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.
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.”
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...Please Support Atomic Kommie ComicsVisit Amazon and Buy...by James Patterson and Brian Sitts
