DOC SAVAGE: THE INFERNAL BUDDHA (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage) Read Free Page A

semblance.
    “Drinking raw brine,” Poetical Percival called out, “will never turn out fine.”
    Dang Mi’s narrow eyes popped and he made some noises remindful of a man who had a chicken bone crosswise of his throat.
    “Ark—ark—wawk!” described his vocal reactions approximately.
    “What did you say?” Perkins shouted.
    “I said,” Dang jerked out, “I was thirst-struck.”
    “Eh?”
    “I said, I was overcome by a dang powerful thirst,” reiterated Dang Mi.
    “I never heard of a seaman who didn’t know enough not to swallow sea water. It’ll only make you thirstier, you know.”
    “I know that, dang it!” Dang exploded. “Never felt the like of it, before. I thought I’d die if I didn’t fill me belly.”
    “You’ll wish for death once your belly starts to ache,” Poetical Percival offered. Then he looked queer. His expression halted Dang, who was in the act of expectorating salty sea water from his mouth.
    “What is it?” Dang demanded.
    “I felt it, too.”
    “Felt what?”
    “A sudden thirst.”
    “If you felt what I felt, you’d have yourself a belly brimming with brine, by now. Mark me, you would,” said Dang Mi.
    “It’s like I hadn’t had a drop in days,” Percival went on, “but I took a swig less that an hour ago. And it’s not hot at all.”
    Then it developed that the crew of the Devilfish were also thirst-struck. They were passing a canteen from hand to hand. When the canteen came to Poetical Percival, he swallowed his share.
    Seeing this activity only made Dang Mi all the more eager to get back to his ship.
    “Get a dink down,” Dang called. “This isle is hoodooed.”
    “What happened to the fog?” asked Percival, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
    “I’ll tell you, but you won’t bleedin’ believe me.”
    “Skies go clear, bring on fear,” Percival murmured, and strode to the stern, beckoning to the cut-throats to aid him. They did, and he launched a dinghy. Some of the crew got in and Perkins lowered it to the sea on the opposite side of the ship. Up until the boat was lowered, operations were in full view of the two almond-eyed twins on the plane, for they stood on top of the downed aircraft, which was high enough to see the junk’s deck.
    “While you’re at it,” ordered the man-twin in a voice that carried despite his all-enveloping suit, “get another boat over the side, or we’ll open the box again.”
    “And don’t think we don’t mean it,” added the girl-twin.
    Dang Mi’s brown neck was purple and he glared and made gravelly noises in his teeth.
    “I won’t,” he choked.
    “Don’t be a damned fool,” called the man-twin. “You can reach Singapore in the small boats.”
    He lifted the cumbersome box for emphasis. That unremarkable gesture was all that was required.
    Two dinghies were lowered. Poetical Percival took command of one. He sent it putt-putting toward Dang, who had not moved from where he stood, knee-deep in the gentle surf. He seemed afraid to step back on the island.
    The strange pair who called themselves the Chans worked their way down to the beach. The man-twin Chan carried the blue box before him in both hands. Earlier, he had handled it as if it contained something delicate. Now he carried it as if it were somehow heavier than before, and more unwieldy.
    THE dinks were beached with a grating noise. The corsairs of Dang Mi stepped out, looking anxious. They muttered among themselves.
    Last to step off was Poetical Percival. He had remained seated in the rear, at the motor, his hands out of sight, as the Malays grouped themselves near their chieftain, Dang.
    Once Percival joined them, the Chans went to claim the dory. The girl clambered aboard while the man held the blue box in a manner suggesting a shield.
    “Give it here, twin,” the girl said, reaching out her clumsy-looking gloved hands.
    “Careful,” said the other, handing over the box. “Don’t drop it. Especially with all this water