It was not yet daylight, yet the tiny plane, flying high above the forest and the veldt, buzzed along confidently, Tarzan at the controls. Beside him, acting as copilot, was Basuli, chieftain of theWaziri, a fierce, proud warrior who had learned, under Tarzan’s tutelage, to fly a light plane as well as anyone in the world. In the rear seats sat Teemu, the Sherpa, who had ridden in many aircraft, and behind him sat Jedak, the great ape, muttering and cursing. Teemu seemed oblivious to the fact that he was on the narrow edge of having his jugular vein literally ripped out by the yellow, angry fangs of the great ape.

  “I am Jedak,” that worthy snarled, “and I kill. Tarzan, this one before me makes my stomach rumble. He truly stinks.”

  Tarzan glanced over his shoulder. “This is a small matter. He is needful. Rest. Conserve your strength. It will only be a short time, now.”

  Jedak subsided, still muttering. Actually, now that he was aloft in the silver bird, he rather enjoyed it. The tribe would hear much of this when he returned; Chulk, Taglat, Kerchak, Tublat, Terkoz … he would have much to say. What other mangani except Jedak and Tarzan had ever floated above the trees like this? He scratched himself nervously, wishing he had a succulent grub upon which to munch.

  Another hour passed, and finally the foothills about the base of Mount Kilimanjaro came into view. Tarzan called out instructions. “The snow that the expedition talked of, the blizzard, has stopped. Now, we must keep a sharp lockout for another silver bird, this one upon the ground. Jedak, look out the window. If you see such a thing, tell me.”

  Jedak grunted, started to look out the window. He felt a bit dizzy, but height actually meant little to him. He and his ancestors before him had been raised in the giant trees of the jungle, many of them rearing to heights of a hundred feet or more, Teemu, without instruction in any language he could comprehend, nevertheless instinctively knew that which they were searching for, and Tarzan turned the controls over to Basuli, himself looking downward through the night. “Take it down to two hundred feet, Basuli,” he ordered, and they circled slowly, seeking, seeking.

  “I think,” Jedak growled, “yes, I think I see a bird. A silver bird. With one wing in the air and the other under the snow. Just below us.”

  Slowly, Basuli turned the plane, so that all might look.

  There it was. The expedition’s plane, from which had come the extraordinary signal some hours before. “Take us up, Basuli,” Tarzan ordered, and stepped back into another compartment, where he discarded some of his gear, putting his body into a fleece-lined flying suit, and fur-lined boots. He glanced at Teemu. Teemu was as bundled up against the cold as one could get. Questioningly, Tarzan pointed to the ground, then made a motion as of a man parachuting downward. Teemu nodded, knowing exactly what Lord Greystoke meant. Tarzan glanced at Jedak, and decided there was little one could do for him.

  “Jedak,” Tarzan said, “will you follow me? It is needful to truss yourself to a sort of harness that will lower you, very gently, to the ground. We shall go arm in arm, like true brothers. If one dies, both die. It is not without risk. Well?”

  “Where Tarzan goes,” growled the ape, “Jedak can also go.”

  “Good.” Tarzan busied himself, as the small plane climbed for altitude, ingetting out the parachutes. Je-dak’s chute took considerable adjustment, but Tarzan finally managed to slip it over the great ape’s immense shoulders. Teemu, who had often dropped from planes and helicopters in his chosen profession as a guide, slid into his smoothly.

  Tarzan strapped his own chute onto his broad shoulders, and checked the altimeter.

  “Basuli, after we jump, take the plane back to safe country, land and seek out your scouts. Then I want you to bring the rest of the party to the wrecked plane. We will establish contact with you in a couple of days. Understood?”

  “Understood. We now have six hundred feet. Another hundred?”

  “Circle, Basuli. This should about do it. Let’s open the door.” He motioned to the Sherpa. “All right, Teemu, out you go!” Without hesitation, the Sherpa stepped out the door, fell a few feet and pulled his ripcord. The giant envelope blossomed over his head.

  “Jedak. You and I, together. Like true brothers.” He knew better than to ask the ape to count to ten and pull the ripcord. Apes could only count to three. Jedak swallowed mightily, but allowed Tarzan to encircle him with an arm. The pair leaped together. Tarzan counted “five” and reached across to pull Jedak’s ripcord, then dropped free for a second and pulled his own. Both chutes opened, and the strangely assorted trio floated to the ground.

  It was Jedak’s first experience with snow, and he came to his feet with pendulous lips snarled back, yellow fangs snapping at the insubstantial stuff, howling dire curses and threatening the very life and limb of the accursed Tarzan. He fought futilely against the shrouds of his parachute, and finally, in an entangled mass, wallowed in the snow. Tarzan, who had unsnapped his own harness as soon as he’d touched down, became weak from laughter at the sight of the enraged and outraged brute. Even Teemu, who had been until now somewhat overawed by the size and obvious savagery of the great ape, started to laugh. Jedak became more enraged than ever, and the more his anger mounted, the more tightly did his bonds envelop him, until Tarzan, unable to see the poor beast subjected to any more self-inflicted torture, slapped over and, avoiding the snapping anthropoid fangs, unclipped the harness and unwound several of the shroud lines. Freed, Jedak was, if possible, more indignant than ever. He stormed about, tossing up great handfuls of snow, screaming, beating his breast, making short rushes toward Tarzan and an alarmed Teemu, threatening to disembowel them, to stomp them into the very snow beneath them. Tarzan stood calm, waiting for the anthropoid’s anger to expend itself. Finally, Jedak ran out of things to say. A few final curses spilled from his mouth, then he calmed down. He snuffled. “It is very cold here,” he complained. “Why do we just stand here? Why do we not move? There must be a place to go, else why would we subject ourselves to such pain and torture?”

  “Why, indeed?” Tarzan answered. “We seek the lair of a mysterious creature called the ‘yeti.’ This one,” and he indicated Teemu, the Sherpa, “is most expert in these matters. First, we must make our way to the silver bird which will fly no more. From there, this one will lead us.”

  Jedak looked unconvinced, but willing. “Let it be so. Only let us not stand here in the cold, the bitter cold. Let us move.”

  Daylight was just breaking. The oddly assorted trio could see the rays of the morning sun glinting off the fuselage of the downed aircraft. Tarzan waved at it, and they moved off in that direction, Teemu, the Sherpa, now in his native clement, as enthusiastic as a bird dog out flushing quail. He fairly bounded through the snow. Tarzan followed more stoically, and Jedak brought up the rear, still raging and cursing at the unfamiliar substance, at the bitter cold, at Tarzan and at the foolish impulse that had brought him along on such a completely outlandish trip.

  Reaching the downed plane, they circled it. The blizzard, which had long since blown itself out, had eliminated just about any tracks, but the Sherpa, holding out his arms in a “halt” signal, dropped to his knees and blew his breath across the snow, lifting a faint powder. He nodded to himself with satisfaction, moved forward about a yard, repeated the strange gesture. Then he looked at Tarzan and grinned, beckoning him forward. Teemu pointed to the ground. There was a faint indication of … something. “Yeti!” Teemu exclaimed.

  “Yeti?”

  Teemu nodded, highly pleased with himself. Again, he scrabbled forward in the snow for about three or four feet, blew the fine powder away, pointed down to a huge footprint, which was clearly outlined. “Yeti!” He stood, rubbing the snow from his hairy garments, then pointed upward. “Yeti.” Tarzan nodded to assure the Sherpa that he understood, then waved him forward. “We are on the trail of the strange beast,” Tarzan told Jedak. “You would do well to be alert and silent, cunning. They are very huge, very savage, very strong.”

  Jedak, who had stopped to examine the more obvious footprint, snuffled. “I have not seen one, so I cannot say. Certainly,” the ape added, with a surprising sense of humor, “if this is an example, they have big feet.”

  The three figures made their ways slowly, cautiously up the snow slope.

  They were not unobserved, however.

  Several miles behind the jump spot, where Teemu, Tarzan and Jedak had stepped off into space, Basuli selected a clear strip, and brought the small plane down safely. He was an incongruous figure as he stepped from the airplane, a beplumed, fully equipped Waziri chieftain. That is to say, aside from aloincloth of leopard skin, a lion’s tail attached to his belt, leggings of boarskin, and many necklaces about his neck of alternating crocodile and lion’s teeth, plus his assegai, or spear, Basuli was more or less naked, as unlikely a pilot as one might encounter in a lifetime.

  Basuli brought out a tarpaulin, hurriedly covering the engine, then pegging it into the ground as protection against any unforeseen wintry blasts. This done, the Waziri started to backtrack, to find his advance party of scouts. The fleet-footed warriors shouldn’t be too far away. He sensed danger, and he wanted his warriors at his back. It was still so cold that the very air seared Basuli’s lungs, but he trotted doggedly along, never slackening pace. Fortunately, his course was mostly downhill. Now it was a question of time. He paused from time to time, to test the ground under his feet. Certainly, it seemed to him, the lorries and the Land Rovers should be able to drive right up to the aircraft. From there, it would be a matter of packing in equipment and fire-power to the downed aircraft of the Hon. Freddy Keys-Smythe, and from there, a simple matter of following an obvious spoor.

  Freddy, Al and Charley were hailed forth from their rather luxurious “prison” quarters, and led to a vast amphitheatre. Row upon row of seats, banquettes and tables surrounded an arena. They were escorted to a semi-private sort of loge, attended by three slave girls, one for each of them. The arena was filling up with people. Meanwhile, during what might bebest described as a

  pre-games ceremony, the slave girls brought them more of the strange, aromatic beverage, offering them cups of it, holding it to their lips. A rather musky perfume seemed to fill the air, and there was a crowd noise, as of anticipation.

  “It sounds,” Charley remarked, waving away a slave, “as if they’re getting ready for a rugger match.”

  “Yes,” Al agreed. “But you know something, old man? I have a most uncomfortable feeling about all this. Freddy? Are you happy?”

  Keys-Smythe shook his head. “No. What do you make these people out to be, anyway? Oriental, yet not quite.”

  Before either Charley or Al could answer, a gong sounded, so loudly and so commandingly that all conversation stopped. In silence, the entire assemblage waited. From a shadowy alcove somewhere in the rear of the arena, armed guards, highly oiled, appeared. Following the guards came slave girls, waving incense braziers, and then, in a litter, perhaps the most beautiful woman any of the trio had ever seen. She was carried to a box directly above the arena, helped to her feet. Freddy noted that their erstwhile friend, Ra-Man, was very much in evidence. The woman was escorted to a huge, golden throne. She sat there, immobile, for a pause that seemed like many minutes, although it was really only seconds. She slowly turned her head, looking directly at the three captives. Without taking her glance from them, she clapped her hands, softly. Immediately, a group of musicians filed into the arena, beneath the spectators, and took up their positions. At a wave from Ra-Man, they started to play an Oriental type of music, and from both ends of the amphitheatre, dancing in the sand that covered it, came twenty, thirty beauteous slave girls.

  The queen turned her burning gaze to the spectacle below, watching with hooded eyes. The weird music swirled, as the girls, all but nude, twisted and writhed to the pace of the frenetic flageolets and drums. One girl faltered, missing a step, and the queen raised her arm. The music stopped immediately. The queen pointed to the offending dancer, and at once a giant guard stepped out from beneath the royal box. He picked up the offending dancer, and looked at the queen. She nodded, and with no more emotion than cracking a walnut, the giant guard snapped the girl’s spine across his knee, then tossed her carelessly to the sidelines. The music started again, and the dancers continued their routine.

  Keys-Smythe was studying the queen’s face as this event transpired, and he noted that her nostrils had flared with satisfaction. “Lads,” he said, softly, “yon’sa mean woman.”

  “Aye,” Al agreed, holding up his cup to one of the slave girls. “I think I’ll have another small belt of the booze. Tomorrow seems so very far away!”

  Chapter 8

  BURKE’S LAW

  FROM the outset, the safari, consisting of loads of equipment, stacked high and really, upon a bit of hindsight, too much for their limited transport, had been cursed. They’d gotten under way shortly before noon. Arthur Burke had explained, as best he could, what Lord Greystoke had expected, wanted. Jane, in turn, had translated into Waziri. Loading alone was a problem. One crate, marked “Z-112” (and Burke had no idea at all what that meant) had slipped and crushed the foot of a perfectly good warrior, which immediately put the rest of the warriors into somewhat of a temper. Next, one of the Land Rovers would not start. There was no good reason for it. Tarzan’s chief mechanic assured Burke, through Lady Greystoke, that “such devils are often unpredictable,” and Burke fully expected a witch doctor to show up in full regalia to exorcise the devils that lurked within the mechanism.

  Once under way, Burke had just heaved a sigh of relief when the axle on the leading lorry had snapped. There was no shade in sight, and it was two sweltering hours before the necessary repairs could be made. The newspaperman was meanwhile turning a bright strawberry red from the unremitting glare of the noonday African sun, and was perfectly aware of the fact that he was cutting somewhat less than a heroic figure in the eyes of Lady Greystoke, his fiancee Patricia Newhall and the assorted porters and Waziri warriors and drivers who formed the intrepid band of devil-may-care adventurers who were riding forth to the rescue, much as the cavalry rode forth to the rescue (if his American history served him) of the settlers from the Comanche Indians.

  Finally repaired and under way again, Burkc was horrified to see the second lorry in line, immediately ahead of him, swerve, run off the track and crash into a tree. They had been on their way three hours, across perfectly flat and level country, and it seemed unlikely that conditions would be more ideal for the balance of the trip. With a grim despair, Burke climbed down, beckoning to Jane to translate for him. Together they approached the lorry, which obviously had sustained a certain amount of damage. Clouds of steam arose from the bonnet. Quite obviously the radiator was all wrapped up. Burke felt the perspiration streaming down his neck, and was acutely aware of a small cloud of insects that formed about him, getting into his nostrils. He swiped at them halfheartedly. “Lady Greystoke,” he said, “please ask what happened. What has gone wrong.”

  Jane chattered a few words in Waziri, then turned to Burke. “The driver had a sunstroke.”

  Burke’s jaw dropped. “Good God! But he’s a … a native!”

  “Just so. Still, Mr. Burke, natives are human. They have their limits, too, you know. Ah, goodi Here comes the chief mechanic.”

  Burke took off his cork helmet, mopping his brow. “Good. I expect he can tell us how long repairs will take. I must say. Lady Greystoke, that this has hardly been an auspicious start. What does the chap say?”

  The mechanic was carefully examining the radiator. Other hands had taken the driver from the lorry and laid him under the scant shade afforded by a thorn tree, where they were bathing his brow with wet cloths. The mechanic straightened after completing his examination, stared thoughtfully off at the horizon, shaking his head. Jane spoke to him, and he answered in a few swift words.

  “What’s the beggar say?” Burke asked, bluntly. He was far too hot, too angry for the niceties.

  “He will have to get it back to the garage for repairs. He figures he can drive a few miles at a time, then he will have to stop to let it cool off, and then go on again. It will probably take him the rest of the day and well into the night. He asks for a pair of guards, as he must go through lion country after nightfall. He will rejoin us, if all goes well, sometime tomorrow.”

  Burke slapped himself on the forehead, groaning. “We’ll have to move some of the load, then. My generator and my wireless are on that lorry. Lady Greystoke, I think perhaps this safari is doomed to failure. Preordained, one might say. Have you ever heard of a thing called, God save the mark, ‘Burke’s Law’?”

  Jane Clayton shook her head.

  “It goes like this: ‘Whatever can go wrong, will go wrongs I never really gave it much thought until now. Well, I must get cracking. There surely,” he said, bitterly, “must be something else to go wrong before nightfall!”

  However, after moving part of the load so that the wireless would be available, the balance of the day was uneventful, aside from one rather sticky incident when the Land Rover in which the women were riding bogged down in an “easy” river crossing shortly before dusk. Fortunately, the winch was working, and it took only a moment to run a cable to a tree on the far bank, while Burke waded in midstream, shouting and giving orders to a completely uncomprehending group of natives. Eventually, the Land Rover was hauled out, and a mile or so along the trace the safari made camp for the night.

  That evening, after dinner. Lady Greystoke touched Arthur Burke on the arm. “You were very brave,” she told him.

  “Brave? A strange choice of words. Lady Greystoke. Forbearing, perhaps, but hardly brave.”

  “No, no,” and she was mpst insistent. “Brave. Even Lord Greystoke wouldn’t have waded about in that river the way you did. lt’s positively crawling with crocodiles, you know!”