Frost hesitated. The figure ran toward and hit him with a clean tackle. The next few seconds were very confused, but he pulled himself together sufficiently to realize that he was seeing the world upside down; the stranger was carrying him at a strong dogtrot, thrown over one shoulder.
Bushes whipped at his face, then the way led downward for several yards, and he was dumped casually to the ground. He sat up and rubbed himself.
He found himself in a tunnel which ran upwards to daylight and downward the Lord knew where. Figures milled around him but ignored him. Two of them were setting up some apparatus between the group and the mouth of the tunnel. They worked with extreme urgency, completing what they were doing in seconds, and stepped back. Frost heard a soft gentle hum.
The mouth of the tunnel became slightly cloudy. He soon saw why-the apparatus was spinning a web from wall to wall, blocking the exit. The web became less tenuous, translucent, opaque. The hum persisted for minutes thereafter and the strange machine continued to weave and thicken the web. One of the figures glanced at its belt, spoke one word in the tone of command, and the humming ceased.
Frost could feel relief spread over the group like a warm glow. He felt it himself and relaxed, knowing intuitively that some acute danger had been averted.
The member of the group who had given the order to shut off the machine turned around, happened to see Frost, and approached him, asking some questions in a sweet but peremptory soprano. Frost was suddenly aware of three things; the leader was a woman, it was the leader who had rescued him, and the costume and general appearance of these people matched that of the transformed Robert Monroe.
A smile spread over his face. Everything was going to be all right!
The question was repeated with marked impatience. Frost felt that an answer was required, though he did not understand the language and was sure that she could not possibly know English. Nevertheless —
“Madame,” he said in English, getting to his feet and giving her a courtly bow,
“I do not know your language and do not understand your question, but I suspect that you have saved my life. I am grateful.”
She seemed puzzled and somewhat annoyed, and demanded something else-at least Frost thought it was a different question; he could not be sure. This was getting nowhere. The language difficulty was almost insuperable, he realized. It might take days, weeks, months to overcome it. In the meantime these people were busy with a war, and would be in no frame of mind to bother with a useless incoherent stranger.
He did not want to be turned out on the surface.
How annoying, he thought, how stupidly annoying! Probably Monroe and Helen were somewhere around, but he could die of old age and never find them. They might be anywhere on the planet. How would an American, dumped down in Tibet, make himself understood if his only possible interpreter were in South America? Or whereabouts unknown? How would he make the Tibetans understand that there even was an interpreter? Botheration!
Still, he must make a try. What was it Monroe had said his name was here?
Egan-no, Igor. That was it-Igor.
“Igor,” he said.
The leader cocked her head. “Igor?” she said,
Frost nodded vigorously. “Igor.”
She turned and called out, “Igor!” giving it the marked gutteral, the liquid “r” that Monroe had given it. A man came forward. The professor looked eagerly at him, but he was a stranger, like the rest. The leader pointed to the man and stated, “Igor.”
This is growing complicated, thought Frost, apparently Igor is a common name here-too common. Then he had a sudden idea:
If Monroe and Helen got through, their badly — needed chattels might have made them prominent. “Igor,” he said, “Helen Fisher.”
The leader was attentive at once, her face alive. “Elen Feesher?” she repeated.
“Yes, yes-Helen Fisher.”
She stood quiet, thinking. It was plain that the words meant something to her.
She clapped her hands together and spoke, commandingly. Two men stepped forward.