"Leslie F. Stone - Men With Wings" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stone Leslie F)

saw,
were occupied. For a moment I did not recognize the bandage swathed face of
the
figure in the next bed to mine as that of Howard Wormley.
"Hello," I said, addressing that hidden face, "could you tell me what I am
doing
here, and how I arrived?"
The figure turned over and when he spoke I recognized him. "Well, it's about
time you came to old fellow. It hasn't been pleasant lying here for seven
days
watching to see if you breathed or not!"
"Oh, it's you Wormley," I said, "Where's Norton and D'Arcy?"
I heard him sigh through his bandages, "Norton died immediately . . . and
there's D'Arcy in the other bed. He's been suffering horribly and it is
doubted
whether he will live or not! We've feared for you, afraid that you would go,
too..."
As he was speaking I was realizing that I ached severely in many quarters. I
felt as though I had been through a meat grinder. I shuddered when he spoke
of
Norton and D'Arcy. They were good fellows, two of the best reporters on the
News, and good sports too. I peered over at the quiet form lying stiffly
without
movement on the third bed.
"Just what happened?" I asked, "and how did we get back here to Cuzco?"
"One at a time . . . and not so much at once please. Who said anything about
Cuzco?"
I looked about . . . "Why this hospital . . . this . . . "
"Yeh . . . this is a hospital, but not in Cuzco my boy. You might as well
know
it now. You're a prisoner! At present you are in the underground hospital of
the
city of Number One of the nation of Mentor, old man, the headquarters of the
people alated-homo . . . or what have you! But anyway the service is pretty
fair!"
My pulse quickened. "So we did find them?"
"No," said Wormley, "They found us; we're invited guests!"
"Invited, hum? That was a fine invitation card they presented us with. Did
you
learn what sort of a contraption they used to make us fall? Must be a
devilish
thing. Perhaps we can arrange to buy it for the United States of America!"
"Not on your mug-print, feller. We're captives here and not somehow. Death to
him who attempts escape! I asked about that woman we saw signalling us, but
from
what I judge she got . . ." and he passed his hand over his throat and uttered
a
colorful, "Quirk . . . "
"Hum . . . well, I'll have to get out to take the story back home... Walls do
not a prison make... or iron bars a something-or-other. We shall see . .