"Doc Savage Adventure 1935-12 The Fantastic Island" - читать интересную книгу автора (Doc Savage Collection)

Hideous groans and jabberings issued from the unseen depths of the pits. The whip-crackers, their half-naked bodies in the red volcanic glare sleek with glistening sweat looked like satanic apparitions come to earth.

"Back on the yacht I said maybe we were headed for hell," Monk muttered. "Now, I know it!"

"The cracking noises we heard were from the whips," Ham observed.

"What's in the pits, I wonder?" Pat asked, in a hushed tone.

Monk was already edging forward, crawling on his stomach.

"Hold Habeas Corpus," he whispered back. "I'll find out."

"Blast your hog," Ham complained, but he held the pig.

As he muscled to a position where he could look down into the pits, Monk gasped with grim surprise. In every one of the circular holes, as far as he could see down the long line, stakes were driven, and to the stakes were attached chains, and to the end of the chains were fastened men.

There was one man with a shovel in each pit, digging. The diggers wore loin cloths only, lacking the lizardleather collars worn by the whip-cracking overseers. These collars Monk correctly assumed to be emblems of authority.

Each of the pit-men was digging a hole of a circumference allowed by the length of his chain. The holes, extending across the plain in a straight line, were of uniform width -- about ten feet.

Under the lash of the whips, in the hellish red volcano glare, the chained men were actually digging their way to death.


SUDDENLY, from behind Monk, sounded a fast thudding on the hardpacked ground. Something thrust hard against his back as he swerved around. A shrill squeal sounded.

Monk clamped his huge hands over Habeas Corpus's snout to smother the affectionate squeals of the pig which had burst away from Ham and had run straight to Monk.

He throttled the squeals. But the damage was already done. Whip-cracking overseers jabbered sharply at each other and clumped forward to investigate the disturbance.

Monk's squat bulk reared upward. Brandishing his stout club, he lunged forward to meet the attack of the nearest man. But before Monk could close in, a deadly swish sounded. Monk's enemy was still six or eight paces away, but Monk felt his knees gripped as though by iron hands, jerked tightly together and pulled out from under him. He fell, striking the ground with stunning force.

Monk knew what had thrown him, and his hands raked down to jerk away the lead-tipped thong which had whipped out of the night murk and entwined his legs. Before he could free himself, his assailant was standing over him, the weighted whip handle raised high to crash against Monk's head.

Ham's sword cane slithered in that instant, dropped the overseer, and saved Monk from the blow. But another whip swished out of the night, wrapped around Ham's legs and hurled him to the ground on top of Monk.

Clubs battered them both to unconsciousness before they could claw free from the knee-binding thongs.


WHEN they came to, a few minutes later, they found themselves bound and lying on the ground at the edge of the line of pits. Ham focused his groggy glance at the nearest pit worker. The man had sunk his hole about five feet down, so that his face was practically on ground level. That pain-racked face was almost within hand's reach of Ham.

Ham started violently. In a red volcanic flare he had recognized the man as being one of the members of Johnny's expedition.

"Tony!" Ham whispered hoarsely.

A shudder went over the man as his crazed eyes turned to Ham's. His lips widened in startled recognition. He said nothing, but kept on digging.

Ham shot a quick glance around, saw that the nearest overseer was intently engaged in a bullying cross-examination of Pat. Ham squirmed close to the edge of the hole, so that his lips were almost at the digger's ear.

"Where's the rest of the ship's crew -- and Johnny?" he whispered.