Doc Savage: Skull Island (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage) (23 page)

“Kong?” wondered Doc.

“Nonsense!” retorted his father. “A hurricane could have done this. I have seen tropical cyclones that have uprooted entire groves of stout trees and twisted railroad tracks into fantastic shapes, by the relentless action of their concentrated wrath.”

Doc looked around. “There are other trees,” he pointed out. “They stand untouched.”

“A freak of nature,” Savage hurled back. “Tornados have been known to pluck children from their mother’s arms and deposit them safely in treetops or upon barn roofs.”

“I do not question this. But this break is fresh and there are no signs of tropical disturbance in the vicinity.”

“There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact,” snapped the captain.

Doc regarded his father steadily. “That is a quote. It sounds familiar to me.”

“Conan Doyle, if you must know.”

“If I am not mistaken,” said Doc, “Sherlock Holmes spoke those words in ‘The Boscombe Valley Mystery.’”

“Holmes is a fictional character, sir. I am quoting an author, not a figment of said author’s imagination.”

Doc repressed a smile. “Then allow me to offer a counter quote from the same source. ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.’”

“I believe the actual statement to be, ‘Eliminate all other factors, and the one which remains must be the truth.’”

“Both are factual,” stated Doc. “And you are changing the subject.”

“No giant ape did this, I tell you,” insisted the captain. “Again, from Doyle: ‘It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.’”

“‘There is nothing like first-hand evidence,’” countered Doc, stubbornly.

“‘You see, but you do not observe. The distinction is clear.’”

“We are getting nowhere,” said Doc, secretly amused by his father’s knowledge of one of his favorite authors. “I suggest we look for spoor.”

They dispersed in three directions after Captain Savage gave Chicahua clear instructions not to stray far.

Doc had learned to read sign like a Red Indian. He began looking for subtle but telltale indications of tracks. He quickly found them.

Grass had been crushed and trampled in spots. The spots were very large. But studying them formed no clear impression in his mind. Mentally, he attempted to fit the footprint of a gigantic ape into these flat depressions. His calculations suggested an ape of incredible proportions, possibly twenty feet tall.

Doc dismissed these calculations out of hand. An ape of a dozen feet height was fantastic enough, but he had been half-willing to entertain it. But nearly twenty—? It was ridiculous on the face of it.

Still, facts were facts and spoor, spoor.

The tracks vanished into the tropical forest. Laying his Annihilator on the ground, Doc went up a woody, creeper-festooned cycad, found its topmost point, and peered in all directions.

He saw nothing that stood over twenty feet tall, other than Skull Mountain. From this vantage point, the haze-enwrapped formation’s profile with its drawn, hollow cheeks still could not be seen clearly. Through the early morning mists, its stark, forbidding countenance brooded over all. This filled Doc Savage with a cold grimness—as if he walked in a land ruled by unconquerable death.

Of the rumored giant gorilla, there was no sign. But Skull Island was an amazing conglomeration of terrain. There were ravines deep enough to conceal such a monstrosity—if one existed. Stretched out amid the jungles and forests, Kong might evade detection. For a time.

Dropping down to the ground, the bronze giant recovered his weapon and went in search of his father. He made his way carefully, drum cartridges rattling with every step.

Doc came upon his father watching a purplish crab as large as a Collie dog cracking open a fallen coconut.

“I am here,” he said quietly.

“I know. I could hear the rattle of your approach. I will remind you not to fire that thing without my express permission.”

The robber crab sat industriously cracking the coconut shell with one large lobster-like foreclaw. It was easily three feet in circumference. Around it stood a great deal of jungle debris—broken husks, splintered bamboo shoots, even an unusually large tortoise shell that had been dragged to this spot.

“Are you familiar with the common palm thief, Mister Savage?”

“Yes. Also known as the coconut, or robber crab. Scientific name
Birgus latro.
”

“Good. Observe that one closely.”

“It is doing what is natural for it,” said Doc.

“Obviously. But that is not what I am referring to. I watched this creature climb that palm and snip off a coconut, which fell to the ground, unbroken. It had hoped the fall would begin the job it is now attempting to complete.”

“The robber crab is a land animal, as I recall.”

“Quite so. It is the largest arthropod in the world, hence its impressive size. It subsists upon coconuts and other such food. Under pressure, it will eat garbage and even meat. But that is not what I am trying to get you to see.”

Doc approached the thing. It was a mottled purplish-blue, strikingly different from the red or green of a water-dwelling crustacean. Its jointed legs and horny shell were very robust. Its monstrous foreclaws and waving antennae made it resemble a deformed lobster.

“I fail to detect anything unusual about this one,” he admitted.

“You have perhaps encountered fewer of these than have I. But then I have lived longer than you, and consequently ranged much farther.”

Doc nodded, holding his tongue. He wanted to say something assertive, but decided to let his father have his point.

“Evidently, I am missing what it is you wish me to perceive,” Doc said reluctantly.

The elder Savage intoned firmly, “I again invoke Doyle: ‘You know my method. It is founded upon the observation of trifles.’”

Doc studied the crab from all angles, but the only result was that something akin to perplexity crawled over his metallic mask of a face.

“‘The world is full of obvious things that nobody by any chance observes,’” prompted Captain Savage, again drawing from Conan Doyle.

“I give up,” admitted Doc.

“That crab, Mister Savage, is but a child.”

Doc circled the busy creature, but his knowledge of crustaceans was not up to seeing what his father had perceived.

“If true, and I do not doubt it,” Doc said finally, “that would mean that a full grown one would be the size of a man.”

“Conceivably larger. We are in a land where evolution has run wild—or where the guiding hand of the Almighty has been conspicuously negligent.”

“Whichever it is,” said Doc, “it would be better to avoid this one’s parents.”

“Agreed. Let us be off. Mind your weapon.”

They collected Chicahua, who eyed the robber crab with vaguely stunned eyes. He had never seen a crab of such size and coloring before. That fact was plain on his stolid coffee-colored face.

They came upon another crustacean attempting to climb a shaggy palm. Its dexterity was remarkable. It scooted up the slick bole like a grotesque bruise-colored spider.

Chicahua took a hardened clay pellet from his dart pouch, and inserted it into the blowgun. Aiming carefully, he sent a pellet bouncing off the carapace of the thing. It halted, seemed puzzled, for it waved its mandibles oddly, then continued its climb.

“Why did he do that?” asked Doc of his father.

“Perhaps he was testing the crab.”

“For what?”

“A Sherlockian clue. Did you not hear the noise of the clay pellet striking?”

“Yes. It sounded very soft.” Suddenly, Doc understood.

“That is another infant crab,” he pointed out. “It must be the season for them.”

“Exercise due caution,” warned the captain. “I would not ignore the possibility that larger specimens can be found hereabouts.”

“If the crabs and insects grow to such prodigious size,” remarked Doc as they moved along, “could a human have also reached a comparable stature?”

“If you are asking if Skull Island harbors giants such as the Bible speaks, I would not venture to speculate,” Captain Savage said impatiently.

“This island very much reminds me of the one described in the renowned novel by Jules Verne,” suggested Doc.
“The Mysterious Island.”

“If you ever reach the point in your life when you come into possession of a submersible of your own, Mister Savage, perhaps you will choose this place as your home anchorage. You might become the Captain Nemo of the Twentieth Century.”

“That has never been my ambition,” Doc said quietly, wondering if his father was mocking him.

“A man with a submarine should have a use for it,” Captain Savage pointed out reasonably. “And you will need a crew.”

“I made friends in the war. Good friends. I imagine we will reunite at some point in the future.”

“Then there is your crew, sir.”

Doc shook his head. “Not these men. They have ambitions of their own. One is an engineer like yourself. Another a chemist. He taught me a few things. These are not subordinates. These are leaders of the future.”

“Even the leaders of the future need to be led,” Captain Savage pointed out. “Perhaps you will take the role of a super-leader.”

“I fail to follow,” admitted Doc.

“Never mind. I had for a moment forgotten that your training has come to an unsatisfactory conclusion. Let us focus on the business of finding my father, your grandfather. Be watchful.”

“I see that you brought along a Very pistol,” Doc noted.

“Only as a last resort. Were I to unleash a star shell, it would no doubt trigger the curiosity of your grandfather—but also invite investigation by hostiles.”

Doc gave the receiver of his Annihilator a hard spank. “We are more than equal to them.”

“Let us hope that our reconnoiter does not result in unnecessary wholesale slaughter. Once we have discovered Old Stormy, we will have reached our objective and may depart at will.”

Doc looked about him. “There may be other things of interest on this island.”

Captain Savage nodded sagaciously. “At another time, I would enjoy mapping this place for posterity. But my sole objective is rescue.”

They marched on. Doc was in the lead. He seemed to be tireless. His submachine gun clutched in his formidable hands appeared as light as balsa wood.

They came to a river, its banks dotted with waving bulrushes.

“We do not have axes with which to construct a makeshift crossing,” Captain Savage reminded. “We will have to follow its course until we find a way across, or encounter what we will.”

Doc nodded. “Swimming across would be foolhardy, given our unfamiliarity with the things that may dwell in these inland waters.”

“I am glad to see that you are exercising due restraint. It is an excellent trait in commerce, or combat.”

THEY moved along the riverbank, single-file. The course of the stream twisted like a dark dragon that carried them to the edge of an area of rain forest. The banks were choked with tall, waving cattails and other reedy growth.

From time to time, Doc plucked a thistle plant from the ground, examining the fuzzy spikelets. He pocketed a few, but neglected to explain why he did so.

They entered, feeling the cool canopy of interlacing overhead branches touching their faces and arms. It was a great difference in contrast to the savannah they had been traversing. Here, the soil was rocky and moist. Their feet sank a half inch with most steps, two in some spots.

“’Ware quicksands,” warned Captain Savage.

“I smell a trap.”

“It is much the same thing. Mind your footing at all times.” Savage Senior turned to give Chicahua the same counsel in his own language.

But Chicahua, who had been trailing behind to protect the rear, was not in sight.

“Halt! We have lost sight of Chicahua.”

They waited for him to catch up.

Listening, Doc said, “I do not hear him moving through the brush.”

“Chicahua can be very stealthy when he wishes to be.”

“No one is that stealthy,” insisted Doc. “We should backtrack.”

Silently, they reversed course.

Captain Savage walked with his sharp eyes scanning the greenery ahead. But Doc kept his gaze upon the ground, seeking sign.

Abruptly, he touched his father’s shoulder. Captain Savage turned. Doc motioned for silence, and pointed to the ground.

“Tracks cease here,” Doc undertoned.

They looked up. Overhead hung a spidery lacing of boughs, ferns, lianas, vines and creepers. Something rustled up there. A section of dense greenery shook and crackled.

“Robber crab?” suggested Savage Senior.

Doc shook his head. “Its coloration would stand out,” he countered.

Doc raised his cumbersome weapon, sweeping the area of disturbance.

Something launched itself into space. It was impossible to see what, owing to the verdant gloom.

Captain Savage whispered, “What was it?”

“Pterosaur, possibly,” said Doc.

“Could one have carried Chicahua away?”

“The specimens I encountered attempted to do the same to me.” Handing over his weapon, Doc added, “I am going to investigate.”

Captain Savage accepted the submachine gun and said, “Take no unnecessary chances. Chicahua is a valued crewman, but you are my only son. Remember that.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Doc went up the tree, carrying only his sheathed Bowie knife, in the event he would need it.

He reached the top without making much noise, or rustling the foliage.

Poking his metallic head up from the canopy, the bronze giant scanned the surrounding sky.

The blazing sun made his eyes hurt. He shaded them and normal sight soon returned.

High to the east, a great feathered thing was gliding along. It looked like a fantastic prehistoric chicken, although it possessed other, less familiar, attributes.

Its feathers were purplish, not unlike that of the robber crabs, but its underside and portions of its arms were the hue of muted emeralds.

Doc recognized the creature as similar to the thing he had encountered on the mountain, that the old woman Penjaga had called a slasher. His mind flashed back to the original naturalists who had unearthed the first dinosaur fossils. They believed them to belong to gigantic birds. The first generation of paleontologists had subsequently reclassified them as reptiles. The truth, is seemed, lay in the middle. Not dinosaurs. Dinoavisaurs!