"010 (B010) - The Phantom City (1933-12) - Lester Dent" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

"Go on!" grunted an Arab, when there was no movement. No answer.



The man cursed, dug a match out, and whipped it alight on his trousers.



"Wallah!" he wailed.



Instead of Doc's back, their guns were gouging a burlap covered bale of rope.





THE four brown men cackled Arabic profanity in chorus. "Son of a dumb camel!" snarled one who had brought up the rear. "You let him trick you! He slipped away in the darkness! There is no submarine here-e-e-o-oww!"



His words turned into the squawl of a cat with its tall under a chair rocker.



There had been no perceptible sound, but bronze hands had suddenly trapped the speaker's elbows from behind. The Arab's yell rose to a piping bleat of agony; he felt as if he had lost his arms at the elbows. Pain caused his hands to splay open. His gun bounced across the oil-saturated wharf planks.



He felt a terrific wrench at his back. Cloth tore; leather straps snapped. The poisoned sword came away from his spine, sheath and all.



The man was lifted, hurled forward. He was not flung head first, but sidewise. He struck two of his companions. All three piled against the baled rope.



The swarthy fellow with the match jumped aside. The movement extinguished his match. He flourished his pistol, but did not shoot. He was not too excited to realize the shot sound would draw the police. Wildly, he clutched for his sword.



Great steel jaws seemed to clamp his ankles. He was lifted as lightly as if he had been a rabbit. He swung head downward. His whole body was carried up and down with a tamping motion, causing his head to bang the solid planks. He became limp as a punctured inner tube.



The trio piled against the rope bale untangled themselves and sought to arise. Then the blackness above them seemed to ram huge bronze fists. Metallic fingers touched various parts of their persons, seeking nerve centers, leaving numb paralysis and excruciating hurt.