The Floating Island of Madness Read online

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  Transcriber's Note:

  This etext was produced from Astounding Stories January 1933. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.

  The Floating Island of Madness

  By Jason Kirby

  * * * * *

  [Sidenote: Far above the Arabian Desert three Secret Service men findan aerial island whose inhabitants are--madmen.]

  Above us curved the pale, hot bowl of cloudless sky; below usstretched the rolling, tawny wastes of the great Arabian Desert; andaway to the east, close to the dipping horizon, scudded the tiny speckwe were following. We had been following it since dawn and it was nowclose to sunset. Where was it leading us? Should we go on or turnback? How much longer would our gas and oil hold out? And just wherewere we? I turned and saw my questions reflected in the eyes of mycompanions, Paul Foulet of the French Surete and Douglas Brice ofScotland Yard.

  "Too fast!" shouted Brice above the roar of our motors. I nodded. Hisgesture explained his meaning. The plane ahead had suddenly taken on aterrific, unbelievable speed. All day it had traveled normally,maintaining, but not increasing, the distance between us. But in thelast fifteen minutes it had leaped into space. Fifteen minutes beforeit had been two miles in the lead; now it was barely visible. A tiny,vanishing speck. What could account for this burst of superhumanspeed? Who was in that plane? _What_ was in that plane?

  I glanced at Foulet. He shrugged non-committally, waving a courteoushand toward Brice. I understood; I agreed with him. This was Brice'sparty, and the decision was up to him. Foulet and I just happened tobe along; it was partly design and partly coincidence.

  * * * * *

  Two days before I had been in Constantinople. I was disheartened andutterly disgusted. All the way from the home office of the UnitedStates Secret Service in Washington I had trailed my man, only to losehim. On steamships, by railway, airplane and motor we hadtraveled--always with my quarry just one tantalizing jump ahead ofme--and in Constantinople I had lost him. And it was a ruse a childshould have seen through. I could have beaten my head against a wall.

  And then, suddenly, I had run into Foulet. Not ten days before I hadtalked to him in his office in Paris. I had told him a little of myerrand, for I was working on the hunch that this man I was afterconcerned not only the United States, but France and the Continent aswell. And what Foulet told me served only to strengthen my conviction.So, meeting him in Constantinople was a thin ray of light in mydisgusted darkness. At least I could explode to a kindred spirit.

  "Lost your man!" was his greeting. And it wasn't a question; it was astatement.

  "How did you know?" I growled. My humiliation was too fresh to standkidding.

  "Constantinople," said Foulet amiably. "You always lose them inConstantinople. I've lost three here."

  "Three?" I said, "Like mine!"

  "Exactly," he nodded. Then he lowered his voice. "Come to my hotel. Wecan talk there."

  "Now," he continued fifteen minutes later as we settled ourselves inhis room, "you were very circumspect in Paris. You told melittle--just a hint here and there. But it was enough. You--the UnitedStates--have joined our ranks--"

  "You mean--"

  "I mean that for a year we, the various secret service organizationsof the Continent--and that includes, of course, Scotland Yard--havebeen after--Well, to be frank, we don't know what we're after. But wedo know this. There is a power--there is someone, somewhere, who istrying to conquer the world."

  _A white speck took shape beneath the rising Island._]

  "Are you serious?" I glanced at him but the tight lines of his setmouth convinced me. "I beg your pardon," I murmured. "Go ahead."

  "I don't blame you for thinking it was a jest," he said imperturbably,"But, to prove I know what I'm talking about, let me tell you whatthis man has done whom you have been pursuing. He has done one of twothings. Either he has proved himself a dangerous revolutionary or hehas engineered the failure of a bank or chain of banks--"

  "We can't prove it," I interrupted.

  "No," said Foulet, "Neither can we. Neither can Scotland Yard--or thesecret services of Belgium or Germany or Italy or Spain. But there youare--"

  "You mean that in all these countries--?"

  "I mean that for a year--probably longer--these countries have beenand are being steadily, and systematically, undermined. The morale ofthe people is being weakened; their faith in their government is beingbetrayed--and someone is behind it. Someone who can think faster andplan more carefully than we--someone whose agents we always lose inConstantinople! I'll wager you lost your man from a roof-top."

  I nodded, my disgust at my own stupidity returning in full force."There was a lower roof and a maze of crisscross alleys," I muttered."He got away."

  "Was there an airplane anywhere around?" asked Foulet.

  I glanced at him in surprise. What good would an airplane have been ona roof-top ten feet wide by twelve feet long? Then I remembered."There was an airplane," I said, "but it was a long way off, and Icould scarcely see it; but the air was very still and I heard themotor."

  Foulet nodded, "And if you had had a pair of glasses," he said gently,"You would have seen that the airplane had a glider attached to it.There is always an airplane--and a glider--when we lose our men fromthe roofs of Constantinople."

  "But that must be coincidence!" I insisted. "Why, I was on that roofright on the fellow's heels--and the airplane was at least five milesaway!"

  Foulet shrugged, "Coincidence--possibly," he said, "but it is our onlyclue."

  "Of course," I murmured thoughtfully, "you have never been able tofollow--"

  Foulet smiled, "Can you imagine where that airplane would be by thetime we climbed down off our roofs and got to a flying field andstarted in pursuit?"

  * * * * *

  We descended for dinner. Foulet's story had restored myself-confidence somewhat--but I was still sore. Of course Fouletconnecting my vanishing man with that disappearing airplane wasabsurd--but where had the man gone? Was my supposition that he hadjumped to a lower roof, climbed a wall and run through the maze ofalleyways in half a minute in any way less absurd?

  We were halfway through dinner when Brice appeared. Brice was one ofthe best men in Scotland Yard and I had known him many years. So,evidently, had Foulet, for his eyes flickered faintly with pleasedsurprise at the sight of him. Brice came directly to our table. He wasbursting with victorious joy. I could feel it somehow, although hisface, carefully schooled to betray no emotion, was placid and casual.

  All through the remainder of the meal I could feel the vibrations ofhis excitement. But it was only at the very end that he confidedanything--and his confidence only served to make the excitement andsense of impending thrill greater.

  Just as he was rising to leave he shoved a tiny strip of paper acrossthe table to me with a sidelong glance at Foulet. "Another roof-top,"I read scrawled in pencil. "If you like, meet me at the flying fieldbefore dawn." If I liked! I shoved the paper across to Foulet who readit and carelessly twisted it into a spill to light his cigar. But hishand shook ever so slightly.

  Needless to say we went to the flying field shortly after midnight.Bruce was there, pacing up and down restlessly. Near him was a hugetri-motored biplane, its motor humming in readiness.

  "I've put a man on the trail in my place," Brice told us briefly."Somebody else is going to lose the scent on a roof-top--and I'm goingto
watch."

  * * * * *

  We settled to our wait. To me it seemed absurdly hopeless. The flyingfield was on a slight rise. Below us spread the dark shadow that wasConstantinople. There was no moon to give it form and substance--itwas just a lake of deeper darkness, a spreading mass of silentroof-tops and minarets. How did Brice expect to see his quarry escape?Suppose he fled during the night? And even with daylight--

  The first streaks of dawn found us still waiting, our ears strainedfor the hum of an airplane motor. But hardly had the golden rim of thesun appeared over the horizon when it came. It came from theeast--straight out of the golden glory of the sun. Nearer and nearerit came; an airplane--alone.

  "It