Doc Savage: The Secret of Satan's Spine (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 15) by Kenneth Robeson, Lester Dent, Will Murray
Tags: action and adventure
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hours.
Going to the make-up case, Doc opened it. His eyes continually shifting to the sleeping man’s features, the bronze man undertook to transform himself into a mirror image of the large fellow.
It took nearly an hour, but at last it was done. A chemical preparation darkened Doc’s bronze skin. Optical eye shells did the same for his flake-gold eyes. A suitable wig was affixed to his close-cropped hair, after Doc trimmed it properly to match the man’s haircut. There were other touches. Wire loops were carefully inserted to flare Doc’s nostrils and he had built up his corded facial features to give them a heavy-featured cast.
The hulking Negro’s own mother, conceivably, would have known the difference. But only in very good light and at close proximity. Otherwise Doc Savage was the spitting image of Seaman Jury Goines, A. B.—which was the name on the identification card the bronze man discovered in the fellow’s pocket. His rating was Oiler. No doubt Goines spent much of his time below deck, in the engine room, propeller shaft alley and elsewhere, attending to lubrication-thirsty machinery.
Satisfied with his efforts, Doc locked Goines in the stateroom cabin. He would straighten out the matter with the fellow later, along with sincere apologies. But for now, this impersonation was absolutely necessary. For all Doc Savage knew, the lives of every man on this vessel were at stake. He did not know that to a certainty, but neither could he exclude the possibility. And that, for the moment, was a salve to Doc Savage’s troubled conscience.
ONCE out on deck, Doc Savage moved about freely. His work uniform of open-necked cotton shirt and blue demins proved to be a little loose but this was a considerable relief after the brief period walking around in a too-tight one. The night air had a salty tang that Doc tasted in his nostrils. The wind moving across the open deck blew steadily. Not hard, but the steadiness was unnerving. Doc recognized it as the type of wind that presaged blows that could turn violent quite suddenly.The bronze man made a thorough reconnoiter of the ship and its many decks. He saluted officers where necessary, then moved briskly on, a determined look on his disguised features.
Doc was searching passing faces for any of the men he had encountered at the Old Sailors Home, should they be aboard. He assumed that they were, but assumptions were chancy propositions. He had seen no sign of any of them thus far. Worse, the bronze giant did not obtain clear glimpses of all the men, but their large-framed leader—the amber-eyed man calling himself Diamond—would be hard to miss with his rugged brown face and smoky-gray pompadour.
Doc went to the dining area, which had been converted into a ship’s mess. In years gone by, he had sailed to Europe on the very same vessel, in connection with an adventure that had long ago been crowded into the back of his mind. And in those comparatively carefree days, the dining room was open during set hours, so passengers could dine at their convenience.
Now, with the ship under military rules and regulations, it was no doubt more regimented.
Entering the dining gallery, Doc saw that the formerly ostentatious tables and chairs had been replaced with long barracks-style dining tables. Men were filling these out, and others were jostling one another in the chow line.
As his dark eyes patrolled the room, the bronze man carefully scrutinized faces, seeking those with familiar lines.
He found one in an unexpected spot.
One of the ship’s stewards was dishing out corned-beef hash and potatoes, and Doc’s ever-watchful orbs fell upon him.
The steward was rather round of face, but not as round as Doc had remembered him. He was also older, and for the slightest pause the bronze man was not quite certain of his identity. Doc drifted into the chow line, picked up a cafeteria-style tray, grabbed a shiny crockery plate out of the stack, along with some utensils. Thus
Going to the make-up case, Doc opened it. His eyes continually shifting to the sleeping man’s features, the bronze man undertook to transform himself into a mirror image of the large fellow.
It took nearly an hour, but at last it was done. A chemical preparation darkened Doc’s bronze skin. Optical eye shells did the same for his flake-gold eyes. A suitable wig was affixed to his close-cropped hair, after Doc trimmed it properly to match the man’s haircut. There were other touches. Wire loops were carefully inserted to flare Doc’s nostrils and he had built up his corded facial features to give them a heavy-featured cast.
The hulking Negro’s own mother, conceivably, would have known the difference. But only in very good light and at close proximity. Otherwise Doc Savage was the spitting image of Seaman Jury Goines, A. B.—which was the name on the identification card the bronze man discovered in the fellow’s pocket. His rating was Oiler. No doubt Goines spent much of his time below deck, in the engine room, propeller shaft alley and elsewhere, attending to lubrication-thirsty machinery.
Satisfied with his efforts, Doc locked Goines in the stateroom cabin. He would straighten out the matter with the fellow later, along with sincere apologies. But for now, this impersonation was absolutely necessary. For all Doc Savage knew, the lives of every man on this vessel were at stake. He did not know that to a certainty, but neither could he exclude the possibility. And that, for the moment, was a salve to Doc Savage’s troubled conscience.
ONCE out on deck, Doc Savage moved about freely. His work uniform of open-necked cotton shirt and blue demins proved to be a little loose but this was a considerable relief after the brief period walking around in a too-tight one. The night air had a salty tang that Doc tasted in his nostrils. The wind moving across the open deck blew steadily. Not hard, but the steadiness was unnerving. Doc recognized it as the type of wind that presaged blows that could turn violent quite suddenly.The bronze man made a thorough reconnoiter of the ship and its many decks. He saluted officers where necessary, then moved briskly on, a determined look on his disguised features.
Doc was searching passing faces for any of the men he had encountered at the Old Sailors Home, should they be aboard. He assumed that they were, but assumptions were chancy propositions. He had seen no sign of any of them thus far. Worse, the bronze giant did not obtain clear glimpses of all the men, but their large-framed leader—the amber-eyed man calling himself Diamond—would be hard to miss with his rugged brown face and smoky-gray pompadour.
Doc went to the dining area, which had been converted into a ship’s mess. In years gone by, he had sailed to Europe on the very same vessel, in connection with an adventure that had long ago been crowded into the back of his mind. And in those comparatively carefree days, the dining room was open during set hours, so passengers could dine at their convenience.
Now, with the ship under military rules and regulations, it was no doubt more regimented.
Entering the dining gallery, Doc saw that the formerly ostentatious tables and chairs had been replaced with long barracks-style dining tables. Men were filling these out, and others were jostling one another in the chow line.
As his dark eyes patrolled the room, the bronze man carefully scrutinized faces, seeking those with familiar lines.
He found one in an unexpected spot.
One of the ship’s stewards was dishing out corned-beef hash and potatoes, and Doc’s ever-watchful orbs fell upon him.
The steward was rather round of face, but not as round as Doc had remembered him. He was also older, and for the slightest pause the bronze man was not quite certain of his identity. Doc drifted into the chow line, picked up a cafeteria-style tray, grabbed a shiny crockery plate out of the stack, along with some utensils. Thus
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