"063 (B064) - The Motion Menace (1938-05) - Ryerson Johnson" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

"We'll see about that." The ancient man snapped his fingers.
Five men came in. Four of them were squat and ran more to biceps and shoulders than to foreheads. The fifth was thin, bald, and carried the pig, Habeas.
"Get the truth out of him," directed Viscount Herschel Penroff. "Take him to the room which we so thoughtfully equipped in the penthouse."
MONK had thought his own penthouse about as elaborate as could be found. Now he changed his mind. True, there was a difference in architectural style. This one was an exact duplicate of some ancient medieval castle. From the worn condition of the stones, Monk was even sure they were the original article. It seemed very much as if a small castle had been transported bodily from abroad.
The chamber they finally reached was dark like a dungeon. There were no lights, so pine-knot torches were lighted to give light.
Monk, glancing about, felt the hairs on his nape rise. The chamber he was in stood a good chance of being soundproof. The walls looked thick enough. But what had made his neck crawl was the collection of ancient, torturing devices in the room. None had been overlooked.
"Put him on the rack," the man with the pig said. "We'll see how much rubber he's got in his system."
The men fastened the homely chemist in the torture device.
"The viscount's guests thought this was merely a museum," a man said dryly.
The torturers put on pressure until Monk could feel a distinct, pain-filled gap between each point. The homely chemist howled at the top of his voice. There was no Indian stoicism in him. It was harder to keep quiet, and there was no object in it, anyway.
As Monk expected, his uproar kidded his captors into thinking he was more badly hurt than he was. He went limp and mumbled and sobbed, mentally deciding that next time he would stage a faint.
"Come on!" a man snarled. "Did Savage leave any record of us?"
"N-no!" Monk wailed. "H-honest!"
"Hell!" said the man in charge of the torturing. "He's a funny kind of ape. I've heard he's as tough as a mule. I think he's shamming. Give him the works this time."
"How about pouring some hot lead on that pig?" a man suggested. "He acts as if he thought more of the hog than he does of himself."
"I think he does. I told you he's a goofy duck. We'll work on the hog."
"Hah!" Monk snorted. "If you think you can hurt me by hurtin' my hog, you're nuts!"
The man peered closely at Monk.
"Yeah," he said softly, "we're nuts, then."
"Somebody's comin'," the man at the door grunted.
Noise was coming up the stairs. From the sounds, a free-for-all fight. Blows, profanity and scuffing feet. The men drew guns, leaped to the door and looked down the corkscrew stairs. Then they stepped back.
A wad of men tumbled into the room. Only two of them had most of their clothes left. They were scratched, bruised and sweating. Six of them altogether. Four captors with two prisoners.
The men surrendered their two prisoners with great willingness.
"Whew!" one puffed. "Talk about trouble!"
Both prisoners were much smaller men than their captors. One had an extremely thin waist, a very high forehead, and the large, mobile mouth of a man who did a lot of talking.
The second prisoner looked as if he had grown up in a mushroom cave, with frequent lapses into hospitals. Perfect picture of an invalid, and did not look as if he had strength for anything more strenuous than putting a lump of sugar in his coffee. He promptly belied his looks by giving a flounce which knocked his two captors staggering.
"But they're tied hand and foot!" a man exploded. "How'd they do so much damage?"
"Now that they're here, you'll find out," said one of the wrecks grimly.
The man with the thin waist and the talker's mouth scowled at Monk. The fact that Monk hung on a medieval torture instrument seemed to bother Ham not at all. The contrary, if anything.
"You evolution mishap!" he gritted. "What is this mess you've got Long Tom and me into?"
Monk shouted irately, "Don't you grind your teeth at me, you overgrown lawbook! Doc and me have been charging around all day, one jump ahead of sudden death. And I still don't know why!"
"Ham" was Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks, Harvard's finest law product. He didn't like the nickname Ham. To hear and watch him, the impression was that he liked Monk even less. Monk apparently shared the feeling. Neither had ever spoken a civil word to the other, which was somewhat strange, since each occasionally risked his life to save the other.
The mushroom-cellar-and-hospital product was Major Thomas J. Roberts, remarkable electrical wizard. Despite his invalid looks, he could probably take the first hundred men he would meet on the street and whip ninety of them.
Came a bedlam on the stairs. One man seemed to be making it, swearing, moving fast, falling occasionally. He piled into the tower torture room one jump ahead of his troubles.
His troubles had two legs, two arms that occasionally doubled as legs, was a little over two feet high, had rusty-looking hair, and a face amazingly like Monk's. Scientists had disagreed over just what the animal was. Some insisted it was a baboon, with one or more doubtful ancestors. Others were less certain.
"My pet, Chemistry!" Ham shouted.
The man who had brought the what-is-it glared about. He was scratched, bitten, and out of breath.
"Who the hell's idea was it for me to bring that thing along?" he demanded. "Man, it dang near eat me up!"
"GET them in the torture machines," the man in charge ordered. "The chief wanted their pets brought. He figured maybe if they saw some things happen to the animals, it would give them something to think about."
"I think that's a goofy idea," snorted one.
No one else commented. They laid hold of their prisoners. The fireworks started. Ham and Long Tom, tied hand and foot, managed to navigate with the agility of fish out of water. Once they knocked their captors onto the floor, they were not so handicapped.
The what-is-it, Chemistry, sank teeth in a leg and held on. Habeas, the pig, got up and took hold of the same fellow's other leg. Monk, floundering madly, unwound the windlass of the rack and got into the fight. He rolled over, managed to get erect, and hit a man. The fellow fell through the door and part way down the stone steps. If profanity was color, the air would have been blue.
"What the hell's going on up there?" a voice yelled.
"We're torturing the prisoners!"
"So you say!" snarled a man who had just lost two teeth.
But the prisoners had little chance. They were soon subdued, and jammed into the torture devices. Their torturers sat down to rest, and get their breath.
Ham glowered at Monk. "You Darwin inspiration, you say you don't know why we're here?"
"No, I told you once!" Monk yelled.
"I want to know!"
"Ask our friends then! They think Doc may have gotten an idea about them, and they're going to work us over to find out. That's all I know."