The Devil—with Wings by Hubbard L. Ron

Author:Hubbard, L. Ron [Hubbard, L. Ron]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Adventure, Fiction
ISBN: 9781592123094
Amazon: 1592123090
Goodreads: 16149990
Publisher: Galaxy Press
Published: 1937-11-01T08:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Secret of Confucius

MORNING had come to spread its yellow flood across the restive reaches of the Amur River. The three huts which huddled close beside the muddy bank of the twisting stream seemed to be without occupants or hope of ever having any, so squalid was their condition.

A staccato sound grew in volume to mingle with the lapping rush of the river. A cloud was churning skyward from the trackless plain and a plunging dot grew in size as it approached the huts.

Forsythe slewed the mustard-colored motorcycle to a stop beside the stream and looked cautiously at the three houses. No shots greeted him and, reassured, he drew off the irregular officer’s now very dusty coat and cap and lashed them to the handlebars close beside a small pennant there which, in Japanese, indicated the machine to be the property of “Staff Dispatch. Japanese Imperial Army Headquarters. Aigun.”

Forsythe kicked the stand up and twisted the grip. The engine raced wildly and he ran with it toward the yellow flood. At the bank he let go.

The motorcycle bellowed outward into the air, curved down and vanished with a dirty, spluttering splash. The river swept onward, leaving not a ripple to mark the spot.

Forsythe adjusted his goggles. What was visible of his face looked white and strained and weary. But as he walked toward the first hut he summoned up the energy to grin.

Before he reached the door it opened and Ching stepped out.

“The next time you beat it off like that,” said Ching, “I’m going with you, girl or no girl. I couldn’t sleep all night! How did you make out?”

“I talked with Shinohari,” said Forsythe. “And he generously gave me…”

He hauled the Confucius from his jacket pocket.

“You got it!” cried Ching. “Quick! Lemme see!”

Forsythe gave it over, suddenly disinterested in it and very interested in Patricia, who was peering over Ching’s shoulder. She showed the worry of a dangerous night but even this could not sap the vibrant vitality of her.

Forsythe thrust Ching aside and stepped into the room. He pulled off his gauntlets and cast them to the table. He turned, smiling, to Patricia.

“Your brother is alive.”

Her eyes on him were wide and blank as she tried to understand what he had said. She did not move or speak.

“He’s alive,” said Forsythe, “and the key to his whereabouts is in that Confucius.”

He said it very casually and then turned away from her to give her a chance to collect her startled thoughts.

A North Chinese with a face as impassive and yellow as brass was standing beside a small Primus stove, waiting to be recognized by Forsythe. He was one of many such subagents and his position was that of caretaker for these huts which appeared so abandoned but which were, in reality, an outpost and fueling station and hangar.

“Lin,” said Forsythe, “do you think you could cook me up some ham and eggs? I’ll need them before the day is out.”

Lin almost smiled but not quite. He was flattered by the request and went swiftly to work with the Primus and a frying pan.

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