE INFERNAL BUDDHA (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage) by Kenneth Robeson, Lester Dent, Will Murray Page B
Tags: action and adventure
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clear a path. They did.
The landing was smooth and when the laboring engines shut down, the silence was uncanny owing to the fact that they had become long accustomed to their song and vibration.
Doc nudged the gliding flying boat toward a jetty dock that had been made ready for them.
A contingent of British constabulary—Singapore was a British protectorate—were present to greet him. They stood assembled in their impeccable white uniforms like an honor guard.
Unusual deference was shown the bronze man and his aides. Doc had done the English government a good turn a time or two. They all but saluted him.
A police machine was made available, and they were whisked through crowded streets toward the Raffles Hotel. Assorted coolies and fowl scampered to get out of their way.
They arrived before the entrance to the Raffles Hotel in time to behold an interesting sight.
Two coffee-colored Orientals in blue turbans and tropical whites were exiting the side entrance, carrying a long wall mirror, evidently lately removed from a suite of rooms.
Doc Savage took note of them, and began to approach.
At sign of the big bronze man striding toward them, the two turbaned gentlemen almost dropped the mirror.
One spat something at the other and they tried to pick up the pace. But the mirror—it included the ornate gilt frame—proved too heavy to maneuver with any speed.
Doc Savage called out to them to halt in perfect Malay.
“Berhenti! Hilo-matt!”
Carefully, they set the mirror down and one held it while the other drew from somewhere on his person a weapon that was a cross between a short sword and a very long knife. A Malay parang.
The knife wielder spat something pungent at the bronze man.
Doc Savage stepped in, feinted, and the blade began to describe dazzling circles in the early morning sunlight.
Somehow—the bronze man seemed hardly to move—the knife began pin-wheeling into the air, and the knife-man found himself looking at his suddenly empty fist. The expression on his face plainly showed that he had no idea what had become of his parang .
Doc caught the hilt as it came back down, made a conjuror’s pass, after which the blade disappeared from sight. It appeared magical. In fact, it was a maneuver known to stage illusionists as a “vanish.” The blade now reposed along Doc’s forearm, held in place by his coat sleeve, the hilt hidden by his closed fist. So fast did the bronze man’s hands move that all onlookers were confused by what had transpired.
The man shrieked, wheeled about, and attempted flight.
Metallic fingers drifted out and seized the Malay by the linen collar. Doc Savage lifted one great arm and the man was comically running on air, as if in a movie-house cartoon.
That brought the other Malay close to panic. He dropped the mirror. It struck the ground with great noise and force. Naturally, it shattered.
Then the man did an inexplicable thing. He plunged into the broken glass and attacked it as if to complete the job of destruction.
The glass was as sharp as daggers. Indeed, broken glass is sharper than any knife. With surprising speed, the man was bleeding from many cuts about his body. Instead of this dissuading him from doing any worse damage to himself, the Malay confederate picked up a particularly vicious shard and swiftly slashed one wrist. Gore gushed out in a flood.
Still holding onto his prisoner, Doc reached down and pulled the unfortunate man clear.
It was too late. An artery had been severed. Turning pasty as a brown ghost—if there could be such a thing—the man went limp in the metallic giant’s grasp.
Doc rapped, “Monk. Get the lantern from your case.” Monk had brought along a case of special equipment. He ran back to the police machine and brought back a folding camera of a thing. He opened it, disclosing a purplish lens.
Monk and Ham surrounded the crimson-stained mirror.
“You know what to do, Monk,” the bronze man directed.
Monk and Ham got between the
The landing was smooth and when the laboring engines shut down, the silence was uncanny owing to the fact that they had become long accustomed to their song and vibration.
Doc nudged the gliding flying boat toward a jetty dock that had been made ready for them.
A contingent of British constabulary—Singapore was a British protectorate—were present to greet him. They stood assembled in their impeccable white uniforms like an honor guard.
Unusual deference was shown the bronze man and his aides. Doc had done the English government a good turn a time or two. They all but saluted him.
A police machine was made available, and they were whisked through crowded streets toward the Raffles Hotel. Assorted coolies and fowl scampered to get out of their way.
They arrived before the entrance to the Raffles Hotel in time to behold an interesting sight.
Two coffee-colored Orientals in blue turbans and tropical whites were exiting the side entrance, carrying a long wall mirror, evidently lately removed from a suite of rooms.
Doc Savage took note of them, and began to approach.
At sign of the big bronze man striding toward them, the two turbaned gentlemen almost dropped the mirror.
One spat something at the other and they tried to pick up the pace. But the mirror—it included the ornate gilt frame—proved too heavy to maneuver with any speed.
Doc Savage called out to them to halt in perfect Malay.
“Berhenti! Hilo-matt!”
Carefully, they set the mirror down and one held it while the other drew from somewhere on his person a weapon that was a cross between a short sword and a very long knife. A Malay parang.
The knife wielder spat something pungent at the bronze man.
Doc Savage stepped in, feinted, and the blade began to describe dazzling circles in the early morning sunlight.
Somehow—the bronze man seemed hardly to move—the knife began pin-wheeling into the air, and the knife-man found himself looking at his suddenly empty fist. The expression on his face plainly showed that he had no idea what had become of his parang .
Doc caught the hilt as it came back down, made a conjuror’s pass, after which the blade disappeared from sight. It appeared magical. In fact, it was a maneuver known to stage illusionists as a “vanish.” The blade now reposed along Doc’s forearm, held in place by his coat sleeve, the hilt hidden by his closed fist. So fast did the bronze man’s hands move that all onlookers were confused by what had transpired.
The man shrieked, wheeled about, and attempted flight.
Metallic fingers drifted out and seized the Malay by the linen collar. Doc Savage lifted one great arm and the man was comically running on air, as if in a movie-house cartoon.
That brought the other Malay close to panic. He dropped the mirror. It struck the ground with great noise and force. Naturally, it shattered.
Then the man did an inexplicable thing. He plunged into the broken glass and attacked it as if to complete the job of destruction.
The glass was as sharp as daggers. Indeed, broken glass is sharper than any knife. With surprising speed, the man was bleeding from many cuts about his body. Instead of this dissuading him from doing any worse damage to himself, the Malay confederate picked up a particularly vicious shard and swiftly slashed one wrist. Gore gushed out in a flood.
Still holding onto his prisoner, Doc reached down and pulled the unfortunate man clear.
It was too late. An artery had been severed. Turning pasty as a brown ghost—if there could be such a thing—the man went limp in the metallic giant’s grasp.
Doc rapped, “Monk. Get the lantern from your case.” Monk had brought along a case of special equipment. He ran back to the police machine and brought back a folding camera of a thing. He opened it, disclosing a purplish lens.
Monk and Ham surrounded the crimson-stained mirror.
“You know what to do, Monk,” the bronze man directed.
Monk and Ham got between the
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