Read Online Flash Gordon 4 - The Time Trap of Ming XIII by Alex Raymond - Free Book Online
Authors: Alex Raymond
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every one of Ming’s generals is stationed right now. If this force is preparing for an assault, we’d like to know who heads it. Then we could analyze its modus operandi .”
Zarkov nodded. “Got you. You get back to central intelligence and keep on the laserphone, Hamf. Prince Barin wants you to concentrate on that report and find out if there’s even a glimmer of truth in it. Ming would try to throw the capital in an uproar on a day set aside for a celebration like this one, wouldn’t he?”
Hamf nodded sadly.
“Now get moving,” snapped Zarkov.
Hamf left the throne room.
Prince Barin shook his head. “Zarkov, you’re something else again. Why do you think this piece of intelligence is accurate?”
“Obviously that something is keeping Flash and Dale out there in the forest.”
“You mean you think they’ve stumbled across that concentration of unknown troops? Is that it?”
“How can I know for sure?” Zarkov yelled, striding up and down furiously, flailing his arms in the air and making the celluloceram floor shake with the tread of his boots. “It’s a possibility, anyway.”
“The minute you see anything out of the ordinary, call me by ship’s laserphone.” Prince Barin watched Zarkov alertly.
Zarkov halted, face to face with the prince.
“Right, then,” he said, made an about-face, and bounded across the throne room to the door.
All Arboria lay below him as he rose in the airscout through the immense oaks and larches that grew around the forest kingdom’s capital. Zarkov looked down once and saw the palace pass by beneath him.
He pressed the retrorocket activator, jockeyed the controls, set the course computer for point between the spaceport-Arboria superway and the Mingo-Arboria border, and leaned back in the plyoform seat, arms folded across his broad chest.
“It’s doing beautifully,” he said to himself, scanning the dials and digital readout ports that cluttered the console in front of him. “I’m glad I simplified the design of the board. It’s maddening to have to read fifty-two dials all at once; forty-five isn’t so bad at all.”
The airscout mounted the heavens, heading in a direction away from Arboria. The last Zarkov saw of the city was the spire of the House of Meditation as it vanished to the rear of the city.
The dense primeval forest of Mongo stretched out far below him.
Zarkov picked up the laserphone, punched out the call numbers of the spaceport, and was immediately in touch with the spaceport commissioner.
“Any news of Flash Gordon?” Zarkov boomed out.
“Nay, sire,” said the voice of the commissioner. “But then, there isn’t much traffic today. Holiday and all that”
“Roger,” said Zarkov, remembering his flyboy days in England on Earth.
The airscout passed over the thin winding thread that was the superway. Zarkov flicked the switch to manual control and took the wheel in his hands. He watched through the bubbleglass and followed the thin white line through the jungle around it.
He could see nothing at all.
“Calling zee five six, zee five six,” a voice said on the laserphone.
Zarkov lifted the laserphone. “Zarkov.”
“Report from the border,” said the voice of Hamf. “My agent found a corpse in the woods. Dead for several hours. One of our agents. Vanished two years ago. He’d been”—Hamf choked—“he’d been surgically debrained, Zarkov. Total massive frontal lobotomy. Evidence of electrode implants in his skull.”
Zarkov swallowed. “Good god, Hamf!”
“Something’s out there, Zarkov. Something evil.”
“I’ll find it,” Zarkov promised.
He hung up the laserphone.
A sudden tremor made the airscout buck slightly in the air. Zarkov glanced at the dials. The needles were all bouncing, the digital numbers flying around in a mad whirl.
Zarkov gripped the wheel, trying to steady the airscout.
“What’s going on?” he muttered.
The airscout lurched and descended rapidly.
It was hurtling down on
Zarkov nodded. “Got you. You get back to central intelligence and keep on the laserphone, Hamf. Prince Barin wants you to concentrate on that report and find out if there’s even a glimmer of truth in it. Ming would try to throw the capital in an uproar on a day set aside for a celebration like this one, wouldn’t he?”
Hamf nodded sadly.
“Now get moving,” snapped Zarkov.
Hamf left the throne room.
Prince Barin shook his head. “Zarkov, you’re something else again. Why do you think this piece of intelligence is accurate?”
“Obviously that something is keeping Flash and Dale out there in the forest.”
“You mean you think they’ve stumbled across that concentration of unknown troops? Is that it?”
“How can I know for sure?” Zarkov yelled, striding up and down furiously, flailing his arms in the air and making the celluloceram floor shake with the tread of his boots. “It’s a possibility, anyway.”
“The minute you see anything out of the ordinary, call me by ship’s laserphone.” Prince Barin watched Zarkov alertly.
Zarkov halted, face to face with the prince.
“Right, then,” he said, made an about-face, and bounded across the throne room to the door.
All Arboria lay below him as he rose in the airscout through the immense oaks and larches that grew around the forest kingdom’s capital. Zarkov looked down once and saw the palace pass by beneath him.
He pressed the retrorocket activator, jockeyed the controls, set the course computer for point between the spaceport-Arboria superway and the Mingo-Arboria border, and leaned back in the plyoform seat, arms folded across his broad chest.
“It’s doing beautifully,” he said to himself, scanning the dials and digital readout ports that cluttered the console in front of him. “I’m glad I simplified the design of the board. It’s maddening to have to read fifty-two dials all at once; forty-five isn’t so bad at all.”
The airscout mounted the heavens, heading in a direction away from Arboria. The last Zarkov saw of the city was the spire of the House of Meditation as it vanished to the rear of the city.
The dense primeval forest of Mongo stretched out far below him.
Zarkov picked up the laserphone, punched out the call numbers of the spaceport, and was immediately in touch with the spaceport commissioner.
“Any news of Flash Gordon?” Zarkov boomed out.
“Nay, sire,” said the voice of the commissioner. “But then, there isn’t much traffic today. Holiday and all that”
“Roger,” said Zarkov, remembering his flyboy days in England on Earth.
The airscout passed over the thin winding thread that was the superway. Zarkov flicked the switch to manual control and took the wheel in his hands. He watched through the bubbleglass and followed the thin white line through the jungle around it.
He could see nothing at all.
“Calling zee five six, zee five six,” a voice said on the laserphone.
Zarkov lifted the laserphone. “Zarkov.”
“Report from the border,” said the voice of Hamf. “My agent found a corpse in the woods. Dead for several hours. One of our agents. Vanished two years ago. He’d been”—Hamf choked—“he’d been surgically debrained, Zarkov. Total massive frontal lobotomy. Evidence of electrode implants in his skull.”
Zarkov swallowed. “Good god, Hamf!”
“Something’s out there, Zarkov. Something evil.”
“I’ll find it,” Zarkov promised.
He hung up the laserphone.
A sudden tremor made the airscout buck slightly in the air. Zarkov glanced at the dials. The needles were all bouncing, the digital numbers flying around in a mad whirl.
Zarkov gripped the wheel, trying to steady the airscout.
“What’s going on?” he muttered.
The airscout lurched and descended rapidly.
It was hurtling down on
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