Read Online DOC SAVAGE: THE INFERNAL BUDDHA (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage) by Kenneth Robeson, Lester Dent, Will Murray - Free Book Online Page B
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at the sedan.
At first glance, he did not seem to be the giant he soon proved to be. He was tall, but so symmetrical was his muscular body that an illusion was created of a less towering individual.
Only after she was presented to the big bronze man did Martha Holland understand that Doc Savage was a veritable colossus.
The Biblical Samson shorn of his beard and cast in bronze might conceivably have resembled Doc Savage. He also brought to mind Hercules, if the latter could be transported forward in time, given a modern haircut and garbed in a quiet brown business suit. His skin had been kilned by tropical suns until it possessed the sheen of polished bronze. His hair was of a darker hue. It lay straight and fitted his head like a metal sheet.
Most arresting of all were the Man of Bronze’s eyes—Martha Holland understood now why they called Doc that—for they were a fascinating golden color. Eagles possessed such orbs. No eagle had eyes so vibrant, however. They were like pools of flake-gold held in suspension. They seemed to whirl hypnotically, but this had to be an optical illusion of some kind.
Monk spoke up. “Doc, meet Mrs. John Holland.”
“Can you do anything for my Billy?” the old woman asked in a quavering voice.
“We will see,” said Doc. His voice resonated with a quiet compelling power that made one come to full attention.
They got into the sedan. It came to life with hardly a rumble of engine. Doc wheeled it to a corrugated steel door. It was down. But as the nose of the sedan neared it, it hoisted up.
“Infra-red projectors in the hood trip a relay switch,” Monk explained.
The old woman looked impressed through her worry.
The car eased out into the street, merging smoothly with traffic.
The ride south was not long. Doc Savage asked Mrs. Holland a series of quiet, probing questions designed to elicit the most information via the fewest words.
By the time they pulled up before the Gotham hostelry, Doc had ceased his questioning, lapsing into a solemn silence that might have portended ill.
The Gotham was no fleabag, but neither was it one of the city’s finest hotels. Possibly in the gaslight era it had been an establishment of worth, but now it served as a residential hotel for those unable to afford typically exorbitant Manhattan apartment rentals.
The cramped old elevator creaked as it toiled upward.
Billy Holland greeted them at the door. Cheekbones stuck out of his pale, hollow face, but his eyes flew wide at the sight of the bronze giant stepping into the room.
“Gosh! I know you! You’re Doc Savage!”
Doc bestowed a rare smile on the young boy. “That’s right.”
The lad appeared to have trouble with his coordination. He staggered as he walked, and his breathing was not right.
“Billy, Mr. Savage is here to—to—” The old woman’s voice caught.
She was unable to get the words out, so overwhelmed was she by the prospect that her only relative would be cured.
Doc directed the boy to lie out on the bed. He had brought a traditional black doctor’s valise with him. Out of it came instruments no more sophisticated than the customary stethoscope and rubber hammer for testing patient reflexes. The bronze man used all of these, and checked the boy’s pulse in the customary manner.
Most often, however, Doc employed his metallic fingers to thump the weak boy’s chest.
When he was done, he asked a simple question of Martha Holland.
“Has this boy ever been exposed to tropical diseases?”
“No. He was born and raised in Indiana. But my late husband had a bout of malaria during the fuss in Cuba.” The elderly woman mustered up her best posture. “He was one of Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders.”
Doc Savage shook his head firmly. “Malaria can only be transmitted through the bite of infected mosquitoes,” he imparted. “It is impossible for the boy to become exposed to any such tropical disease merely through contact with an infected person.”
A relieved
At first glance, he did not seem to be the giant he soon proved to be. He was tall, but so symmetrical was his muscular body that an illusion was created of a less towering individual.
Only after she was presented to the big bronze man did Martha Holland understand that Doc Savage was a veritable colossus.
The Biblical Samson shorn of his beard and cast in bronze might conceivably have resembled Doc Savage. He also brought to mind Hercules, if the latter could be transported forward in time, given a modern haircut and garbed in a quiet brown business suit. His skin had been kilned by tropical suns until it possessed the sheen of polished bronze. His hair was of a darker hue. It lay straight and fitted his head like a metal sheet.
Most arresting of all were the Man of Bronze’s eyes—Martha Holland understood now why they called Doc that—for they were a fascinating golden color. Eagles possessed such orbs. No eagle had eyes so vibrant, however. They were like pools of flake-gold held in suspension. They seemed to whirl hypnotically, but this had to be an optical illusion of some kind.
Monk spoke up. “Doc, meet Mrs. John Holland.”
“Can you do anything for my Billy?” the old woman asked in a quavering voice.
“We will see,” said Doc. His voice resonated with a quiet compelling power that made one come to full attention.
They got into the sedan. It came to life with hardly a rumble of engine. Doc wheeled it to a corrugated steel door. It was down. But as the nose of the sedan neared it, it hoisted up.
“Infra-red projectors in the hood trip a relay switch,” Monk explained.
The old woman looked impressed through her worry.
The car eased out into the street, merging smoothly with traffic.
The ride south was not long. Doc Savage asked Mrs. Holland a series of quiet, probing questions designed to elicit the most information via the fewest words.
By the time they pulled up before the Gotham hostelry, Doc had ceased his questioning, lapsing into a solemn silence that might have portended ill.
The Gotham was no fleabag, but neither was it one of the city’s finest hotels. Possibly in the gaslight era it had been an establishment of worth, but now it served as a residential hotel for those unable to afford typically exorbitant Manhattan apartment rentals.
The cramped old elevator creaked as it toiled upward.
Billy Holland greeted them at the door. Cheekbones stuck out of his pale, hollow face, but his eyes flew wide at the sight of the bronze giant stepping into the room.
“Gosh! I know you! You’re Doc Savage!”
Doc bestowed a rare smile on the young boy. “That’s right.”
The lad appeared to have trouble with his coordination. He staggered as he walked, and his breathing was not right.
“Billy, Mr. Savage is here to—to—” The old woman’s voice caught.
She was unable to get the words out, so overwhelmed was she by the prospect that her only relative would be cured.
Doc directed the boy to lie out on the bed. He had brought a traditional black doctor’s valise with him. Out of it came instruments no more sophisticated than the customary stethoscope and rubber hammer for testing patient reflexes. The bronze man used all of these, and checked the boy’s pulse in the customary manner.
Most often, however, Doc employed his metallic fingers to thump the weak boy’s chest.
When he was done, he asked a simple question of Martha Holland.
“Has this boy ever been exposed to tropical diseases?”
“No. He was born and raised in Indiana. But my late husband had a bout of malaria during the fuss in Cuba.” The elderly woman mustered up her best posture. “He was one of Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders.”
Doc Savage shook his head firmly. “Malaria can only be transmitted through the bite of infected mosquitoes,” he imparted. “It is impossible for the boy to become exposed to any such tropical disease merely through contact with an infected person.”
A relieved
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