Ron Goulart - The Curse of the Obelisk

62 RON GOULART
"I believe I will get a better view from the clearing just below," called Belphoebe.
Harry turned. "Don't get out in the open."
But she was already leaving the shelter of the trees.
He started running. "Belphoebe, stay here."
From above came a flapping, creaking noise— a harsh whirring, and a wheezy coughing.
Then a gigantic mechanical bat swooped down over the clearing.
Belphoebe was aware of it, too, and was trying to get back to the shelter of the woods from the
center of the clearing.
The flying machine dived right for her. Two long, clawed arms swung down from its
midsection, snatching at her. The second try was successful and the mechanical bat caught her up
by the arm and a shoulder.
Its giant wings flapped at an accelerated rate and they both began rising up from the clearing.
Belphoebe cried out, kicking at the dark-painted aerodrome. Her sketchbook fell from her hand,
fluttering down to the ground.
Harry had reached the open area and he was running toward them. If he could leap and catch
hold of Belphoebe before she rose out of reach, then he could—
The earth opened beneath his feet. Rotted wood, branches, leaves snapped and he found himself
plummeting down into a deep hole.
At exactly five o'clock the clock high in the tower of the Lowen town hall struck the hour. A
lifesize automation representing Hercules emerged from his lair, strode along a catwalk and
whacked a bronze gong five times with his club.
Before the last echo had died, the carved wooden doors of the rustic little café across the square
from the clock tower swung open. Two large swarthy men in the full military uniform of the far-off
Latin American country of Panazuela escorted the Great Lorenzo out into the impending dusk. It
was a double-time procession and it ended with the magician being deposited in a bed of tulips at
the base of a statue of one of the great Urbanian statesmen of the eighteenth century and his equally
praiseworthy horse.
"Do not," advised one of the colonels, "be so unwise, senhor, as to give offense to the senhora
again."
"In my country," said the Great Lorenzo as he rose up out of the mangled tulips with
considerable dignity, "it is not considered offensive to present a lovely lady with a bouquet of—"
"This is not your country, senhor," mentioned the other colonel, "nor is it ours. The Senhora
Picada is here on a most important mission for her beloved husband, General Miguel Picada, an
extremely able militarist and a man renowned for his jealousy. Were he here, you would be
stretched out upon—"
"Gentlemen," said the magician, "my mission is similar to that of the handsome Mrs. Picada. I,
too, find myself most interested in the munitions to be obtained from the esteemed Anwar Zaytoon.