1(You can read the previous chapter HERE) On a back dirt road in the desert not far from the high fence of the NASA Base, at a time just before the discovery of the unconscious guard, a black Rolls-Royce suddenly emerged from behind a low mesa where it had been completely hidden. The car drove quickly along the road in the sun and dust
It had only one occupant—the driver who wore the grey uniform of a chauffeur.
The chauffeur drove with his eyes studying both sides of the dusty road—and a large automatic pistol on the seat beside him where he could pick it up in an instant.
He drove slowly.
He saw ahead a depression in the ground and a heavy clump of dry desert vegetation.
The Rolls passed the clump of tough, wiry growth that masked the sloping entry into a gully.
The chauffeur did not look around.
The Rolls-Royce did not slow down further from its 20 mph pace.
The clump of wiry and dry bushes passed behind—and a figure sat in the back seat of the Rolls.
A figure all in black who had appeared as if by some kind of eerie magic.
The figure was The Shadow, and he had not appeared by magic, but by the swift and silent skills learned so long ago in the Orient.
“Drive to the highway, Stanley,” The Shadow said sharply.
“I must be on the Base within five minutes.”
The chauffeur, Stanley, nodded. One of the chief agents of The Shadow, Number Two in the far-flung organization of the cloaked avenger, Stanley did not ask questions.
What The Shadow ordered was done instantly.
The chauffeur-bodyguard-agent was always prepared, always efficient.
He now asked only one question.
“It failed again?”
“Yes, Stanley,” The Shadow intoned. “It failed again.
There was no one, nothing. I could see no reason.
I was observed in my escape, but neither I nor any of the officials saw anything!”
Where he sat in the back seat of the now speeding Rolls, the eyes of The Shadow blazed an angry fire.
He had seen no reason for the failure of the great rocket—which meant that whatever sabotage had been done had been done long before!
And The Shadow had little doubt that it had been sabotage.
“Did you observe anything, Stanley?” The Avenger asked.
“No, Chief, nothing.”
“Make the complete check now,” The Shadow commanded.
The cloaked Avenger sat silent in the back seat as Stanley touched a button on the dashboard.
One by one the voices of The Shadow’s agents reported from their posts all around the NASA Base.
The piercing eyes of the Avenger were fiery as he listened.
A red fire-opal girasol glowed red in a ring on his long finger.
The wide brim of the slouch hat hid all but his blazing eyes and the long, sharp hawk nose.
His great black cloak seemed to blend into the interior of the car.
The reports ended.
No one had seen anything.
Then The Shadow leaned forward.
“Harry Vincent has not reported!”
Stanley shook his head. “I get no answer from Harry.”
The Shadow passed his glowing fire-opal girasol in front of a tiny instrument in the back of the front seat that looked like no more than a small tape recorder.
The instrument glowed.
It was the private communication system used only by The Shadow himself to call his agents.
Instantly a voice seemed to be in the back seat.
“Agent Vincent. Is that you, Chief?”
“Report, Harry!”
“I’ve got a staff car.” Vincent’s voice was low.
“It is parked just outside the Base.
There’s a Colonel in the back, and two sergeants in the front.
It arrived about fifteen minutes ago.
Nothing has happened, it just sits there.
I’m in my truck out of sight.”
“They made no attempt to enter the base?” The Shadow asked.
“No, they just seemed to sit here,” Harry ‘Vincent said. “They … They’re starting up! They’re turning around!”
“Follow them!” The Shadow commanded.
“Roger. Over and out. Report later!”
The voice was silent.
The Shadow sat alone in the rear seat of the speeding Rolls-Royce.
Moments later the big car reached the highway and turned toward the gate of the NASA Base where the rocket had so recently crashed.
Stanley turned to be sure that The Shadow wanted to go straight to the gate.
But the Shadow was no longer in the back seat.
A stranger sat in the back seat now.
He was a smaller man, stockier and shorter than The Shadow.
The new man’s eyes were hooded and impassive.
Quiet eyes without the fire of The Shadow.
A thoughtful face without anger or any other emotion.
The man wore a neat and expensive business suit, his hair was grey and close-cropped, and he had all the other aspects of a successful business man—which was exactly what he was.
The man was Lamont Cranston, wealthy socialite and successful international business man who headed the wide interests of Lamont Cranston Enterprises, Inc.
He was also The Shadow!
The guise of Lamont Cranston was the major alter-ego the black-cloaked Avenger presented to the world to disguise his activities in the never-ending war against all evil.
There were other alter-egos, many of them, but it was as Cranston, the close friend and fellow member of the Cobalt Club with Police Commissioner Weston of New York, that The Shadow was best known.
But there were few who knew that the passive face of the amateur criminologist, Lamont Cranston, hid the power of The Shadow!
Only the members of the black-garbed Avenger’s far-flung secret organization, the small but powerful army of dedicated fighters for right and justice and peace, knew that their Chief and Lamont Cranston were one and the same. There was no one on earth who knew the true identity of The Shadow—who the Avenger had been before he became The Shadow. Only two people had ever known this—The Shadow himself and his master Chen T’a Tze; the great Master who had taught the Avenger all that he knew, all his skills and powers—including the ultimate power to cloud the minds of men. A power known only to one man in each generation, and given by Chen T’a Tze before he died to The Shadow.
Now, where the quiet Lamont Cranston sat in the back seat of the Rolls-Royce approaching the gate of the NASA Base, his impassive face covered all the powers of The Shadow—except the ultimate power. The power to cloud men’s minds was of the mind, but it could only be exercised when The Shadow was The Shadow—when he wore the great black cloak, the slouch hat, the fire-opal girasol ring. The garments, passed on to The Shadow by Chen T’a Tze with the secret known only to the Master and now only to The Shadow, were hidden in their secret pockets inside the simple business suit of Cranston. No search could disclose them—and they were there ready to be used at any instant. Now they would not be used. It was Lamont Cranston who would enter the Base.
“Drive straight to the gate, Stanley,” Lamont Cranston said. “They’ll wonder why I am late.
We will tell them that we had an unfortunate breakdown on the road.
You might make some simple defect and have it checked at the Base motor pool in case they check.”
“Right, Boss,” Stanley said, assuming instantly his role of chauffeur and bodyguard to Lamont Cranston.
“Do you think that car Harry is following has something to do with all this?”
“I don’t know, Stanley, but it was outside the Base for some reason.
The question is, what reason, and what could it do outside the Base?”
“Maybe some remote control,” Stanley said.
Cranston was thoughtful.
“I doubt it, Stanley.
That truck of Harry’s is equipped to detect any remote control units.
No, if they were there for any reason, it is some reason we cannot yet determine.”
“Maybe they just stayed off the Base for the firing.
Maybe it was just some curious Colonel,” Stanley said.
“Possibly, Stanley,” Cranston said.
The wealthy socialite leaned forward now as the car rounded a curve and the gate was ahead.
“All right, Stanley, we should have no trouble. I want you to observe everyone closely.
Very closely.
Be discreet, but while I’m with the officials, look around the Base as much as you can.”
“Right, Boss,” Stanley said as he slowed the big car at the gate where two Military Policemen held up their hands.
Out of sight, visible only to The Shadow, there were two more MP’s, both armed.
There was also an X-ray scanner and other electronic detection equipment.
Cranston studied all the security.
It was not possible for anyone to get into the Base unauthorized, and yet the rocket had exploded!
Harry Vincent drove his delivery truck close enough to the staff car ahead to not lose it, but not so close as to be observed.
Harry bent close over the wheel of the truck, his eves fixed ahead to keep the staff car in sight.
The staff car was driving at normal speed, neither hurrying nor going too slow.
So far Harry had no reason to suspect anything but a Colonel out with his sergeant, driver and another sergeant—and yet!
There was something about the staff car.
Something Harry could not pin down, but felt.
It was the Colonel.
The way the Colonel sat in the staff car.
Harry could not put it into words, but there was something wrong.
The Colonel did not sit right.
Somehow, the Colonel did not sit quite the way a Colonel should in his own staff car with two sergeants.
It was in the manner of the Colonel, something not quite right in the way the Colonel had talked to the two sergeants in the front seat while Harry watched from hiding when they had all been parked near the fence of the NASA Base.
Harry could not have explained what he felt, he simply felt it, and it made him alert and careful as he followed the staff car across the desert of Utah.
The staff car acted suspiciously in no way.
It drove steadily from the Base in the direction of Salt Lake City to the north and west.
The highway stretched straight as an arrow, a white road with white dotted lines that cut across the glaring yellow clay of the desert and shimmered in the heat as if it were under water.
There was little traffic, which made Harry worry that he would be spotted, but he kept a truck and a car between him and the staff car. With an occasional vehicle from the opposite direction, the four vehicles were the only traffic on the highway.
Harry was aware that the staff car up ahead could make a sudden speed-up and probably elude him before he could get around the truck and car between—but he also knew that to follow too closely was to risk almost certainly alarming them.
He had to trust to luck.
So far he felt he had succeeded.
The staff car maintained its steady pace and its position in front of the two vehicles ahead of Harry’s delivery truck.
It gave no indication of any alarm; or made any attempt to evade pursuit.
The chase went on, and the staff car continued straight toward Salt Lake City.
It happened when there were twenty miles to go until they reached Salt Lake City.
The long chase had lulled Harry. The road, coming now into the foothills of the Wasatch Mountains, had begun to wind more. The procession passed through a small town set deep in a valley of the Wasatch. Harry came alert at the sight of more traffic, houses and people. Nothing happened. They passed out of the town. Then the car between Harry and the staff car turned off into a right side road. The staff car continued on its way toward Salt Lake City, with only the truck between it and Harry’s delivery truck now. Just outside the small town the highway made a sudden sharp curve—so sharp that there were warning signs. Harry saw the staff car slow properly for the dangerous curve. He prepared to slow down in turn.
The truck between him and the staff car failed to slow.
As Harry watched the staff car slow for the curve, and prepared to slow himself, he saw almost too late the danger ahead.
The truck between him and the staff car took the curve too fast, swayed, swerved, skidded as the driver braked to keep from going off the road, and came to a shuddering stop slowed across the highway directly in Harry’s path.
Harry jammed his brakes and lurched to a halt inches from the truck.
The driver of the truck looked pale and shaken.
He, the truck driver, looked down from his cab at Harry and shrugged, waved his shaking hand in a motion of apology.
Harry backed off as quickly as possible, threw the truck into forward gear, and drove around the truck.
Once more the truck driver waved apology, and bent to restart his stalled engine.
Harry neither took notice of the apologetic wave, nor hesitated.
He jammed his accelerator down to the floor and roared around the curve after the staff car.
The curve wound for a quarter of a mile and then suddenly debouched onto a long straightaway.
Harry smiled and peered ahead—the staff car could not have escaped out of sight yet.
Harry searched the long straight road with his eyes.
The staff car was not in sight.
Harry raced on and stared ahead.
The road was deserted except for a car coming toward him and a trailer truck plodding along a mile ahead.
Harry blinked and stared as he drove.
It was not possible.
The staff car had vanished into thin air.
Harry slowed now and looked for side roads.
There were none.
Far ahead the trailer truck moved steadily on its way and the rest of the shimmering road was empty in the heat.
Harry turned back and drove very slowly observing the edge of the highway.
There was no sign of any tire marks, and tire marks would have shown clearly in the soft dust of the shoulder of the highway.
There were no side roads all the way back to the curve.
Harry realized that, somehow, he had been outwitted.
The staff car, must have spotted him after all, and had its escape all set up.
Harry turned back again.
He had noticed that the truck that had the “accident” had not reappeared.
Now he was sure he had been fooled.
But how?
He drove all the way to Salt Lake City without seeing anything more than a few trailer trucks and cars he had no interest in.
He reached the city and stopped on the outskirts.
It was only then that he saw in his mind the empty road and the lone trailer truck—and knew how he had been fooled.
Lamont Cranston, admitted to the Utah Base of NASA without trouble on his special pass, left his Rolls-Royce and Stanley outside the heavily-guarded main control building.
The quiet and impassive socialite and industrialist entered the building and was conducted along the windowless halls.
The hum of the air-conditioning conflicted with a steady hubub of voices that seemed to fill the corridors.
Men walked quickly and with grim faces.
There was an air of disaster, and yet not the kind of stunned aura that would have greeted a disaster so large had it been totally unexpected.
No, the grim men of NASA moved with the purpose of men who had not been totally unprepared for what had happened.
Cranston watched and listened behind his impassive eyes.
His guide brought him at last to an unmarked door where two gimlet-eyed MP’s were stationed outside.
Cranston waited while his guide handed his credentials to the two guards.
The MP’s inspected the documents with great care.
Then they stepped aside and one of them opened the door.
Cranston went in alone—his guide, and the two guards, were not authorized to enter this room!
Cranston stood for a moment inside the door and surveyed the scene.
He studied the faces of the men in the room seated around the long conference table.
Men with worried eyes and faces that showed the evidence of little sleep and less sleep to come.
Cranston knew them all—every man of them deeply involved in the entire project.
But he knew one man in particular—a tall, distinguished man who now looked up and saw Cranston.
The man jumped up and came toward Cranston.
It was Commissioner Ralph Weston of the New York City Police.
“Lamont!
Where the devil have you been!
Have you … . .” Weston began, his handsome face pale and drawn now.
“We had a breakdown,” Cranston said quietly.
“I apologize.”
Weston waved a fine hand.
“But you heard?”
Cranston nodded. “I heard.
I heard the explosion.
I guessed what had happened, Commissioner.”
“Again!” a tall, thin man dressed in the uniform of an Air Force General said.
“Sabotage!” a civilian said.
“It has to be sabotage.
There is no other possible explanation!”
“Damn it, but how?” A short, heavy civilian cried. “How?”
One man, a lantern-jawed and taciturn man in civilian clothes but with a distinct military bearing, had said nothing as yet.
He had sat in his seat half way down the long table and watched Cranston.
Now his grey eyes narrowed to steel points.
He spoke to Cranston.
“A breakdown?
On the road?
In your Rolls, Cranston?”
Cranston nodded.
“I’m afraid so.
My chauffeur is having it checked now.”
The man continued to watch Cranston.
“Unfortunate.
Strange that you were the only invited observer not here at the time.”
“You can check me, Major Oates,” Cranston said evenly.
“I quite understand your concern.
It’s your job to check.
Feel free.
As a matter of fact, I wonder about a Rolls breaking down myself.
My chauffeur is abnormally efficient.”
The tall civilian rose to Cranston’s bait.
“Sabotage?
Why not.
Cranston is a trained observer and an industrialist!
He might have seen something.”
Cranston smiled.
“I doubt it, Doctor Cassill, but I am a supplier of the Project, or my companies are, and I should have been here to check out my products for you.”
It was at this point that the giant man at the head of the long table spoke for the first time.
He wore the uniform of an Army Major General, and his voice was low and rough.
“Cranston is here.
Now I suggest we get back to the point. Project Full Moon has failed again!
We have lost three of our best astronauts!
Gentlemen, we must find the cause—and the reason!
We must be first to the Moon, and there is damned little time!
What happened out there today—and why?”
The silence in the room was as deathly as the silence of the final grave.
To Be Continued on Tuesday, at...
