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Stranger From Smallness - ebook
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Stranger From Smallness - ebook
Meet the another sci-fi story from the master of adventure and science-fiction novelist of the pulp era Otis Adelbert Kline, best known for his interplanetary adventure novels set on Venus and Mars, which instantly became science-fiction classics. Smaller than a microbe, the Stranger was but how he grew! Ralph Blake’s surprise kidnapping flung him into fierce adventure in the torrid Sahara. Then a strange creature from Mercury stepped in and even Ralph’s death couldn’t prevent him from unraveling the network of intrigue! With an exciting narrative full of thrilling action sequences, memorable characters, and a fascinating civilization of bizarre wonders, it is a great adventure novel that will thrill fans of classic science fiction.
| Kategoria: | Classic Literature |
| Język: | Angielski |
| Zabezpieczenie: |
Watermark
|
| ISBN: | 978-83-8162-501-2 |
| Rozmiar pliku: | 2,5 MB |
FRAGMENT KSIĄŻKI
I. HAGG NADEEM
FOR some time now, as he passed from stall to stall in the sweet-smelling Suk al Attarin, the Street of the Perfumers in the Arab quarter of Cairo, Ralph Blake, American microbe hunter, had been conscious that he was being followed. The young bacteriologist, a tall, slender, sun-bronzed chap with dark brown hair that was bleached at the temples by exposure to the sun, had received a week’s furlough from his gruelling labors. He was trying to find the cause of and cure for a mysterious malady that was decimating the native population of lower Egypt.
He had hurried through tiffin after his late arrival at Shepheard’s hotel, anxious to make the most of the brief time alloted him for diversion in the Moslem metropolis, and had decided to tour the bazaars. The afternoon and evening had passed with many of the bazaars still unexplored, and now, it was near closing time.
Observing the two who had been following him, from the corners of his eyes, he saw that one was short and slight, with a patch over one eye beneath his red tarboosh. The other was as tall as Blake himself, but fully twice as wide, and walked with a rolling gait. His rotund countenance might have been jovial, save for the ferocious aspect imparted by three livid scars, two on the left, and one on the right side of his face.
These two, it appeared, were no strangers to hand-to-hand fights, and their cloaks, no doubt, concealed curved, razor-edged jambiyehs.
What could be their motive in following him? Robbery? Assassination? That might be it. He had a particularly bitter enemy–Hans Friedl of Vienna–not only jealous of his fame, but filled with undying hatred because Blake had once exposed a ridiculous error he had made.
Twice before, Blake’s life had been attempted by obviously paid assassins, once in China and once in New Guinea, and both times he had suspected Friedl. But he had been unable to prove anything because he had been compelled to kill his attackers in order to save his own life.
He began to wish that he had brought his favorite weapon–a Colt forty-five. But, as it still reposed in the bottom drawer of his wardrobe trunk, he could only rely on nature’s weapons.
He could, of course, call a policeman. But he had not been attacked, and could not even prove that he was being followed. Besides, every native policeman now seemed suddenly and mysteriously to have disappeared. There were only a few straggling shopkeepers and their employees about.
* *
*
Keeping close to the nearest of these, Blake, with an effort to appear nonchalant, followed them out of the Suk al Attarin, and turned right on the Sukten Nahhasi. He kept a wary eye on the two villainous looking cutthroats who were following him. It was during one of his quick glances backward that the group he had taken to be harmless shopkeepers suddenly jumped on him. A cloak was thrown over his head, and he was borne to the ground by the sheer weight of numbers.
Blake instantly lashed out from the ground with fists and feet, flinging them in all directions, then tore the stifling folds of the cloak from his head and leaped erect. They were on him again in an instant, like a pack of wolves around a stag, and he saw that the monocular and the scar-faced ruffian who had been following him, had joined them–were apparently the ringleaders. He clipped the former on the jaw, sending him reeling against a wall, then punched the latter in the belly, doubling him up in agony.
Yet the odds would have been far too heavy had it not been for the sudden appearance of the newcomer. He was slender, of medium height, and wore a closely-cropped, jet black beard. Save for his green turban, his clothing was European. He sprang into the fray, laying about him on the heads and shoulders of the rabble with a thick Malacca cane, and shouting in Arabic: “Dogs and sons of dogs! Scum of the suks! I’ll teach you to attack a friendly stranger!”
At this, Blake’s assailants quickly took to their heels, bearing with them the still unconscious monocular, and helping his groaning, scar-faced companion.
The newcomer helped Blake to brush his clothing and put it in order.
“Yukliff–” began Blake gratefully, when the other interrupted.
“Don’t thank me. It was the least I could do after this unwarranted attack by my countrymen. I am devastated. I am ashamed that such a thing could occur on the public streets. And not one of my police officers in sight.”
“Your police officers?” wondered Blake.
“Permit me to introduce myself, effendi. I am Hagg Nadeem.”
Hagg Nadeem! The name was legendary. Blake had often heard tales of the mysterious head of Cairo’s secret police, reputed not only to be an ulema, a Moslem holy man learned in ed din, the faith of Al Islam, and a hagg who had made the holy pilgrimage, but an Oxford graduate, well versed in the arts and sciences of the occident, and a descendent of an ancient line of Egyptian magicians who had communicated their esoteric knowledge from father to son since before the days of Mena, the first pharaoh.
He had regarded many of the tales of this man’s exploits as pure fabrication–utterly preposterous–and the man himself as a myth. Now he stood before him in the flesh, suave and smiling.
* *
*
Blake returned his infectious smile.
“I’ve heard of you, Hagg Nadeem,” he said. “I’m Ralph Blake, bug hunter.”
“And I’ve heard of your brilliant work as a microbiologist, doctor,” replied the hagg. “Will you join me in a spot of refreshment? There is a cafe nearby.”
“I’ll be delighted,” Blake replied.
They rounded the corner of the next side street, and the Egyptian led the way into a crowded, smoke-filled cafe, where a Moghrebi dancing girl swayed and wiggled her well-rounded curves to the wailing of hautboys, and strumming oudhs, the rattle of tambors, and the throbbing of small drums.
The patrons of the place, Blake noticed, were mostly natives, many of them smoking bubbling shishas and sipping small cups of black, syrupy coffee.
“A table for two, Ali,” Hagg Nadeem told the obsequious head waiter. “And send Husayn.”
Ali seated them on a cushioned divan behind a small circular table, and hurried to summon the proprietor, who lost no time in coming.
“My poor place is honored, ya hagg,” he said. “What is your pleasure?”
“Coffee for me. For my friend, perhaps, something stronger?”
He looked inquiringly at Blake.
“A double arak, neat,” Blake replied.
Hagg Nadeem proffered a curiously carved ivory cigarette case, yellow with age and obviously a valuable antique.
Blake took a cigarette. Hagg Nadeem followed his example, and a watchful waiter quickly held a light to each.
A moment later, the proprietor himself came up followed by two more waiters, one bringing the coffee, the other the arak.
Blake poured four fingers of the powerful anise-flavored date brandy, and tossed it off neat. A pleasant glow went through him as he splashed more of the clear, colorless liquor into the tall glass.
“I needed that one,” he told the hagg. “Now I’m ready to dawdle over the next in the approved fashion.”
“I quite understand,” smiled Hagg Nadeem. “A brave man faces danger without flinching, but once it is past there is a reaction.”
While the hagg talked, Blake suddenly felt a peculiar sensation come over him. At first he felt as if he were shrinking to infinite smallness, while the smiling, bearded face beside him assumed gigantic proportions. The next instant, it seemed that it was he who was swelling to incredible size, that the hagg was scarcely larger than a mosquito, and had receded very far away.
Blake was not a toxicologist, but he knew the symptoms. Bangh, the subtle oriental drug that changes and distorts the senses! He had been doped either by the cigarette or the drink.
He clutched the table, tried to rise. But the cloth came away in his hands, spilling coffee and liquor. He sank back, inert, as consciousness left him.II. MYSTERIOUS HOST
BLAKE awoke with a splitting headache, and a thirst which he knew could not have been engendered by four fingers of arak. He opened his eyes and squinted around him. He was lying on a low divan, clad in embroidered silk pajamas that must have cost a small fortune. Silken coverlets and pillows spoke also of opulence. Antique rugs, every one a collector’s piece, Bokharas, Kashgars, Kashans, Kermanshahs, Feraghans, Daghestans, and many others, completely covered the walls as well as the floor.
The room was lighted by an antique oil lamp suspended from the ceiling by four golden chains, the oil containing a perfume which scented the room with heavy fragrance. The ceiling was decorated with ornate arabesques.
Blake sat up. His head swam dizzily and a feeling of nausea attacked him. But this gradually subsided, and he got to his feet. No door or window was visible, so he began systematically drawing back one rug after another. The first two revealed only bare expanses of wall. The third showed the outlet of what was obviously an air-conditioning system, which accounted for the comfortable temperature of the room as compared to the terrific heat of the outdoors.
Behind the fourth rug was a heavy mahogany door. He tried the handle and found it locked. Just as he was about to pound on the door to attract attention, the lock clicked and the door swung outward.
A giant negro, naked save for turban and loin cloth, held the door open. A light skinned Abyssinian girl held a tray on which was a steaming copper pot, a small cup, and a package of cigarettes.
“Your coffee, sidi,” she said.
Placing the tray on a small teakwood taborette inlaid with mother of pearl, she filled the cup with steaming, spiced coffee, and withdrew.
Blake heard the door softly closed and locked.
After a second cup of coffee and half a cigarette, the American began to feel a bit better. He was about to go and pound on the door once more, when he heard it open. This time a young Arab entered.
“Salaam aleykum,” he said with a polite bow. “Your bath is ready, sidi.”
Blake followed the bath boy along a dimly lighted hallway, with stucco walls, mosaic tiled floors, and flickering alabaster oil lamps which hung from the ceiling at intervals of about ten feet.
The bath room again reflected the wealth and magnificence of his host, with its walls of black marble and sunken tub of pale green tile. All metal fixtures were gold plated.
After a bath, shave and massage, Blake’s bangh hangover had practically disappeared, and he was ravenously hungry. The bath boy then opened the door of a connecting dressing room.
Here another young Arab had laid out his clothes, neatly pressed. Obviously, his abductors must have obtained his baggage at Shepheard’s, perhaps by faking his signature on a note and paying his hotel bill. He found his wallet and small change intact, and the boy who had brought his clothing produced his wrist watch.
Another door, opening into the hallway, swung wide, and the Abyssinian girl announced: “Breakfast awaits in the salamlik, sidi.”
She ushered him along the hallway once more, then down a winding stairway into a large room, circled at the top by a screened balcony, and fully two stories in height. It was furnished in oriental splendor.
* *
*
This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.
FOR some time now, as he passed from stall to stall in the sweet-smelling Suk al Attarin, the Street of the Perfumers in the Arab quarter of Cairo, Ralph Blake, American microbe hunter, had been conscious that he was being followed. The young bacteriologist, a tall, slender, sun-bronzed chap with dark brown hair that was bleached at the temples by exposure to the sun, had received a week’s furlough from his gruelling labors. He was trying to find the cause of and cure for a mysterious malady that was decimating the native population of lower Egypt.
He had hurried through tiffin after his late arrival at Shepheard’s hotel, anxious to make the most of the brief time alloted him for diversion in the Moslem metropolis, and had decided to tour the bazaars. The afternoon and evening had passed with many of the bazaars still unexplored, and now, it was near closing time.
Observing the two who had been following him, from the corners of his eyes, he saw that one was short and slight, with a patch over one eye beneath his red tarboosh. The other was as tall as Blake himself, but fully twice as wide, and walked with a rolling gait. His rotund countenance might have been jovial, save for the ferocious aspect imparted by three livid scars, two on the left, and one on the right side of his face.
These two, it appeared, were no strangers to hand-to-hand fights, and their cloaks, no doubt, concealed curved, razor-edged jambiyehs.
What could be their motive in following him? Robbery? Assassination? That might be it. He had a particularly bitter enemy–Hans Friedl of Vienna–not only jealous of his fame, but filled with undying hatred because Blake had once exposed a ridiculous error he had made.
Twice before, Blake’s life had been attempted by obviously paid assassins, once in China and once in New Guinea, and both times he had suspected Friedl. But he had been unable to prove anything because he had been compelled to kill his attackers in order to save his own life.
He began to wish that he had brought his favorite weapon–a Colt forty-five. But, as it still reposed in the bottom drawer of his wardrobe trunk, he could only rely on nature’s weapons.
He could, of course, call a policeman. But he had not been attacked, and could not even prove that he was being followed. Besides, every native policeman now seemed suddenly and mysteriously to have disappeared. There were only a few straggling shopkeepers and their employees about.
* *
*
Keeping close to the nearest of these, Blake, with an effort to appear nonchalant, followed them out of the Suk al Attarin, and turned right on the Sukten Nahhasi. He kept a wary eye on the two villainous looking cutthroats who were following him. It was during one of his quick glances backward that the group he had taken to be harmless shopkeepers suddenly jumped on him. A cloak was thrown over his head, and he was borne to the ground by the sheer weight of numbers.
Blake instantly lashed out from the ground with fists and feet, flinging them in all directions, then tore the stifling folds of the cloak from his head and leaped erect. They were on him again in an instant, like a pack of wolves around a stag, and he saw that the monocular and the scar-faced ruffian who had been following him, had joined them–were apparently the ringleaders. He clipped the former on the jaw, sending him reeling against a wall, then punched the latter in the belly, doubling him up in agony.
Yet the odds would have been far too heavy had it not been for the sudden appearance of the newcomer. He was slender, of medium height, and wore a closely-cropped, jet black beard. Save for his green turban, his clothing was European. He sprang into the fray, laying about him on the heads and shoulders of the rabble with a thick Malacca cane, and shouting in Arabic: “Dogs and sons of dogs! Scum of the suks! I’ll teach you to attack a friendly stranger!”
At this, Blake’s assailants quickly took to their heels, bearing with them the still unconscious monocular, and helping his groaning, scar-faced companion.
The newcomer helped Blake to brush his clothing and put it in order.
“Yukliff–” began Blake gratefully, when the other interrupted.
“Don’t thank me. It was the least I could do after this unwarranted attack by my countrymen. I am devastated. I am ashamed that such a thing could occur on the public streets. And not one of my police officers in sight.”
“Your police officers?” wondered Blake.
“Permit me to introduce myself, effendi. I am Hagg Nadeem.”
Hagg Nadeem! The name was legendary. Blake had often heard tales of the mysterious head of Cairo’s secret police, reputed not only to be an ulema, a Moslem holy man learned in ed din, the faith of Al Islam, and a hagg who had made the holy pilgrimage, but an Oxford graduate, well versed in the arts and sciences of the occident, and a descendent of an ancient line of Egyptian magicians who had communicated their esoteric knowledge from father to son since before the days of Mena, the first pharaoh.
He had regarded many of the tales of this man’s exploits as pure fabrication–utterly preposterous–and the man himself as a myth. Now he stood before him in the flesh, suave and smiling.
* *
*
Blake returned his infectious smile.
“I’ve heard of you, Hagg Nadeem,” he said. “I’m Ralph Blake, bug hunter.”
“And I’ve heard of your brilliant work as a microbiologist, doctor,” replied the hagg. “Will you join me in a spot of refreshment? There is a cafe nearby.”
“I’ll be delighted,” Blake replied.
They rounded the corner of the next side street, and the Egyptian led the way into a crowded, smoke-filled cafe, where a Moghrebi dancing girl swayed and wiggled her well-rounded curves to the wailing of hautboys, and strumming oudhs, the rattle of tambors, and the throbbing of small drums.
The patrons of the place, Blake noticed, were mostly natives, many of them smoking bubbling shishas and sipping small cups of black, syrupy coffee.
“A table for two, Ali,” Hagg Nadeem told the obsequious head waiter. “And send Husayn.”
Ali seated them on a cushioned divan behind a small circular table, and hurried to summon the proprietor, who lost no time in coming.
“My poor place is honored, ya hagg,” he said. “What is your pleasure?”
“Coffee for me. For my friend, perhaps, something stronger?”
He looked inquiringly at Blake.
“A double arak, neat,” Blake replied.
Hagg Nadeem proffered a curiously carved ivory cigarette case, yellow with age and obviously a valuable antique.
Blake took a cigarette. Hagg Nadeem followed his example, and a watchful waiter quickly held a light to each.
A moment later, the proprietor himself came up followed by two more waiters, one bringing the coffee, the other the arak.
Blake poured four fingers of the powerful anise-flavored date brandy, and tossed it off neat. A pleasant glow went through him as he splashed more of the clear, colorless liquor into the tall glass.
“I needed that one,” he told the hagg. “Now I’m ready to dawdle over the next in the approved fashion.”
“I quite understand,” smiled Hagg Nadeem. “A brave man faces danger without flinching, but once it is past there is a reaction.”
While the hagg talked, Blake suddenly felt a peculiar sensation come over him. At first he felt as if he were shrinking to infinite smallness, while the smiling, bearded face beside him assumed gigantic proportions. The next instant, it seemed that it was he who was swelling to incredible size, that the hagg was scarcely larger than a mosquito, and had receded very far away.
Blake was not a toxicologist, but he knew the symptoms. Bangh, the subtle oriental drug that changes and distorts the senses! He had been doped either by the cigarette or the drink.
He clutched the table, tried to rise. But the cloth came away in his hands, spilling coffee and liquor. He sank back, inert, as consciousness left him.II. MYSTERIOUS HOST
BLAKE awoke with a splitting headache, and a thirst which he knew could not have been engendered by four fingers of arak. He opened his eyes and squinted around him. He was lying on a low divan, clad in embroidered silk pajamas that must have cost a small fortune. Silken coverlets and pillows spoke also of opulence. Antique rugs, every one a collector’s piece, Bokharas, Kashgars, Kashans, Kermanshahs, Feraghans, Daghestans, and many others, completely covered the walls as well as the floor.
The room was lighted by an antique oil lamp suspended from the ceiling by four golden chains, the oil containing a perfume which scented the room with heavy fragrance. The ceiling was decorated with ornate arabesques.
Blake sat up. His head swam dizzily and a feeling of nausea attacked him. But this gradually subsided, and he got to his feet. No door or window was visible, so he began systematically drawing back one rug after another. The first two revealed only bare expanses of wall. The third showed the outlet of what was obviously an air-conditioning system, which accounted for the comfortable temperature of the room as compared to the terrific heat of the outdoors.
Behind the fourth rug was a heavy mahogany door. He tried the handle and found it locked. Just as he was about to pound on the door to attract attention, the lock clicked and the door swung outward.
A giant negro, naked save for turban and loin cloth, held the door open. A light skinned Abyssinian girl held a tray on which was a steaming copper pot, a small cup, and a package of cigarettes.
“Your coffee, sidi,” she said.
Placing the tray on a small teakwood taborette inlaid with mother of pearl, she filled the cup with steaming, spiced coffee, and withdrew.
Blake heard the door softly closed and locked.
After a second cup of coffee and half a cigarette, the American began to feel a bit better. He was about to go and pound on the door once more, when he heard it open. This time a young Arab entered.
“Salaam aleykum,” he said with a polite bow. “Your bath is ready, sidi.”
Blake followed the bath boy along a dimly lighted hallway, with stucco walls, mosaic tiled floors, and flickering alabaster oil lamps which hung from the ceiling at intervals of about ten feet.
The bath room again reflected the wealth and magnificence of his host, with its walls of black marble and sunken tub of pale green tile. All metal fixtures were gold plated.
After a bath, shave and massage, Blake’s bangh hangover had practically disappeared, and he was ravenously hungry. The bath boy then opened the door of a connecting dressing room.
Here another young Arab had laid out his clothes, neatly pressed. Obviously, his abductors must have obtained his baggage at Shepheard’s, perhaps by faking his signature on a note and paying his hotel bill. He found his wallet and small change intact, and the boy who had brought his clothing produced his wrist watch.
Another door, opening into the hallway, swung wide, and the Abyssinian girl announced: “Breakfast awaits in the salamlik, sidi.”
She ushered him along the hallway once more, then down a winding stairway into a large room, circled at the top by a screened balcony, and fully two stories in height. It was furnished in oriental splendor.
* *
*
This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.
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