THE SHADOW: DESTINATION MOON Chapter 16

You can read the previous chapter HERE!
16

In the ornate office of J. Wesley Bryan, the small man in the wheelchair waited expectantly.

The door opened and Dr. Max Ernest entered. The Research Chief of Federal hurried across the office to where his boss waited. He handed Bryan the envelope.

“There it is, CYPHER’s full plan for subsequent operations.”

“Good,” the crippled scientific genius said, and he wheeled his chair around in a circle and waved his small hands toward the left wall of the office.

The entire wall had slid back to reveal a giant television screen. The television was on, and the picture was a large-screen picture of the giant rocket in the hidden valley on the far side of the mountain! Even as Max Ernest turned to look, vehicles moved away from the mammoth launching pad and the rocket stood alone with its umbilical attached to the tall gantry. J. Wesley Bryan’s eyes were bright with a kind of fever as he stared at the picture on the giant screen.

“There, Max! There it is! Almost the end—or the beginning! Yes, the beginning of our glory!

Only minutes, Max! Think of it! All our work, the years, the plans, the schemes and now only minutes and we will be the first men on the Moon!”

Max Ernest stared at the screen with his boss. The Research Chief licked his lips as he watched. J. Wesley Bryan almost cackled with his excitement.

“Absolute certainty! The Moon will be ours!”

“Yes,” Max Ernest said. “It cannot fail. We have made it foolproof—with the help of our unsuspecting friends.”

Ernest laughed. Bryan cackled with joy. A voice suddenly spoke from the screen.

“Fifteen minutes and holding. Final communication check. All systems ‘go’ for on-time launch.”

Suddenly, in the silent office where the two men stared at the screen and the giant rocket solitary on its night launching pad on the far side of the mountain, there was a sharp buzzing sound. Bryan jerked alert. The electronic genius pressed a button on his desk. Instantly the door became transparent and Bryan and Ernest saw the figure of a man standing alone just outside the door. The man wore the uniform of a CYPHER soldier. But Bryan peered and swore harshly.

“Cranston! How did he get here?”

“I’ll get him,” Ernest said drawing a pistol.

“No,” Bryan said. “Let him in. Open the door and cover him.”

Ernest went silently to the door and flung it open. His pistol aimed at the heart of Lamont Cranston. The socialite, wearing the uniform he had stolen from the CYPHER soldier, pretended surprise. He pretended to be both angry and scared. He stepped into the office as if Ernest had him totally powerless.

“What the devil is going on, Bryan? Some men in these black uniforms capture me! They were going to shoot me! I managed to overpower one, steal his clothes, and escape! Now I come here for help, and Ernest has a gun!”

Bryan smiled. “Sit down, Cranston.”

Cranston sat, his hooded eyes still pretending to know nothing. But he had seen the screen.

Bryan saw him glance at the picture of the rocket.

“Yes, now you know about the sabotage,” Bryan said, and the small crippled man snarled.

“You don’t fool me any longer, Cranston! I have the report of the Commandant! I don’t know how you escaped, CYPHER will have to answer for that, but I do know that you are not the innocent amateur and simple businessman that you pretend to be. No, you are much more, and you guessed about me or you would not be here!”

Max Ernest covered Cranston with his pistol. Bryan’s eyes glittered, and he cackled with insane laughter. “So you came to stop me, eh!? You fool! No one can stop me! I have planned far too well! Me! A poor cripple! I will own the Moon!”

Cranston stared at the crippled man in the wheelchair. “You’re insane, Bryan.” The socialite said quietly, but he was watching the screen where the rocket towered and a voice droned.

“Fifteen minutes and holding. Communications check almost completed. Weapons check completed, all A-okay.” Bryan cackled again. “Insane? No, Cranston, you don’t get out of it that easily. I’m not insane. I know exactly and precisely what I am doing. Could an insane man conceive, plan and execute such a project as this?” And the small man in the wheelchair waved his hand again to indicate the gigantic rocket standing on its launching pad in the TV picture.

“Clever, Bryan, but insane,” Cranston said. The socialite looked at Dr. Max Ernest who held the gun pointed at him. “Bryan is insane, Dr. Ernest, but you are not. No, you are only a greedy and stupid fool! You are one of those men who do what someone else tells them will make them rich and great. A fool to be led to destruction by a madman!”

Ernest’s eyes flickered toward Bryan, and then steadied again on Cranston. But there was a small fear in the Research Chief’s eyes behind the pistol. Bryan snarled now at Cranston.

“Madman, eh? Ernest is a fool, eh? Why you stupid poor weakling! Look at that rocket! Have you ever seen such a rocket? No, and neither has anyone else! That is MY rocket! With that rocket I will own the Moon! My men will be on the Moon first, and I will claim it and hold it!”

Bryan roared with maniacal laughter. The small man rocked in his wheelchair as his mad eyes glittered and looked at the picture of his rocket waiting to blast-off for the Moon. “Crazy, eh?

Was I crazy to use the United States and Russia like the stupid fools they are?” The crippled genius laughed and leaned forward in his wheelchair. “Listen, Cranston! Listen to how crazy I am! I developed the fuel control and a special super fuel that could lift more than man ever dreamed could be lifted into space. But no single man has the money or facilities to do the testing work necessary for such a project. So I gave my control to the United States and the Soviet Union! Yes, I gave it to them— so that they could do all my testing for me!” 

Bryan rocked in his wheelchair with hysterical laughter. Cranston watched the crippled genius. There it was—the reason! Bryan had cleverly allowed the United States and the Soviet Union to do his testing work for him! So that he could beat them both to the Moon!

Bryan cackled. “With what I learned from the work of NASA and the Soviet Space Authority I improved my fuel control and my fuel—without telling anyone of my continuing work! I made them do the testing, and sabotaged their projects to make sure that my rocket would be the first to go—and it will be! In fifteen minutes my rocket will blast-off and nothing can ever stop me! I have the fuel control and the fuel to send more to the Moon than ever dreamed of. There are five men in that space capsule, Cranston! Five men with arms and food for years! ! Years, do you hear me? Not a few days, not weeks, but years they can live up there! The Moon will be mine and CYPHER’s!”

Cranston shrugged. “So you send five men to the Moon. What then? Of what importance … “

Bryan roared with laughter. “You fool! Five men on the Moon! Armed! Able to exist for years! With a permanent base developed by me! Supplied by smaller rockets which I have ready, or which I can steal! Armed with rocket weapons that can reach the Earth easily! Remember, Cranston, the Moon’s gravity is so little! A simple Earth rocket, properly fired and orbited around the Earth, can be fired from the Moon with ease and deadly aim! The Moon will be a weapon against the entire world! I will own the Earth! I will rule! Everyone will have to pay me to exist!

I will be rich, powerful, and with my wealth I will, send more men to the Moon! With the Moon I will control the world!”

There was a sudden silence in the office of the crippled genius as the echo of his mad voice died away. Max Ernest held the pistol steady on Cranston. The giant rocket stood on its pad in the TV picture. All was silent and still. Bryan, his eyes blazing with the vision of his power over the entire world, sat staring at nothing, into space, into the twisted recesses of his own hopes and schemes and ambitions.

Then a clipped voice spoke from the TV screen.

“Fifteen minutes and counting. All systems ‘go’!”

Bryan moved, shifted in his wheelchair, his small and crippled body anxious to leave the confines of the chair but held there forever. The small genius suddenly scowled and looked at Cranston.

“I have no more time to waste. This is my night of triumph!

I don’t know how you escaped CYPHER, Cranston, but now I will end it once and for all. Max, kill him!”

Max Ernest hesitated. The Research Chief looked uneasily at his employer. Cranston realized that Dr. Ernest had never shot anyone. It was one thing to threaten, to plan to rule the world, but another to shoot a man who sat in front of you. Max Ernest licked his lips.

“Twelve minutes and counting … . .” “Max!” Bryan snapped.

Cranston went over the desk in a single motion. With his amazing muscular control, the socialite alter-ego of The Shadow flipped forward from his seat, deftly pulled the single lamp from the desk, somersaulted, and landed on his feet behind the desk.

The room went dark except for the bright blue-white light of the TV screen.

“Shoot!” Bryan screamed.

Max Ernest shot. The shot went wild. Cranston hurled a heavy ashtray into the giant TV screen. It shattered with a loud explosion of vacuum, and the room was black.

There was a sudden silence.

In the dark Cranston saw them clearly. Max Ernest still held his pistol and tried to see into the blackness of the room. He stood not far from the door, his pistol swinging back and forth as he searched for Cranston. Bryan sat in his wheelchair. The crippled genius reached into a compartment of his wheelchair and produced a pair of glasses. Bryan touched a switch on his chair. The crippled man pointed straight at Cranston.

“There, Max, two feet to the left of the TV screen!” Ernest shot.

The bullet missed Cranston by inches.

The socialite dove for the cover of the desk. He was aware of what Bryan had done. The electronic genius had switched on an infra-red light and put on special glasses that could see in infra-red light. It was a device for seeing in the dark when no one else could see. Bryan had no way of knowing that Cranston could see in the dark with the powers of The Shadow! But unarmed as he was, Cranston was now pinned down by the pistol in the hand of Dr. Ernest, The alter-ego of The Shadow bent close to his ring radio.

“Margo,” he whispered. “Margo, come in Margo.”

The voice of the beautiful agent whispered back. “Margo here.”

“Where are you?”

“With General Rogers and Professor Farina just outside the main building of Federal Cybernetics.”

“Make noise, anything! Create a diversion!”

“Roger,” Margo said.

The ring radio went silent. Bryan nodded in the dark office toward Max Ernest. “Move around to the left, Max, he’s behind the desk. Hurry! The rocket will blast any moment and I must be there to see it!”

Max Ernest started around the room toward the desk. To do this he had to pass the window that overlooked the grounds of the plant. Suddenly there was shooting outside and a wild commotion. Ernest jumped to the window. The Research Director shouted in the dark room.

“Something’s wrong down there! I see Farina and that Margo woman of Cranston’s! And General Rogers! Someone’s shooting!”

“Why?” Bryan cried. “What is it?”

“I don’t know,” Ernest shouted. “Quick then! Forget Cranston! Hurry!”

The crippled genius whirled his motorized chair toward the wall. Max Ernest jumped after him. Cranston was up behind the desk. The wall slid open. Bryan’s chair darted through with Max Ernest close behind. Cranston raced across the room as the wall slid closed. He hurled himself at the opening, but he was too late. The wall slid closed just as his fingers clutched to stop the panel.

Cranston stood alone in the office. Outside in the plant yard there was firing where Margo and the others were battling the CYPHER men disguised as security guards. Cranston did not have the power of The Shadow for opening the wall! Quickly he removed the black garb from beneath the stolen CYPHER uniform and put it on. He placed the fire-opal girasol ring on his finger. The slouch hat on his head, the cloak blending into the dark of the office, The Shadow now stood with his blazing eyes concentrated on the wall. His powers focused. The electronic controls activated, and the wall slid open. The Shadow slid through the opening.

But he had lost precious time. His fiery eyes saw the narrow passage and the ramp leading down. He knew where Bryan and Ernest were going, and he bounded down the steep ramp like a great bird of prey with his black wings flying out. He reached the bottom of the ramp and came to an open door. He raced through the door and found himself in the dim cellar where the jet monorail began. The place, where the torpedo-shaped car had been was empty. Far down the tunnel he could hear the high-pitched scream of the engine as it raced back toward the hidden rocket base. The Shadow bent over his ring radio.

“Come in Harry!”

The radio responded instantly. “Harry here!” “Jet car coming back. Two men. Stop them!”

“Will do,” Harry’s voice said.

The Shadow clicked off and turned in the cellar. His keen eyes saw what he wanted—a large door at the end of the single track. He reached the door and tore it open. Inside were two other torpedo-shaped jet cars. With super-human strength The Shadow pushed one car out onto the track and jumped in. It was a matter of seconds for the Avenger to study the controls. He touched a button, pulled a lever, and the engine whined into life.

Seconds later the jet car was racing down the single track with the black shape of The Shadow bent over the controls in the cockpit.

To Be Continued on Friday at...
CRIME AND PUNISHMENT
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Circle of Death
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THE SHADOW: DESTINATION MOON Chapter 14

You can read the previous chapter HERE!
14

Four chairs were brought. Cranston and the others were seated. A CYPHER Group-Leader stood

behind each of them. The mass of CYPHER soldiers buzzed behind them. Two men in the uniforms of Area Leaders, the highest non-Staff rank in CYPHER, sat at small tables with stenotype machines to record the proceedings. Cranston watched it all from behind his hooded eyes—it was a full-fledged and rigidly correct military court-martial. And the five men at the head of the room were the judges!

The five sat on their raised thronelike chairs. Four of the chairs were on a level a few feet above the floor of the room. The fifth chair was in the center and raised even higher. On the four chairs that flanked the center chair the grim-faced CYPHER Staff Leaders all wore the insignia of Sub-Commandants. Cranston recognized one of them at once—the big man with the scarred face of combat and the insignia of his former service in the United States Special Forces: Sub-Commandant Nine!

Cranston had faced Sub-Commandant Nine once before when The Shadow was Henry Arnaud in a room on an island near Hong Kong! The others he did not know, but he knew their past and their present. They were all Sub-Commandants, with their numbers on their chest and the marks of their old loyalties deserted for the service in the evil and homeless organization of CYPHER. There was Sub-Commandant Two, with the badge of the British Armored Corps. Sub-Commandant Seven, once a Colonel of French Paratroopers. And Sub-Commandant Ten, wearing the marks of a Bulgarian Political Commissar. All four stared stonily at the four prisoners.

In the center, on the highest chair, sat the fifth judge. Cranston watched him closely, more closely than he had ever looked at anyone. He was a tall man with a strong military bearing. He wore the grey tunic and blue trousers and gold circle of CYPHER on his breast. He wore no insignia of former service. A wide gold stripe ran down the leg of his blue trousers. Gold-leaf frogged the peak of his high-crowned military garrison cap designed in the manner of the German General Staff. And he wore a gold mask that covered his entire face! He wore an insignia that Cranston had not seen before in his brushes with CYPHER. But the socialite alter-ego of The Shadow had no doubt who he was looking at. He knew that he was at last seeing the leader—The Commandant of CYPHER himself!

Behind the gold mask the Commandant spoke. “Begin!”

The section Director who held the long, official document snapped a command. “Prisoners rise!”

The four prisoners were pulled to their feet by the Group Leaders who stood behind their chairs. The Section Director read from his paper.

“Prisoner Margo Lane charged with spying actions against CYPHER, and against contract clients in two known cases. Prisoner Lane has attempted to complicate contract presentations, and has seriously impaired efficient discharge of services.”

Margo was pushed back down.

“Prisoner of unknown name, designated as chauffeur in this charge. Charged with actions detrimental to contract service.” Stanley was pushed down.

“Prisoner Harry Vincent charged with anti-client actions, and with actions against CYPHER

itself in two known contracts.”

Harry sat down unaided and sneered at the judges on the high chairs. The Group Leader who guarded him slapped him hard across the face. Blood trickled from Harry’s lip. Harry laughed.

The Group Leader hit him again.

“Enough,” the masked Commandant said quietly. “Proceed with the charge.”

Cranston had listened carefully, and now he listened even more carefully to the voice of the Commandant. It was muffled and oddly metallic, and he knew that the Commandant was speaking through a tiny microphone to disguise his voice. And yet there was something familiar to the super-hearing of The Shadow.

“Prisoner Lamont Cranston. Charged with strong un-CYPHER activities. Prisoner Cranston has been involved in three contracts of CYPHER—two which terminated in unsuccessful campaigns!

The exact nature of Cranston’s involvement is not known. But in each case where he interfered in client contracts, the contract was aborted! In each case there was also involved a man in black who remains unidentified. Cranston is charged with being instrumental in causing failures of two contracts—and with the deaths of CYPHER members!”

At this charge the whole room buzzed with anger and horror. All eyes turned to Cranston. On the raised dais the four Sub-Commandants looked hard at Cranston. Only the masked Commandant showed no reaction to this obviously ultimate charge. The Commandant leaned back in his thronelike chair.

“How do the prisoners plead?”

Neither of the four spoke. The Commandant nodded. “Prisoners stand mute. So record it. Is the prosecuting officer ready to proceed?”

“Yes sir,” the Section Director who had read all the charges said.

Cranston laughed.

The Commandant’s masked face turned slowly to look at the wealthy socialite.

“Something amuses you, Mr. Cranston?” the hollow, muffled metallic voice said.

“Do we have a defense officer?” Cranston said quietly.

“No. It is not in the rules of the court. You are not the wealthy and powerful Lamont Cranston here.”

Cranston laughed again. “Rules? What rules?”

“The rules of CYPHER, Mr. Cranston,” the masked Commandant said without a hint of amusement. The muffled voice was deadly grim. “CYPHER makes its own rules, Mr. Cranston.

CYPHER exists on its own terms, under its own rules. It is the only way to run the world. Our rules are our own, they are rigid. Iron discipline. By our rules anyone who opposes or harms CYPHER is automatically a criminal and is so charged.”

“That’s a pretty old rule,” Cranston said drily. “Anyone who opposes you is un-CYPHER, and anyone who is un-CYPHER is a criminal. Very convenient.”

“A very old rule, Mr. Cranston. You might say a law of life, a law of nature. The world has always lived by it—the greatest criminal is the man who harms me, opposes me. All we have done is admit it! We face facts, we face the world as it is!”

Cranston nodded. “To admit it is something, I suppose. But you are evil, all evil! Merchants of violence and death! Sellers of hate and immorality. Caterers to all that is evil and filthy in men! Hucksters of horror!”

The masked Commandant did not move. “We supply only what men want, Mr. Cranston. We offer a service that men will buy! We are realists, Cranston, we know the evil of the world, we do not make it! Now, have you finished your speech? Yes? Then it is so recorded, it will be entered into our record. We will now proceed. You have stood mute. You do not plead to the charges. Actually, it does not matter, of course. Only two charges are of importance. The charge that you have opposed CYPHER, to which you are all obviously guilty. The charge that you have interfered with a CYPHER contract, presentation, or client campaign. To which you are also clearly guilty by simply being here. Obviously a successful service agency such as ours cannot allow failures of services to be on the record unpunished. Our efficiency is our main selling-point. To fail is the only mistake we can make. You have all made us fail in two cases, you are now involved in a third case. Clearly you are guilty.”

There was a silence in the massed ranks of the enormous bright room. The Commandant looked to his left and to his right at the other four judges.

“Do the Sub-Commandant judges have any further comments?”

“No,” Sub-Commandant Nine said.

The other three shook their heads.

“How then do you vote,” the Commandant said.

“Guilty!” … “Guilty! ” … “Guilty! ” … “Guilty!”

The Commandant nodded. “A unanimous verdict of guilty will be recorded. Sentence will be pronounced by myself, Commandant of CYPHER by due vote and appointment of the General Staff.”

There was a complete silence. The two Area Leaders worked their stenotype machines. All eyes were on the Commandant. He sat behind his mask like a rigid and frozen statue. Then, suddenly, he spoke.

“However … . .” and he paused. The room waited. “We of CYPHER are practical, we are realists.

Today’s enemy is tomorrow’s partner. That is the way of the world. Advantage, that is all that counts. So we will make an offer, and ask a question. You four have shown resources. You show skill. We offer you the chance to join us. But … first you must answer one question. All four of you, or any one of you. The ones who answer can be one of us.”

The Commandant stopped again. Then, “Who is the man in black? How does he operate?

What are his powers?”

The four prisoners sat silent.

“Miss Lane,” the Commandant said. “You have been seen in close contact with the man in black. He seems to have strange and strong powers. Tell me about his powers, where they come from.”

“I expect he will show you himself,” Margo said quietly.

“I see,” the Commandant said equally quietly. His eyes turned to Stanley. “You, chauffeur!

We can offer you far more than you appear to have.”

“You can go to hell,” Stanley said.

“Very probably,” the Commandant said drily. “Mr. Vincent? Tell me about this man in black and his odd powers. Life can be important, it is all you have.”

Harry Vincent looked at the floor and said nothing. The cold eyes of the Commandant turned behind the mask to look last at Lamont Cranston.

“You have much to lose, Mr. Cranston. You seem to be most close to this man in black.

Where you are, he appears. It is clear that you do not have his powers or you would not be here.

But you must know all about him. Tell us, and I will make a man of your skill a Section Director!”

Cranston shrugged. “Turn yourselves in and I will see that you only go to insane asylums!”

There was a sudden roar of anger. The massed CYPHER soldiers jumped to their feet, shouted.

The four Sub-Commandants leaped up. The roars of anger filled the enormous bright room. Then the voice of the Commandant, still muffled and disguised, rose above the hubub.

“Silence! Order in this court!”

There was an instant silence. Everyone slowly sat down. “Discipline! Remember what we are! How dare you react!”

The room was deathly still. The Commandant looked at Cranston. His mask was motionless, but his eyes were cold and hard.

“We are not insane, Mr. Cranston.”

“No,” Cranston said, “that is the horror.”

“Perhaps, Mr. Cranston,” the Commandant said. “But we did not make the world or the horror. Will you tell us about the man in black?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Cranston said.

Sub-Commandant Nine stared at Cranston. “We have ways to make them talk, Commandant.

I think we can promise that they will tell us what we want to know.”

The Commandant sat back in his thronelike chair and seemed to be studying the four prisoners. His hidden face seemed to be considering, weighing the problem in hand. Sub-Commandant Seven nodded toward the prisoners.

“The woman should crack easily, Commandant. Let us torture them for a time. It should not take long.”

The Commandant rubbed his hidden chin thoughtfully. Cranston was studying the man. The tall figure seemed vaguely familiar, and the voice, but both were so disguised that he could not place the familiarity, and without the power of The Shadow to cloud men’s minds there was no more that he could do now. That power required the black garb and fire-opal ring of The Shadow. Suddenly, the Commandant stood up.

“No, it does not matter now. The contract is about to be terminated, the campaign to go to its successful conclusion. We will not waste time.”

The tall masked Commandant turned and stepped toward a door in the wall of the enormous room behind his thronelike chair. He did not look back.

“Take them out and kill them at once!” And the tall CYPHER Chief was gone.

Every man in the room leaped to attention. The four Sub-Commandants followed their leader out. The Section Director who had read the charges nodded to a squad of black-uniformed soldiers. “Take them out! Shoot them immediately.”

The squad of soldiers, lead by a Group Leader, marched the four prisoners out of the enormous room and down a new corridor. Each of the soldiers carried a rifle of British make.

The Group Leader carried a pistol. It was clearly a firing squad, CYPHER did all in a precise military manner. The Group Leader counted the cadence as the squad marched the prisoners in impeccable order. They went down four or five corridors until they reached one corridor where doors opened off into offices. There was a sudden feeling of air—they were being marched outside! CYPHER did indeed do everything in a correct military manner. Then, as they reached the last corridor before the door that showed the dark night outside, Cranston suddenly began to moan.

“Halt!” the Group Leader snapped.

Cranston slipped to the floor, crouched there on his knees with his head bent over. He moaned and whimpered. His face had gone deadly white. His eyes that looked up were dilated and rolled wildly.

“Get up, you coward!” the Group Leader commanded. Cranston moaned, gasped, his skin a terrible greenish-white.

“It’s his heart,” Margo said to the Group Leader.

The Group Leader laughed. “Hell, it’s his guts! Look at him, he’s sick with fear!”

At that instant Cranston suddenly gasped and fell over in a dead faint. His breathing was labored. His lips were blue. His skin was a sickly yellow-green. The Group-Leader walked to him and kicked him. Cranston did not move or moan now. His limp body showed no signs of life. The Group Leader began to look worried. He bent down and listened to Cranston’s heart.

Then he straightened up.

“He’s just passed out,” the Group Leader. “Take him into the toilet and revive him, and let him vomit his yellow guts! Two of you. Then bring him out. We’ll wait for you. We want them all to get it together.”

The Group Leader laughed a cold laugh. Two soldiers carried Cranston into the toilet. The Group Leader continued on with the other three and his squad. In the toilet the two soldiers laid Cranston on the floor. One of them went to the sink to get water on a towel. The instant his back was turned, and the second soldier was bending over the stricken Cranston, the right hand of the wealthy socialite shot up like a striking snake and his steel fingers closed on the throat of the soldier bending over him. The soldier made no sound. His eyes bulged, he struggled for one second, and then collapsed. Cranston leaped up. The man at the sink turned, saw the alter-ego of The Shadow, went for his rifle, opened his mouth to yell. He neither yelled nor shot. Cranston was on him before his finger could move on the trigger, before a sound came out of his mouth. A single blow to the throat felled the man. Cranston caught his body and the rifle before they could touch the floor. He laid them both down. He began to remove his clothes.

To Be Continued on Wednesday at...
CRIME AND PUNISHMENT
Please Support Atomic Kommie Comics
Visit Amazon and Buy...
The Shadow
Circle of Death
by James Patterson and Brian Sitts

THE SHADOW: DESTINATION MOON Chapter 10

You can read the previous chapter HERE.

10

The Idaho plant of Federal Cybernetics was in the country some miles from Lewiston in the high mountains. In the official staff car sent from the nearest Army base, Brigadier General Rogers sat up front beside the driver who had come with the car to meet them at the airport.

Rogers and Professor Farina had been waiting impatiently when Cranston arrived by jet. Rogers immediately started toward the waiting staff car.

“Let’s move, Cranston,” the General said. “You came alone this time?”

“Speed was essential, General,” Cranston said. “My secretary will follow.”

“Right. Come on, Farina,” Rogers snapped as he strode to the car. The driver jumped out and held open the door. Rogers barely nodded to the driver as he stepped into the car followed by Farina and Cranston.

Farina was obviously disturbed. “I don’t know how I missed that defect of the fuel control the first time around, Cranston. It was small, and not easy to locate, but I shouldn’t have missed it.”

“It happens,” Rogers said from the front seat as they drove.

“We’re all on edge,” Cranston said.

Farina nodded. “I suppose so. It’s the next shot that has me jittery. I suppose I was too anxious to find the trouble in time. At least I’ll know enough to inspect the control more carefully in advance this time.”

“I wouldn’t expect them to sabotage the same part again,” Cranston said. “They’ll try something else. There are so many parts to a rocket, that is one of the difficulties.”

Farina nodded moodily. “Yes, that is the problem.”

Rogers snorted in the front seat. “I’ll stake my next ten years pay that they’ll lay off now that they’ve been warned that we’re on to them. And if they don’t, well maybe we can put an end to any more trouble by catching them red-handed right here in the Federal Cybernetics plant.”

“Let’s hope so,” Farina said.

The staff car drove on into the foothills of the mountains. White rivers leaped down the sides of the craggy hills, flowing in the deep gullies that passed beneath the road under bridges. The thickly wooded forests came down to the road, a great thick mass of green pines and firs that stretched out across the mountain valleys as far as the eye could see. The road wound among the foothills with the great towering peaks of the mountains still in the distance ahead. Just as the road entered the actual mountains, the staff car reached the gate of the Federal Cybernetics plant.

The driver slowed and drove up to the locked gate. Five guards came out. They were armed and in full uniform.

“Stop there!” one of the guards snapped. He was a tall man with rigid military bearing. He wore the rank of a Captain on the shoulder straps of his private guard uniform, and carried a pistol ready in his hand.

The car stopped. The Captain of the guards walked out the opened gate to the car. He approached warily and alert. His four men fanned out behind him in such a way that all the occupants of the car were covered and observed, and at the exactly right places so that no more than one could be attacked at a time from the car. Cranston watched them carefully as the Captain stood off and made Rogers reach out.

“Papers, please!” the Captain snapped.

Rogers glared, but handed out his identity papers and his official pass to visit the plant. The Captain studied them intently. Then he handed them back to Rogers, and saluted.

“Very good, General. Now the other two men, please.”

“Is that necessary, young man?” Rogers said. “I can vouch for …”

“It is necessary, sir,” the Captain said.

Cranston and Professor Farina handed out their identity and their passes. The Captain studied these with equal care. Cranston studied the Captain. He was a tall, muscular man who looked more like an officer in some Army than a plant guard. There was a long scar on his face; the scar of an old wound. He moved with the air of a man accustomed to command, and his eyes were a cold and flat blue. Cranston frowned as he watched the Captain and the other four guards.

“Very good, General, you can pass,” the Captain said as he handed back Cranston and Farina’s papers.

The driver drove the car through and onto the concrete drive that led up to the low, rambling one story plant set against the magnificent backdrop of the high mountain that towered close above the plant. Cranston still frowned and looked back at the guards.

“They are very military, General,” the socialite said slowly. “Very efficient. They are almost too military.”

Rogers looked back thoughtfully. “I noticed that, too. It looks like Federal has hired real ex-soldiers for their guards. Soldiers not long out of service either. They must be worried about something.”

“The sabotage?” Cranston said.

Rogers nodded. “Probably. It’s tight security. I wish all our defense plants had better security.”

“Still,” Cranston mused. “It is unusual to see such a tight military security at a civilian plant.”

“It should be tight.” Farina said. “The work here is ultra top secret. That is why I wonder how anyone could have sabotaged the control here. We may find we have to trace its entire route from here to Utah Base.”

Rogers agreed. “Probably. The weak link, that’s what we have to find. There’s always a weak link in every chain.”

The car drove up to the main entrance and stopped. Cranston recognized the man who came out of the building to greet Rogers and his party. It was Dr. Max Ernest. The Chief of Research for Federal shook hands all around and smiled a greeting. But it was only his mouth that smiled.

Cranston saw that behind the smile the eyes of Dr. Ernest showed that he was worried about something. Ernest was not pleased to see Rogers and the others. But the Doctor covered it well and led them into the building and back through a maze of corridors to the private office of J. Wesley Bryan. Cranston was surprised to see the number of corridors, the extent of the plant, and realized that the low plant was set back into the base of the mountain. It was far larger than it seemed to be.

“Ah, gentlemen!”

J. Wesley Bryan was seated in his wheel chair behind his mammoth desk. The tiny crippled man smiled and waved them all to seats as he greeted them. Rogers watched the small man carefully. Farina appeared nervous to Cranston. The socialite himself assumed his most impassive face. Bryan seemed most interested in Cranston.

“So, Cranston, you’ve come to look at the competition, eh?” the small man said from his wheelchair. “I’ve admired your work for some time. Perhaps you can admire some of mine.”

“Everyone admires your work, Mr. Bryan,” Cranston said quietly. “Few people have done as much in rocketry. The fuel control alone is a triumph of achievement.”

Bryan nodded with satisfaction. “It was a breakthrough, wasn’t it? Yes, I might say I am proud of our work there. But we will do more, much more! Eh, Ernest?”

The Research Director nodded agreement. Dr. Ernest was still standing just inside the door of Bryan’s private office. Cranston saw that for some reason Max Ernest still seemed highly uneasy.

Was the Research Director worried for himself, worried about some discovery being made if anyone looked too closely?

“Yes!” Bryan said eagerly. “We are doing work that will make the whole world sit up and notice!” And the small man laughed. “But enough of my work, what brings you gentlemen here?

The next Moon shot is only days away. I’m surprised that you could find the time, especially Professor Farina.”

“If there is a shot,” General Rogers said.

Bryan arched an eyebrow. ” If, General?”

“Sabotage,” Rogers said.

Bryan was silent for a moment. The small crippled man seemed to be thinking. Then he frowned.

“I still cannot understand how anyone could get on the Utah Base to sabotage the project,”

Bryan said. “I would have said that it was impossible. Still, there is no denying that something has been going wrong. I have, of course, checked the control completely. I cannot find any reason for failure.”

“Perhaps it wasn’t necessary for anyone to get on the Utah Base,” Rogers said bluntly. “I’m convinced that our troubles are sabotage, not accident, but I am also sure that no one could have gotten onto the Base.”

Bryan’s eyes snapped. “You are implying that the sabotage was done somewhere else—

perhaps here? !”

“Perhaps,” Rogers said.

“Ridiculous! You’ve seen our security, General! How could anyone get on our property to sabotage anything?”

“We’ve located the cause of the last failure,” Farina said. “It was in the fuel control system. A small change in valving. It could have been done almost anywhere.”

“But not here!” Bryan thundered. “Not only do we have strong plant security, the actual production and test facilities for the components of the control are completely secure. We test each component completely before we let it out!”

“Perhaps,” General Rogers said, “But the unit was sabotaged. There is no doubt now.

Somewhere between here and Utah Base the fuel control valving was altered! That is sabotage not an accident. And the trail must begin here. Now if the sabotage was not done here in the plant itself, then we must track it all the way. On the road, at shipping depots and transfer points if any! We… .”

Rogers was talking hard and fast. At each point in his tirade the General emphasized his point with a pound of his fist against the mammoth desk of J. Wesley Bryan. Cranston watched and listened. The General, for all his emphatic tirade, was being circumspect with Bryan. Cranston was not entirely convinced by the protests of Bryan, but, then, he knew more about the secret work and strangely hidden amounts of material. He could not reveal this knowledge without revealing the presence of The Shadow. But he knew it, and he listened carefully. There was still one great fact on the side of Bryan—Cranston could think of no reason for the crippled genius to sabotage his own fuel control system! The socialite looked toward Max Ernest. The Research Director was another matter—could it be some kind of jealousy? Men had killed for less, and Cranston decided to watch Ernest very closely while they were …

Cranston stopped thinking. J. Wesley Bryan had suddenly held up his hand. General Rogers seemed annoyed. Farina seemed afraid. Cranston leaned forward.

“Professor Morgan!” Bryan said, snapped. “I wonder.” The small man turned in his wheel chair to face Dr. Max Ernest. “Has the clearance come for Morgan, Max?”

“Not yet,” Max Ernest said.

General Rogers narrowed his sharp eyes. “Professor Morgan? Who is this Morgan? What clearance?”

Bryan leaned forward grimly. “Professor Frederick Morgan. He came with credentials to observe. But some of his papers were old so we have not allowed him access to anything secret pending the receipt of proper papers. It is not unusual, papers get out of date very quickly, so we had no reason to really suspect him. However, in this case the papers in question were very old, so we have restricted him to unclassified work.” Bryan again looked at Max Ernest. “The clearance is taking a long time, Max.”

“Yes, Ernest said. “Too long.”

“He wants to study classified material?” Rogers snapped.

“Yes,” Ernest said.

“Where is he now?”

“We put him up in our visitor’s quarters,” Bryan explained. “We’re a long way out of town, and there is nowhere else to stay. Of course, at the moment, he is probably in one of our unclassified labs.”

“But he’s on the grounds?” Rogers said.

“Yes,” Max Ernest said.

“Get him up here,” Rogers snapped. “Is this kind of thing usual, Bryan?”

Bryan nodded. Max Ernest was on the telephone ordering the guards to bring Professor Morgan to the office. Bryan explained.

“We are a research company, you know. We get a lot of visitors. As a matter of fact, it is part of our Government work to allow access to our facilities to qualified scientists, the Government insists. Of course, we do a complete security check. We never let a visitor get close to classified material until he has been completely cleared.”

“But you have a lot of visitors?” Cranston said.

“Yes,” Bryan said.

“Can you be absolutely certain none of them get near anything classified?” Rogers snapped.

“Well … . .” Bryan began, and then shrugged. “As far as is possible we are sure.”

“But not absolutely?” Rogers said.

Bryan shrugged again. “Nothing in this world is absolute, General. Perhaps a very clever spy could have fooled us. I …”

The outer door opened and Bryan stopped whatever he was going to say. All eyes in the office turned to look at the door and the man who came through the door into the office. He was flanked by two of the military-looking security guards. Their guns were slung now, but the guards looked ready to instantly unsling them and go into action. The man they brought into the office was furious.

“What is the meaning of this, Bryan? !”

Professor Morgan was a tall, thin man. Cranston looked at him and his impassive face almost showed surprise. There was something familiar about Professor Morgan. The tall man stood with a stiff and rigid carriage. His hands were long and sinuous, like small snakes where they moved angrily now. His thin body was as erect as steel. He moved like a snake, sinuously, and his voice was cold. Cranston tried to place the man. He could not. It was the face. Morgan’s face was not the same, that was the trouble. Whoever he reminded Cranston of had a different face. Morgan had a thick face, too thick for his tall body. A bulbous nose and a heavy mustache. It did not fit.

Cranston stared.

“Are you Professor Morgan?” General Rogers snapped.

“I am,” the tall man said. “Who the devil are you?”

“My name is Rogers, General Calvin Rogers. May I ask what seems to be holding up your credentials?” Rogers said coldly.

Morgan laughed. “Is that it? One simple paper? You people are very nervous, eh? Have no fear, my clearance will be… .”

The tall man got no farther. Cranston saw it—the nose was false! It was clear to his sharp eyes. He stood, but Rogers beat him. The General had apparently seen, and guessed, the same thing at the same instant. Rogers stepped quickly to Morgan and pulled the nose. It came off in his hand. Morgan’s hand snaked toward his coat. The two guards jumped. Morgan was fast as lightning, and had the gun almost out when the two guards grappled with him. They held him.

“So?” Rogers said, and pulled off the fake mustache. The General touched the man’s cheeks, nodded, and scraped hard. The cheeks, too, came away, revealing the thin, cobra-like face of the tall, thin man.

“Colonel Derian!” Cranston snapped. It came out without thinking. Cranston railed at himself inside. He was not supposed to know the Soviet Colonel, but his face showed nothing and he quickly covered. “Colonel Derian of the Soviet Secret Police! Commissioner Weston has shown me his picture many times.”

“Derian?” Rogers said, and his face split with a grin. “The big chief of the Secret Cell himself? Well, well! We have a real catch, eh? So now we know! Came to do your own dirty work this time, Derian? I warned Misygyn!”

“Did you, General?” Colonel Derian said with a sneer.

“He should have listened to me!” Rogers thundered. “Now it is too late. We’ve stopped the sabotage, and we have you too. The whole world will be told. Take him out and lock him up!”

The guards took Derian out. Cranston frowned behind his hooded eyes. Rogers turned to Bryan.

“It looks like we arrived just in time, Bryan. I suggest you send for the State Police at once, and alert the FBI. The police can turn him over to the FBI in Lewiston. He’s much too big a fish to keep around.”

Cranston wondered. It was all very sudden, very lucky! Was it just a coincidence, or was Derian only a trick to convince Farina, Rogers and himself that Derian was the saboteur? There was only one way to be sure—The Shadow would have to appear to Colonel Derian!

“I suggest we all wait for the police,” Cranston said. “In the meantime, I would like to wash up, perhaps rest.”

“Good idea, Cranston,” Rogers agreed. “Can you lend us some quarters, Bryan?”

“I’ll check the control security,” Professor Farina said.

They agreed, and Cranston and Rogers were conducted to quarters in the visitors rooms of the plant. In his room Cranston listened for a moment. All was quiet.

Five minutes later, had there been anyone to see, they might have seen the door to Cranston’s room open and close. They might have blinked and rubbed their eyes as a black shadow seemed to slip out into the corridor and vanish.

To Be Continued on Friday at...
CRIME AND PUNISHMENT
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The Shadow
Circle of Death
by James Patterson and Brian Sitts

THE SHADOW: DESTINATION MOON Chapter 8

You can read the previous chapter HERE.

8

The laboratory of Federal Cybernetics was dark and empty. The shades had been drawn by the night watchman on his last round, the door locked, all the windows checked and locked.

Nothing moved, there was no sound except the bubbling of liquid in some all night experiments, the steady drip-drip-drip of liquid from a distillation column into a flask.

In the far corner away from the office of Dr. Max Ernest a complicated electronic experiment operated with flashing lights and the automatic click of timed switches. A read-out instrument steadily fed paper beneath a moving stylus that traced an undulant line on the graduations of the graph paper. The night watchman on his rounds checked the experiments each time, and looked at a paper he carried for instructions. With the paper in front of him the watchman could make minor adjustments and give the scientists a little sleep.

After the last visit of the watchman the laboratory was deserted for the night. The experiments continued on their automatic course. In the whole building there was now no sound. The cleaning women and floor polishers had finished their work and gone. A few late-working executives had called it a long day and driven off to well-earned nightcaps. There was no light and no sign of human life in the entire plant. Only the small island of light at the main gate where the two night guards sat in their glassed-in guard house and took turns watching and sleeping.

The awake guard watched the locked gate, but his train attention was given to an electronic annunciator panel that was the actual security of the plant. The panel showed small white squares that were condition-alarm flags for every danger point in the plant: the electrified fence; each gate; the exit and entrance to the parking lot; each and every door and window into all the buildings; every door inside the buildings; all vital production areas. When all was secure every small alarm flag on the annunciator was white. When anyone or anything touched any spot after the alarms were set, the flags on the annunciator showed red and there was a sharp, audible alarm.

This night the awake guard yawned as the hours passed and nothing at all happened. Once he stood up, just about midnight, and walked out to the gate. He breathed deeply in the silent night and turned to survey the plant. For a split second he froze. For that second he thought he had seen something, a shape, float up and over the fence far to his left. Just some thing: shapeless, a vague movement of the dark. He rubbed his eyes and peered into the night.

Nothing moved now.

He walked quickly into the glass cubicle of the guard house and looked at the annunciator. It showed all white. There had been no audible alarm. The guard smiled ruefully. His imagination was obviously playing tricks on him. It was impossible for anyone to climb the fence, or even fly over the fence without tripping the alarm. He went back to his seat without ever seeing the two fiery eyes that watched from the darkness at the base of the fence.

The Shadow, who had neutralized the electronic circuit with his powers and prevented it from breaking and so tripping the alarm annunciator, slipped away from the base of the fence and crossed the plant grounds toward the Main Laboratory Building. At the rear of the Laboratory Building he again concentrated to keep the alarm circuit closed, easily jimmied the window with the special tools he always carried under his cloak, and entered the building. He had chosen a corridor window, and now he crouched in the dark like part of the shadows themselves and listened. His keen hearing heard no sounds in the whole building except the faint noises of the all-night experiments still running up in the Main Laboratory on the second floor. The Avenger glided down the corridors, up the stairs, and toward the locked door of the main laboratory, making no sound at all, unseen, like the passing of a breath of wind along the corridors.

At the locked door into the laboratory the cloaked Avenger again concentrated his powers on the alarm circuit. Then he opened the door with his special tools and went inside. The door closed behind him. In the corridor all was quiet again, nothing stirred, the corridor was as deserted and silent as if no one had passed for hours. But The Shadow had passed, and inside the laboratory the Avenger made his swift and silent way across the lab, past the experiments still bubbling and flashing lights, into the glassed-in office of Dr. Max Ernest. There the great black shape paused and his eyes glinted in the dimness as he surveyed the office of the Chief of Research for Federal Cybernetics.

The fiery eyes of the Avenger studied the entire office of the Research Chief. He saw nothing unusual. He began to open the rows of filing cabinets that were filled with the reports of the work performed by the Main Laboratory. A trained chemist and physicist, The Shadow studied the reports one by one quickly, but could find nothing wrong or in any way unusual. The chemical experiments were primarily concerned with rocket fuels and ultra-cold cryogenic fluids. The physical work was mainly on control and valving systems in very small fluid flows—and there was nothing out of the usual in these reports. The Avenger was not surprised. He had had to check to be certain, but he was sure that if anything strange was going on in the laboratory the records would be kept in secret.

The Shadow turned his attention to the small safe.

His long, deft, steel-like fingers manipulated the dial as his great black-shrouded figure crouched low in front of the safe. His sharp ears listened to the fall of the tumblers. Moments later the safe was open. The Shadow removed the contents, quickly confirmed that there was nothing in the safe that Margo had not described, and returned all but the ledger-book. This he carried to the desk laid open. He sat down and lighted the miniature flashlight he had designed in his own secret laboratory. The tiny lamp cast an intense light on a minute area that could be seen for only a few feet away. The black Avenger slowly turned the pages of the ledgerlike book. His eyes glowed as he read the entries, reading slowly and carefully on each page until he had read the entire ledger. In the seat in the darkened office the black-shrouded figure sat back.

The Shadow now knew what had interested Vaslov, alias Reigen, in the ledger. His fiery eyes glowed in the dark as he considered the meaning of the entries.

From the reports he had read, and from his knowledge of chemistry and physics, The Shadow saw what Vaslov had seen—that many of the entries for materials received were much too large!

They were, in fact, according to a rapid mental calculation made by the Avenger, exactly double the necessary quantities for the recorded experiments! In addition, in the shipments Margo had noted that went out exactly a week after experimental material had come in, the shipment seemed to be about half the incoming material!

The eyes of The Shadow were intense: the meaning was clear. Some work was being done at Federal Cybernetics that was not being recorded in the official records of the company, was not being reported to NASA or any other Governmental agency. It was also clear that less material was being shipped than should have been. Not only was work being done that was not being reported, but it looked very much like shipments were being made to some unknown and unrecorded destination.

The Shadow thought about that single mislabeled shipment of material to the NASA Utah Base. A shipment that had been late because it had gone by mistake to some town in Idaho instead of Utah. The Shadow was well aware of one important fact—Federal Cybernetics had a small plant in Idaho! On the surface, then, it seemed like a simple clerical error: a shipment intended for the Utah Base had simply been mislabeled by some clerk for the Federal Cybernetics plant in Idaho. But was it a simple error? Material was being shipped somewhere in secret—why not the Idaho plant?

The Shadow closed the ledger and returned it to the safe. The safe locked again, the Avenger turned to the door marked Storage. He was now more than interested in what was behind the innocent-seeming door. His burning eyes studied the double lock. He recognized its construction.

With his special lock-tools, the black-garbed Avenger went to work on the door. He had it open in seconds and stepped into the closet behind the door.

It was exactly what it was supposed to be—a storage closet. Papers and chemical materials were on all the shelves that lined all three walls. But The Shadow studied the walls and shelves with extreme care—J. Wesley Bryan had come into this closet and he had not come out for a long time. The Shadow did not think that the president of Federal Cybernetics had spent his time in a closet! No, there had to be some secret exit from this closet, and his glowing eyes studied every inch of the innocent-seeming walls. He found the tiny crevice just at the joint of the third shelf from the floor in the rear wall. A crevice so small no eyes but the eyes of The Shadow could have detected it. Once he had found the door it was the work of only moments to ascertain just where the controls were. The door was operated by a small hook at the edge of the shelf. The Avenger concentrated his powers to prevent any alarm circuit from breaking, and touched the hook.

Nothing happened.

The Shadow studied the controls more carefully. They were electronically highly sophisticated. They only operated when touched by a special electronic device that emitted a sound of exact pitch! Grimly, The Shadow focused his powers and his mind projected sounds of slowly rising pitch until he heard the faint click and the secret door in the closet wall began to open. The Avenger felt a great deal of respect for the brain that had conceived and developed the controls of the secret door. He did not think that anyone else in the world could have opened the secret door without knowing the precise method. But he had no time for admiration. He ducked low and went through the now open secret door.

He stood up, his great black shape like a heavy shadow in the dark, and his fiery eyes looked slowly around the room he now stood in. It was a long, narrow room. Not small, but very long and narrow, and the Avenger saw that it had been built so as to remain unsuspected between the walls of the building and the interior walls of the corridor. On one side of the room there was nothing at all. But the other side, the interior side, was a long low laboratory bench with all the facilities of a laboratory. It was both a chemical and electronic laboratory. Even a quick look told The Shadow that it was a highly advanced and complete small laboratory. And there was something strange about it. The Shadow’s eyes studied the entire room. There was something very strange—very odd—unusual. For another instant the Avenger could not place the strangeness. Then he saw—the long bench, the sinks, the hood, the cabinets, the entire facilities of the secret laboratory were built low, too low! Everything looked as if it had been built for a midget!

Or for a man in a wheel chair!

The small and hidden room was the private laboratory of J. Wesley Bryan.

But why was it so hidden? Why was it secret?

Or was it a secret? Perhaps Bryan simply liked privacy for his private work. The Shadow was aware of the fact that Bryan was a scientist and a good one. The accident that had put Bryan into his wheelchair was the result of a daring experiment with rocket fuels many, many years ago before anyone had really made successful rockets. The laboratory’s secret nature could be simply an eccentric scientist’s desire for privacy while he worked; the double locks and tricky electronic devices simply a scientist’s precautions against anyone accidentally and prematurely learning of his work. Or there could be a more sinister cause. The Shadow began to search the small laboratory, to study the work that J. Wesley Bryan was keeping so hidden.

He learned quickly that the work was intricate and highly advanced; that it was both chemical and electronic and delicately mechanical. He studied the secret records being kept by Bryan, and the details of the crippled company-president’s experiments. After almost an hour, the Avenger sat down on a small desk and his burning eyes glowed with the concentration of his thoughts.

What he had found was that J. Wesley Bryan seemed to be working on nothing unusual at all!

And that was the surprising thing. The explanation for the extra experimental material was clear—Bryan was working along parallel lines to his scientists out in the main laboratory. He was doing almost exactly the same work on rocket fuels and the electronic-mechanical fuel control that his company had developed and that had made the sudden leap in progress toward a manned landing on the Moon that had caused Project Full Moon to be created.

The Shadow considered the puzzling information. It was the new fuel control that had made NASA create Full Moon in secret to make their sudden leap to the Moon almost two years ahead of any schedule. Bryan, in his secret laboratory, was working on the exact fuel control system—and on the rocket fuel itself. The only difference that The Shadow could detect was that Bryan’s experiments seemed to be developing further improvements in both his control system and the fuel itself. In fact, the fuel control as Bryan was developing it now seemed to be a super version based on test results and operating experiences reported to Federal Cybernetics by NASA—and by some other sources. The records did not make clear where the other test data had come from, but it was clear that Bryan had been using the results of many tests on both fuel and control system, and not all had come from NASA.

The glowing eyes of The Shadow were strangely blank now as he let his thoughts turn inward. It was only normal that a scientist like Bryan should continually work and develop new improvements in his control system and his rocket fuels. Then why the secrecy? Why were only half shipments made to NASA Utah Base? Why was Bryan’s work in this hidden laboratory so much farther advanced than the work done out in the main laboratory for all to see? Was Bryan hiding, or was it simply the normal and well-known reluctance of a scientist to reveal his work before he was sure and ready? And where were the other shipments going, if anywhere? It looked very much like Federal Cybernetics was working with someone else as well as NASA! The Soviet? Was that the answer?

But how? How could Bryan ship to the Soviet Union? How could he work with them and get the data from them? And why? What would Bryan or Federal have to gain by working with the Soviets? The object was to get to the Moon, it did not require more than one project. And where did the sabotage fit in, if at all? Bryan would have no reason to sabotage his own project, his own scientific triumph. By all reason, Bryan should be one of the most eager to get Full Moon on its way and prove the genius of his fuel control system. No, nothing here tended to the idea that Federal had any hand in the sabotage after all. But if Bryan was advancing his ideas, and the Soviets had heard about it, then there was a strong explanation of the presence of Vaslov and Colonel Derian, and of their attempt to learn what was happening at Federal! The more The Shadow considered, the more the Soviets looked like the saboteurs, and yet…

The mind of The Shadow suddenly clicked off its train of thought and came instantly alert. He had heard the distant sound. A sound of voices as if from far off. But the Avenger knew that they were not from far away, they were only distant-sounding because they were in the office of the Research Director beyond the secret electronic door and through the closet door. His keen ears had heard the click of the light switch. He was not concerned with discovery yet, as he had closed and locked all doors behind him, but be glided across the laboratory to the wall nearest the office of Dr. Ernest and placed his ear against the wall to listen.

There were two voices. They were speaking quietly. One voice was more agitated than the other. Muffled as they were, the voices were not easily identifiable, and The Shadow could recognize neither of them until he heard a name—Dr. Ernest! It was the Research Director who had the agitated voice as if he was not pleased with his visitor.

“Then we are almost ready, eh Ernest?” the calmer voice said.

“With the project, yes, but I don’t like this about Oates,” Dr. Max Ernest said nervously.

“They’re all getting too close.”

“There are always risks, Dr. Ernest,” the calm voice said coldly. “Oates will not bother us any more.”

The Shadow strained to identify the voice. There was a certain familiarity to the voice, he was certain he had heard it somewhere, but even his perfect memory could not place the voice now.

The hidden laboratory was heavily soundproofed, there were two walls between the men outside and The Shadow, and the two men were speaking low. The super hearing of The Shadow could hear the words, but the tone and timbre of the voices were muffled and he could not recognize them.

“What about the others?” Dr. Ernest said out in the office beyond the two walls.

“The others will not stop us, Doctor!” the calm voice said harshly. “No one will stop us now.

We have bought time, my dear Max! Time is with us now. The last few details to be ironed out in the field and then it is time! We have done all there is to do here.”

There was a silence out in the office of the Research Chief. The Shadow, hidden in the inner laboratory, listened and tried to recognize the voice of the calm man. But it was no use. The Shadow would have to leave the hidden laboratory if he was to identify the speaker. That meant a risk of being seen prematurely himself, but it was a risk he would have to take. The Avenger glided to the door out of the hidden laboratory into the closet. As he did so, he heard Dr. Max Ernest speak again.

“Then we go to the Base now?” Ernest said.

“Yes,” the calm voice said. “It is time. We go at once.”

The Shadow listened at the door of the hidden laboratory. But neither voice spoke again. He heard the sound of the safe closing. Then footsteps. The Avenger activated the electronic door of the secret laboratory, ducked, and went out into the small storage closet. He let the door close behind him. Cautiously, he opened the door of the storage closet. His fiery eyes quickly scanned the scene in the office of the Research Chief—the office was empty!

They had gone.

The Shadow glided swiftly out of the office, across the Main Laboratory to the door, and peered out. The corridor was empty and silent. The Avenger listened, but he heard no sound at all now. Then the sound of a car motor starting in the parking lot. He raced along the corridor to the window at the front. A small black car was just passing out the main gate. It went through, turned, and vanished in the night toward New York. The eyes of The Shadow watched it fade and vanish.

His burning eyes flashed. He had missed this time. But he would not miss again.
 Federal Cybernetics was somehow involved in the failures of Project Full Moon. He now knew that much, but there was much more still to learn before he could solve the puzzle and bring the guilty to justice. It was time to take stock. The Avenger turned and floated down the stairs and out across the parking lot to the fence. He went over the fence, a wraith in the night, and reached the waiting taxi. Margo and Shrevvie watched their Chief.

“Back to New York, Shrevvie,” The Shadow said grimly. “We have much work to do.”

The taxi drove off toward New York.

To Be Continued on Wednesday at...
CRIME AND PUNISHMENT
Please Support Atomic Kommie Comics
Visit Amazon and Buy...
The Shadow
Circle of Death
by James Patterson and Brian Sitts