JSA: Land Of The Thuggee
By Bruce Wayne
Justice Society of America created by Gardner Fox
Dedicated to ME, who has taught me more about being philosophical than anyone.
DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters portrayed in this story are copyright by DC Comics, an AOL/Time/Warner company. They are used without permission for entertainment without profit by the author.
Chapter 1
Andrew Edwards waited at the corner for a tram when he felt something tug his pant cuff. He instinctively shoved a hand in his pocket to guard his wallet. New Delhi, like any other large city, has its share of thieves. Pickpockets like to work in crowds, and the streets of New Delhi are always crowded.
Edwards glanced down and saw his trousers were snared on a long dark horn. He pulled away from the cow. Dull brown eyes gazed up at him. The beast lay on the sidewalk, calmly chewing its cud and shooing away flies with its tail.
"Bloody brute," Edwards muttered as he examined the tear in his pants.
A former sergeant major in the British Army, Andrew Edwards had seen a good deal of the world and lived among several different cultures, but none baffled him more than India. It was dreadfully overpopulated. Earth-Two India had a population of about 460 million people in 1962. They were crowded into a land area about the size of the central United States. Poverty and starvation were commonplace. Yet sacred cows still wandered about the streets, and the Hindus were horrified if anyone suggested that some of these animals be turned into unholy hamburger.
Of course, the Hindus consider all life to be sacred. Edwards wondered why so many of those chaps did not seem to feel as much concerned for malnourished children and emaciated old beggers as they did for bleedin' cows and monkeys. Quality of life has never been a high priority in India. Animals are supposed to do what nature intended, and people ... well, they're supposed to concentrate on spiritual matters.
Edwards had cynically noticed that the Brahman priests were at the head of the Indian caste system along with the Kshatriya aristocrats. He did not find it surprising that the Hindu religion continued to endorse the caste system that was still very much a part of India.
However, Edwards did not understand the philosophy of Hinduism, which teaches that all things run in cycles. One dies and moves on to another incarnation. If one's deeds were favorable in the past life, then the laws of karma meant the soul would be reborn to a higher caste. Of one has led an evil life, he will be reincarnated to a lower caste. Thus to the Hindu the caste system is necessary for the balance of the universe and divine justice.
Hinduism has little concern for science or modern technology. It teaches that even the universe must die to be periodically reincarnated in order to continue the cycle of creation. Nuclear holocaust does not frighten a pious Hindu. Indeed, it may be part of karma and his gods' incomprehensible plans.
As he stood on the street corner, Edwards felt uncomfortable and crowded. The streets were jammed with people. They were underfed and clad in ragged clothing, yet most were surprisingly clean. Even the surrounding buildings seemed shoved together. The structures were shabby with tar-patched roofing and faded signs, most written in English as well as Hindi, the national language of India.
The tram pulled up to the curb, and Edwards became part of the human swarm that poured into the bus. The passengers were jostled and shoved, but accepted this as a condition of overpopulation, not a result of intentional rudeness.
Despite efforts to encourage birth control and reduce the burden of too many people, overpopulation remained a major problem in India. Trying to educate masses of largely illiterate poor was a formidable task, but once again, religion was the biggest factor to deal with. Hindus believed that one would shuffle to the next incarnation after death more swiftly if his children prayed for his soul. The more children who prayed for him, the better his odds of a rapid reincarnation. To a Hindu, this is both simple and practical.
Edwards leaned against an open window, desperate for a breath of air that had not been recycled by dozens of other lungs. God, Edwards thought. He wanted to return to England. The London office of Agriculture International had sent Edwards to New Delhi to arrange an education program on advanced farming methods in India. Bloody waste of time. The Americans were already running such a program as part of a foreign-aid policy and the newly established Peace Corps. The Indian government might be willing to accept London's offer, if they could get everything free.
In Edwards' opinion, the bloody Indian parliament wanted everything handed to it on a silver platter. They expected the governments of the West to look after them like a nation of war orphans, especially the United States and Great Britain.
England had established a foothold in India in the seventeenth century, and its influence and power steadily increased during three hundred years of British rule. The maharajas who ruled the complex monarch states of the past had welcomed the British. But there was no doubt that this imperialist reign was unfair to the people of India in general, though they were probably no better off under the maharajas before the British arrived.
After India gained its independence under Gandhi, the country modeled its constitution on British democracy, English law was still the basis of India's judicial system in 1962. Indian schools and military also revealed British influence. The Crown had made some positive contributions to India, but nobody cared to talk about that anymore.
Two more days, Edwards thought. Then he would be on a British Airways flight back home. Thank God. Edwards gazed out the window as the tram rode through the pothole-marred streets. The city of New Delhi looked the same everywhere. Hundreds of Indians, most living in various degrees of poverty, shuffled along the sidewalks. There were a few priests dressed in robes and some blokes wearing turbans. Cows and dogs mingled with the crowds. The damn place was depressing to Edwards. New Delhi made the worst English slum look like Buckingham Palace.
At last the tram stopped at the Royal Suite Hotel, and Edwards gratefully left the bus and entered the building. He got his key from the front desk and headed for the stairs. Damned if he would trust the bleedin' birdcage on a cable that the hotel called an elevator.
The Briton mounted the first two flights of stairs to the third story. Edwards found the door to his room and inserted the key. He unlocked the door, eager for a lukewarm bath and a gin and tonic.
As he entered the room, Edwards caught a fleeting glimpse of something moving behind the door. An object flashed over his head, and the Briton's throat was suddenly trapped by a terrible constriction that encircled his neck. Someone slammed the door as hands grasped Edwards' wrists before he could resist his attackers.
There were three of them, Edwards realized. One held each arm while the third throttled him. The assailants did not give him a chance to defend himself. A foot stamped the back of his knee and threw the Briton off balance. He fell to both knees. His attackers held on and the cord at his throat continued to strangle him.
Andrew Edwards was too astonished to be frightened, although he realized death was closing in rapidly. Why were these men killing him? Edwards was just a representative for an agricultural firm, not a politician or an agent for Her Majesty's Secret Service. Why ...?
This question was Edwards' last conscious thought. Without ample oxygen to the brain, he blacked out.
The assassins held Edwards to the floor and choked him until they were certain he was dead, then they released their victim. The strangler unwound his weapon from the dead man's neck. He untied a knot in the center of the yellow scarf and removed a silver coin.
"Bhowani," he chanted softly. "Ma, Durga, Kali."
"Kali, um kling," the others muttered solemnly.
^J^ ^S^ ^A^
Fred Knapp's dream had come true. He was an American journalist and photographer who had finally gotten an assignment in India. Current Events of the World Quarterly magazine had sent Knapp and his wife, Susan, to cover the Kumbb Mela rites on the Ganges River.
The Knapps had been delighted to be chosen for this task. It was a once-in- a-lifetime opportunity to visit the birthplace of Asian civilization and witness a spiritual event few Americans would ever get to see. Fred had been fortunate to find a tour guide parked in a Jeep outside the hotel in Calcutta. The guide spoke English and he was quite willing to take the couple to the Ganges for only five American dollars.
"Have you attended the Kumbb Mela before?" Susan asked the guide as he drove the Jeep along a bumpy dirt road.
"No, madam," the guide replied with a smile on his gaunt dark face. "It is not necessary in my religion."
"You're not a Hindu?" Fred inquired.
He had hoped the fellow was not a Moslem or a Sikh. Religion was probably the number-one reason for violence in India. Hindus and Moslems got along about as well as the NAACP and the KKK back in the States. And neither the Hindus nor the Moslems had much use for Sikhs.
"There are many forms of Hinduism," the guide replied simply. "Just as the Christians have many different creeds, yet all are Christians. True?"
"True," Fred Knapp agreed, impressed by the simple wisdom of the tour guide. "I understand the Ganges River is very crowded this time of year."
"Almost six million people attended last year's ritual," the guide stated. "They flock to the river to bathe in the holy waters of the Ganges. Some believe the Ganges is a goddess of the water. Such foolishness must amuse an educated American like yourself, sahib."
"Of course not," Knapp replied. "I respect the beliefs of others and ..."
"I find the Kumbb Mela ritual amusing," the guide said with a laugh. "Did you know that one year more than five hundred people were trampled to death by the other idiots at the Ganges when it was announced that the bathing was to begin? Fanatics killing one another to be the first to splash in a river. That is insane, is it not?"
"It does seem a bit overzealous," Knapp was forced to admit.
"Senseless death is very sad," the guide said with a sigh as he steered the Jeep toward two men pulling an oxcart. "There is too much senseless death in my country. Killing should serve a purpose."
The guide brought the Jeep to a halt and called to the men with the cart. He stood up as he spoke in rapid Hindi and held splayed fingers of his right hand at his chest. Knapp did not recall seeing this gesture of greeting used by other Indians before.
"Why are we stopping here?" Susan asked, glancing at the wall of six-foot- high elephant grass that surrounded them. It seemed odd to find such a lonely spot so close to the crowded city of Calcutta.
"I suppose our friend wants to ask these gentlemen about the Kumbb Mela," Fred told his wife. "Maybe he wants to know if anybody has been stomped to death yet."
"That's an awful thing to say, Fred," Susan said with a shiver. "I think something's wrong here ..."
"Excuse me, sahib," the guide announced. "These gentlemen claim to have found a most ancient relic. It is a good statue of the Jain god Gomatesvara. They are taking it to the city to have it evaluated by experts at the museum. Perhaps you would like to take a photograph of the statue before we continue to the river?"
"You bet," Fred replied eagerly as he climbed from the Jeep.
The two men at the oxcart smiled and bowed at the American. They were dressed only in linen loincloths. Fred was relieved to notice neither man carried a knife. He mentally chided himself for his concern. After all, this was India, not a New York subway where one had to worry about muggers.
He failed to notice the yellow silk scarf that one of the men carried in his fist.
^J^ ^S^ ^A^
Carter Hall sat at a booth in the Steinberg Delicatessen. The deli claimed to serve the best corned-beef sandwich in Manhattan. Hall had not eaten in every deli in New York City, but he was so pleased with the sandwich he was seduced into buying a cheese Danish when he went back to the counter for another cup of tea.
"Only seventy-five cents, and it tastes so good you might faint right on the floor," Edgar Steinberg declared. "But don't do that, please. You might hit your head and hurt yourself."
"Good point," Hall said with a grin as he reached for his wallet.
"You know, a cheese Danish has lots of protein," Steinberg continued. "It's good for you. Quick energy food --"
"Sold," Hall announced, cutting him off.
Edgar Steinberg guessed the stranger was about forty-five years old. Hall was a pleasant-looking man. About six-feet, one-inch tall, and 195 pounds. Hall's English was precise and proper. Steinberg could not pinpoint Hall's accent.
Perhaps it was Hall's tweed suit or the fact that he drank tea instead of coffee that caused Steinberg to have a funny feeling about his customer. But Steinberg decided it was Hall's eyes that convinced him he had guessed correctly that Hall was not originally from New York. They were expressive blue eyes that revealed humor and sadness, courage and wisdom all at the same time. They were the eyes of someone who had suffered a great deal, but could not be broken.
Hall was in fact an independently wealthy archaeologist who was the reincarnation of an Egyptian prince named Khufu. One day Hall received a stange gift from another archaeologist named James Rock. Rock had sent Hall a dagger with a crystal blade. When Hall touched the blade, he fell into a trance. In a dreamlike state, Hall saw the life of Khufu unfold as in the days of ancient Egypt.
Khufu was a member of Egyptian royalty opposed by a priest of Anubis, Hath- Set. Hath-Set captured Khufu and attempted to torture him into submission. Khufu escaped and fled Hath-Set, seeking his lover, Shiera. Hath-Set pursued Khufu and one of his archers wounded Khufu just as the prince reached Shiera. Hath-Set offered both the lovers as a sacrifice to the god Anubis, using a crystal blade. As Khufu died, he swore to Hath-Set that he would return one day and it would be Hath-Set's turn to die.
When he awoke, Hall felt strange and left his house to wander the streets. When he passed a subway entrance, a large number of people emerged, fleeing some sort of disaster on the tracks. As he rushed to help, Hall ran into a young woman, the reincarnation of Khufu's lost love, Shiera. The two investigated the subway station to find the subway tracks flooded with rampant electricity, killing many people. Hall vowed to find out what caused the disaster and took Shiera to his home. There, Hall donned a mask of a hawk and wings made of Nth Metal, a discovery of Hall's. He tracked the source of the rampant electricity to the lab of one Doctor Anton Hastor who was, in reality, the reincarnation of the high priest Hath-Set. Hawkman, as he was to become known, destroyed the lab but Hastor escaped.
Hall's unique and impressive qualifications in fighting crime as Hawkman made him the ideal choice to be the longest serving leader of the Justice Society of America, the greatest organization of super-heroes ever assembled on Earth-Two.
Like our planet, known as Earth-One, Earth-Two inhabits the same space but vibrates -- as all matter does -- at a different speed. In most ways the two earths are exactly alike with only slight differences.
Hall had not come to the Steinberg Deli to catch criminals or would-be world dominators. He had arranged to meet an old friend. The archaeologist sat at the booth and quietly waited.
At last a short, swarthy man with an iron-gray beard entered the deli. He wore a dark blue pinstripe suit with a wine-colored tie. The newcomer looked like a businessman of Middle Eastern descent.
Abdullah Yassin was a Libyan. Hall and Yassin had known each other for many years. They both were opposed to the hatred and prejudice that oppressed the Middle East. Arab and Jew, they both thought, could live in peace if they would only learn to set aside the baggage of the past. Understanding and mutual respect were the only hope for a lasting peace in the Middle East.
Yassin smiled when he saw Hall. He approached the booth and extended a hand to his friend.
"Assa-la'mo alai-kum, kwiyis sa'diq," Hall greeted in Arabic, which translated to "Hello, my good friend" in English.
"Since this is a Jewish restaurant," Yassin began, "It may be unwise to converse in Arabic."
"I don't hink you have to worry about Mr Steinberg pulling a machine gun from under his counter," Hall assured his friend.
The only other customers in the Steinberg Deli were a pair of middle-aged housewives who were exchanging stories about how their children made them suffer. One woman had two more offspring than her friend, but the other woman's son had dropped out of medical school so the prize for who had suffered the most remained up for grabs.
"They don't look like an Irgun terrorist hit team," Yassin commented, tilting his head toward the women.
"Are you saying that you think someone is out to kill you?" Hall asked grimly.
"I'm certain a team of assassins is trying to kill me," Yassin answered. "I am not certain who actually ordered this. It is possible that by killing me, someone might gain favor in the eyes of the Libyan government, who might respond with a generous contribution to repay them for such a favor."
"Right now all that matters is that there's a death threat hanging over your head," Hall said. "Why haven't you gone to the authorities, Abdullah?"
"My dear Carter," Yassin sighed. "I fled Libya three years ago and I've never gone to the authorities since. I arrived in the United States with a forged passport, pretending to be an Egyptian tourist. Then I found some people who forged another passport so I could claim I was a refugee from Algeria. They also forged a green card so I could get employment here."
"But employers usually check on those cards to make certain they are valid," Hall commented.
"I know," Yassin replied. "But the additional ID helped me move about and find shelter at boarding houses and such. I've been working for people who don't mind hiring illegal immigrants. I've picked lettuce, worked in garment shops and processed chemicals for metal refineries. The work is hard and the wages low by American standards, but I haven't minded it at all. Besides, I haven't had to pay taxes, either."
"Don't tell me you're worried about the IRS," Hall said dryly. "You should have defected directly to the American Embassy in Cairo or Tel Aviv."
"That is exactly what I wish to avoid," Yassin replied. "I don't want to defect. I'm a Libyan. I still love my country, but I hate politics. I've had enough politics to last a lifetime."
"We've known each other for quite a while, Abdullah," Hall said. "I know you used to butt heads with the leaders of your country when you were an advisor. Not many men would dare criticize the Libyan policies against Israel."
"That doesn't mean I approve of everything the State of Israel has done," Yassin declared. "Especially that Suez Canal fiasco a few years back."
"That makes two of us," Hall assured him.
"But the Libyan monoarchy doesn't believe Israel has a right to exist," Yassin stated. "They don't realize that they are more apt to destroy Libya than Israel. I'm sick to my heart of the politics and bitterness of the Middle East and I think it is only going to get worse in the coming years. I am a Moslem Arab. Does that automatically mean that I should be against all Jews? Is it my duty to hate all Jews? The Koran teaches that God is mercy and love and forgiveness. Why do so many forget this?"
"People tend to look at religion and take what they want from it and ignore the rest," Hall said with a shrug.
"It's politics," Yassin insisted. "And I don't want anything to do with it again. I'd rather do honest labor for dishonest employers than work for another government, whether its Libya or the United States. I am still a Libyan, but I can never go home again. Now all I want is peace."
"Too bad the people stalking you don't feel the same way," Hall said. "I'm just an archaeologist. What do you want me to do, Abdullah?"
"I know you're not like me, Carter," Yassin began. "But you must know people that may be able to help me. You've always had a reputation for being mysterious and have had contact with some of those costumed American heroes that work outside of official sanction."
"So you think I have some sort of covert connection that can help," Hall said with a smile. "Well, I think I can arrange --"
Suddenly Hall noticed two men at the front door of the deli. They wore dark clothing and black ski masks. The pair were either would-be assassins or they were fond of winter sports in the middle of July in Manhattan.
"Down!" the civilian-attired hero shouted as he dove for cover.
The assailants burst through the door and charged inside, pulling weapons from their coats. One gunman held a machine pistol in his fists while the other carried an old reliable Colt 1911 autoloader. Both weapons were equipped with silencers. That meant the attackers had received some professional training, but Hall did not consider such men to be true professionals. Their warped minds and extremist attitudes prevented them from becoming disciplined warriors or competent agents.
But a fanatic amateur can kill you just as dead as an experienced professional.
Hall had bolted from his seat, reacting to the situation instinctively. His battle-honed reflexes were faster than his adversaries thought, and Hall immediately evaluated the circumstances and instantly went into action.
He set his sights at the greater threat -- the man armed with the machine pistol. Hall threw himself into a leap and tackled the man with his arms around his torso. The two men crashed to the floor with Carter Hall on top. Hall had aimed at the man's lower torso in order to knock the air out of the gunman and give him time to attack the second would-be assassin. With the machine pistol out of action, there was also a lesser chance that innocent bystanders might be hurt.
One gunman was now on the floor trying to catch his breath. The attacker blindly fired his machine pistol. Bullets slammed into the floor and buried themselves in the linoleum. The other gunman swung his .45-caliber automatic toward Carter, but the non-costumed Hawkman had dashed to cover at the end of the counter. A bullet burned air more than a foot from Hall's new position. The missile smashed into a cardboard sign advertising hot pastrami and potato salad.
Hall heard the screams of the terrified women. Better frightened than dead, ladies, Carter thought. The tough archaeologist threw two glasses. Both of them hit the second assailant in the chest, stunning the man for a moment. The gunman stumbled, tried to raise his .45 Colt and then was sent crashing to the floor as Hall slammed into him. The back of the man's head hit the floor hard and he was knocked unconscious.
Two more figures, clad in ominous nondescript clothing, burst from the rear door of the deli. Hall had expected this. A two-pronged attack was a professional tactic, but the assailants did not carry it out in a professional manner. This was typical of the criminal breed. Criminals usually received only a crash course in weapons, explosives, and strategy.
The attackers did not coordinate their actions to strike simultaneously, and they failed to use distractions to attempt to catch their opponents off guard. Since they didn't care about the lives of innocents, the would-be assassins could have simply lobbed grenades into the deli, but they chose to come in shooting, probably because they enjoyed seeing the fear on the faces of their victims.
Amateurs, the veteran super-hero thought as he punched the closest invader in the face. The man's head recoiled and red blood began to stain the mask from the broken nose he had just received. The assailant's gun slipped from his fingers. The attacker's jacket flapped open as the assassin fell. Ripe young breasts strained the fabric of the invader's black shirt.
Hall was amazed that he had struck a would-be female killer. Female savages could be just as deadly as males, he knew. He had, of course, run into some female super-villains. But rarely an armed woman who was part of an assassination team.
The man behind the female caught her before she could hit the floor from Hawkman's blow. He pushed the woman forward, using her body as a battering ram. The woman struck Hall's arm, knocking him off balance for a moment.
"Gotcha, jerk!" the gunman snarled as he aimed a .38 snub-nosed revolver at the reincarnated Egyptian's chest.
Hall raised his right arm and pointed the hand at his opponent. The gunman snickered, amused by Carter's reaction.
The assailant barely glimpsed the flash of Hall's left fist before a terrible pain lanced through his right eyeball. Blood gushed from the socket from the terrific blow and he went down for the count.
The report of a medium-caliber weapon bellowed within the deli. Hall whirled, his body poised in a crouch.
Abdullah Yassin held a snub revolver in his fist, a ribbon of smoke curling from the muzzle. The gunman that Hall had tackled in the chest had started to rise, so Yassin had shot the man in the back of the head.
Suddenly two more dark shadows with ski masks charged through the front entrance. Yassin pumped two .38 slugs into the closest attacker. The assailant, another female barbarian, screamed as bullets punched into her left breast. The woman collapsed, but her male companion fired a machine pistol. Yassin groaned and fell back against the table of the booth.
As the assassin prepared to put another round in the wounded Libyan, Hall lunged forward and pounced like an angry hawk. The hero slammed into his opponent. Both men stumbled against the counter, and Hall slashed the side of his right hand across the gunman's wrist. The attacker cried out in pain as bone snapped. The machine pistol fell from trembling, numb fingers.
Hall swatted the back of his hand across the man's face, and the assailant slid along the glass casing of the counter, blood oozing from his mouth. He spat out two broken teeth and glared at the tall archaeologist.
"Sum-bitch!" the would-be assassin snarled as he swung his left fist at Hall's face.
The JSA leader raised his right arm and blocked the punch. The attacker grunted when his smaller forearm connected with the large, battle-hardened forearm of Carter Hall. Hall slammed his own right hook to the bastard's jaw, knuckles cracking against bone forcibly.
The hero swiftly swung a leg and kicked the assailant in the groin. The toe of his shoe smashed into the killer's testicles, mashing them into pulp. The man doubled up with a choking gasp. Then Hall stepped forward and karate-chopped the attacker at the base of the skull.
The savage fell to his knees. Hall hit him again, using the edge of his hand as a club. He struck a third blow to the seventh vertebra in the assassin's neck. Bone crunched and the criminal dropped face first to the floor -- unconscious.
"My God!" Steinberg exclaimed as he cautiously peered up from behind the counter. "My place looks like a goddamn slaughterhouse!"
"Sorry," Hall replied gruffly, more concerned about his wounded friend than the condition of the delicatesen. "It wasn't my idea."
"Edgar!" one of the women at the opposite end of the room cried out. "I think Sara is dead! God in heaven, those gangsters killed her!"
"I'll call an ambulance," Steinberg announced. "And the police ... and my lawyer. Hey, you in the tweed suit. You a cop or what?"
Hall ignored him. He had placed two fingers to Yassin's neck, hoping to find a pulse. There was none. Hawkman shook his head sadly and gently pressed Yassin's eyes shut.
"Sara is alive!" the woman declared. "She only fainted. Wake up, Sara. You trying to give me a heart attack? I should kill you for scaring me so!"
Carter Hall folded Yassin's pudgy hands on his chest.
"Ila al-laqah," Hall whispered, saying goodbye to Abdullah Yassin for the last time. "May you finally find a lasting peace with Allah in paradise, my friend. May Ra be with you as well."
To be continued ...
By Bruce Wayne
Justice Society of America created by Gardner Fox
Dedicated to ME, who has taught me more about being philosophical than anyone.
DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters portrayed in this story are copyright by DC Comics, an AOL/Time/Warner company. They are used without permission for entertainment without profit by the author.
Chapter 1
Andrew Edwards waited at the corner for a tram when he felt something tug his pant cuff. He instinctively shoved a hand in his pocket to guard his wallet. New Delhi, like any other large city, has its share of thieves. Pickpockets like to work in crowds, and the streets of New Delhi are always crowded.
Edwards glanced down and saw his trousers were snared on a long dark horn. He pulled away from the cow. Dull brown eyes gazed up at him. The beast lay on the sidewalk, calmly chewing its cud and shooing away flies with its tail.
"Bloody brute," Edwards muttered as he examined the tear in his pants.
A former sergeant major in the British Army, Andrew Edwards had seen a good deal of the world and lived among several different cultures, but none baffled him more than India. It was dreadfully overpopulated. Earth-Two India had a population of about 460 million people in 1962. They were crowded into a land area about the size of the central United States. Poverty and starvation were commonplace. Yet sacred cows still wandered about the streets, and the Hindus were horrified if anyone suggested that some of these animals be turned into unholy hamburger.
Of course, the Hindus consider all life to be sacred. Edwards wondered why so many of those chaps did not seem to feel as much concerned for malnourished children and emaciated old beggers as they did for bleedin' cows and monkeys. Quality of life has never been a high priority in India. Animals are supposed to do what nature intended, and people ... well, they're supposed to concentrate on spiritual matters.
Edwards had cynically noticed that the Brahman priests were at the head of the Indian caste system along with the Kshatriya aristocrats. He did not find it surprising that the Hindu religion continued to endorse the caste system that was still very much a part of India.
However, Edwards did not understand the philosophy of Hinduism, which teaches that all things run in cycles. One dies and moves on to another incarnation. If one's deeds were favorable in the past life, then the laws of karma meant the soul would be reborn to a higher caste. Of one has led an evil life, he will be reincarnated to a lower caste. Thus to the Hindu the caste system is necessary for the balance of the universe and divine justice.
Hinduism has little concern for science or modern technology. It teaches that even the universe must die to be periodically reincarnated in order to continue the cycle of creation. Nuclear holocaust does not frighten a pious Hindu. Indeed, it may be part of karma and his gods' incomprehensible plans.
As he stood on the street corner, Edwards felt uncomfortable and crowded. The streets were jammed with people. They were underfed and clad in ragged clothing, yet most were surprisingly clean. Even the surrounding buildings seemed shoved together. The structures were shabby with tar-patched roofing and faded signs, most written in English as well as Hindi, the national language of India.
The tram pulled up to the curb, and Edwards became part of the human swarm that poured into the bus. The passengers were jostled and shoved, but accepted this as a condition of overpopulation, not a result of intentional rudeness.
Despite efforts to encourage birth control and reduce the burden of too many people, overpopulation remained a major problem in India. Trying to educate masses of largely illiterate poor was a formidable task, but once again, religion was the biggest factor to deal with. Hindus believed that one would shuffle to the next incarnation after death more swiftly if his children prayed for his soul. The more children who prayed for him, the better his odds of a rapid reincarnation. To a Hindu, this is both simple and practical.
Edwards leaned against an open window, desperate for a breath of air that had not been recycled by dozens of other lungs. God, Edwards thought. He wanted to return to England. The London office of Agriculture International had sent Edwards to New Delhi to arrange an education program on advanced farming methods in India. Bloody waste of time. The Americans were already running such a program as part of a foreign-aid policy and the newly established Peace Corps. The Indian government might be willing to accept London's offer, if they could get everything free.
In Edwards' opinion, the bloody Indian parliament wanted everything handed to it on a silver platter. They expected the governments of the West to look after them like a nation of war orphans, especially the United States and Great Britain.
England had established a foothold in India in the seventeenth century, and its influence and power steadily increased during three hundred years of British rule. The maharajas who ruled the complex monarch states of the past had welcomed the British. But there was no doubt that this imperialist reign was unfair to the people of India in general, though they were probably no better off under the maharajas before the British arrived.
After India gained its independence under Gandhi, the country modeled its constitution on British democracy, English law was still the basis of India's judicial system in 1962. Indian schools and military also revealed British influence. The Crown had made some positive contributions to India, but nobody cared to talk about that anymore.
Two more days, Edwards thought. Then he would be on a British Airways flight back home. Thank God. Edwards gazed out the window as the tram rode through the pothole-marred streets. The city of New Delhi looked the same everywhere. Hundreds of Indians, most living in various degrees of poverty, shuffled along the sidewalks. There were a few priests dressed in robes and some blokes wearing turbans. Cows and dogs mingled with the crowds. The damn place was depressing to Edwards. New Delhi made the worst English slum look like Buckingham Palace.
At last the tram stopped at the Royal Suite Hotel, and Edwards gratefully left the bus and entered the building. He got his key from the front desk and headed for the stairs. Damned if he would trust the bleedin' birdcage on a cable that the hotel called an elevator.
The Briton mounted the first two flights of stairs to the third story. Edwards found the door to his room and inserted the key. He unlocked the door, eager for a lukewarm bath and a gin and tonic.
As he entered the room, Edwards caught a fleeting glimpse of something moving behind the door. An object flashed over his head, and the Briton's throat was suddenly trapped by a terrible constriction that encircled his neck. Someone slammed the door as hands grasped Edwards' wrists before he could resist his attackers.
There were three of them, Edwards realized. One held each arm while the third throttled him. The assailants did not give him a chance to defend himself. A foot stamped the back of his knee and threw the Briton off balance. He fell to both knees. His attackers held on and the cord at his throat continued to strangle him.
Andrew Edwards was too astonished to be frightened, although he realized death was closing in rapidly. Why were these men killing him? Edwards was just a representative for an agricultural firm, not a politician or an agent for Her Majesty's Secret Service. Why ...?
This question was Edwards' last conscious thought. Without ample oxygen to the brain, he blacked out.
The assassins held Edwards to the floor and choked him until they were certain he was dead, then they released their victim. The strangler unwound his weapon from the dead man's neck. He untied a knot in the center of the yellow scarf and removed a silver coin.
"Bhowani," he chanted softly. "Ma, Durga, Kali."
"Kali, um kling," the others muttered solemnly.
^J^ ^S^ ^A^
Fred Knapp's dream had come true. He was an American journalist and photographer who had finally gotten an assignment in India. Current Events of the World Quarterly magazine had sent Knapp and his wife, Susan, to cover the Kumbb Mela rites on the Ganges River.
The Knapps had been delighted to be chosen for this task. It was a once-in- a-lifetime opportunity to visit the birthplace of Asian civilization and witness a spiritual event few Americans would ever get to see. Fred had been fortunate to find a tour guide parked in a Jeep outside the hotel in Calcutta. The guide spoke English and he was quite willing to take the couple to the Ganges for only five American dollars.
"Have you attended the Kumbb Mela before?" Susan asked the guide as he drove the Jeep along a bumpy dirt road.
"No, madam," the guide replied with a smile on his gaunt dark face. "It is not necessary in my religion."
"You're not a Hindu?" Fred inquired.
He had hoped the fellow was not a Moslem or a Sikh. Religion was probably the number-one reason for violence in India. Hindus and Moslems got along about as well as the NAACP and the KKK back in the States. And neither the Hindus nor the Moslems had much use for Sikhs.
"There are many forms of Hinduism," the guide replied simply. "Just as the Christians have many different creeds, yet all are Christians. True?"
"True," Fred Knapp agreed, impressed by the simple wisdom of the tour guide. "I understand the Ganges River is very crowded this time of year."
"Almost six million people attended last year's ritual," the guide stated. "They flock to the river to bathe in the holy waters of the Ganges. Some believe the Ganges is a goddess of the water. Such foolishness must amuse an educated American like yourself, sahib."
"Of course not," Knapp replied. "I respect the beliefs of others and ..."
"I find the Kumbb Mela ritual amusing," the guide said with a laugh. "Did you know that one year more than five hundred people were trampled to death by the other idiots at the Ganges when it was announced that the bathing was to begin? Fanatics killing one another to be the first to splash in a river. That is insane, is it not?"
"It does seem a bit overzealous," Knapp was forced to admit.
"Senseless death is very sad," the guide said with a sigh as he steered the Jeep toward two men pulling an oxcart. "There is too much senseless death in my country. Killing should serve a purpose."
The guide brought the Jeep to a halt and called to the men with the cart. He stood up as he spoke in rapid Hindi and held splayed fingers of his right hand at his chest. Knapp did not recall seeing this gesture of greeting used by other Indians before.
"Why are we stopping here?" Susan asked, glancing at the wall of six-foot- high elephant grass that surrounded them. It seemed odd to find such a lonely spot so close to the crowded city of Calcutta.
"I suppose our friend wants to ask these gentlemen about the Kumbb Mela," Fred told his wife. "Maybe he wants to know if anybody has been stomped to death yet."
"That's an awful thing to say, Fred," Susan said with a shiver. "I think something's wrong here ..."
"Excuse me, sahib," the guide announced. "These gentlemen claim to have found a most ancient relic. It is a good statue of the Jain god Gomatesvara. They are taking it to the city to have it evaluated by experts at the museum. Perhaps you would like to take a photograph of the statue before we continue to the river?"
"You bet," Fred replied eagerly as he climbed from the Jeep.
The two men at the oxcart smiled and bowed at the American. They were dressed only in linen loincloths. Fred was relieved to notice neither man carried a knife. He mentally chided himself for his concern. After all, this was India, not a New York subway where one had to worry about muggers.
He failed to notice the yellow silk scarf that one of the men carried in his fist.
^J^ ^S^ ^A^
Carter Hall sat at a booth in the Steinberg Delicatessen. The deli claimed to serve the best corned-beef sandwich in Manhattan. Hall had not eaten in every deli in New York City, but he was so pleased with the sandwich he was seduced into buying a cheese Danish when he went back to the counter for another cup of tea.
"Only seventy-five cents, and it tastes so good you might faint right on the floor," Edgar Steinberg declared. "But don't do that, please. You might hit your head and hurt yourself."
"Good point," Hall said with a grin as he reached for his wallet.
"You know, a cheese Danish has lots of protein," Steinberg continued. "It's good for you. Quick energy food --"
"Sold," Hall announced, cutting him off.
Edgar Steinberg guessed the stranger was about forty-five years old. Hall was a pleasant-looking man. About six-feet, one-inch tall, and 195 pounds. Hall's English was precise and proper. Steinberg could not pinpoint Hall's accent.
Perhaps it was Hall's tweed suit or the fact that he drank tea instead of coffee that caused Steinberg to have a funny feeling about his customer. But Steinberg decided it was Hall's eyes that convinced him he had guessed correctly that Hall was not originally from New York. They were expressive blue eyes that revealed humor and sadness, courage and wisdom all at the same time. They were the eyes of someone who had suffered a great deal, but could not be broken.
Hall was in fact an independently wealthy archaeologist who was the reincarnation of an Egyptian prince named Khufu. One day Hall received a stange gift from another archaeologist named James Rock. Rock had sent Hall a dagger with a crystal blade. When Hall touched the blade, he fell into a trance. In a dreamlike state, Hall saw the life of Khufu unfold as in the days of ancient Egypt.
Khufu was a member of Egyptian royalty opposed by a priest of Anubis, Hath- Set. Hath-Set captured Khufu and attempted to torture him into submission. Khufu escaped and fled Hath-Set, seeking his lover, Shiera. Hath-Set pursued Khufu and one of his archers wounded Khufu just as the prince reached Shiera. Hath-Set offered both the lovers as a sacrifice to the god Anubis, using a crystal blade. As Khufu died, he swore to Hath-Set that he would return one day and it would be Hath-Set's turn to die.
When he awoke, Hall felt strange and left his house to wander the streets. When he passed a subway entrance, a large number of people emerged, fleeing some sort of disaster on the tracks. As he rushed to help, Hall ran into a young woman, the reincarnation of Khufu's lost love, Shiera. The two investigated the subway station to find the subway tracks flooded with rampant electricity, killing many people. Hall vowed to find out what caused the disaster and took Shiera to his home. There, Hall donned a mask of a hawk and wings made of Nth Metal, a discovery of Hall's. He tracked the source of the rampant electricity to the lab of one Doctor Anton Hastor who was, in reality, the reincarnation of the high priest Hath-Set. Hawkman, as he was to become known, destroyed the lab but Hastor escaped.
Hall's unique and impressive qualifications in fighting crime as Hawkman made him the ideal choice to be the longest serving leader of the Justice Society of America, the greatest organization of super-heroes ever assembled on Earth-Two.
Like our planet, known as Earth-One, Earth-Two inhabits the same space but vibrates -- as all matter does -- at a different speed. In most ways the two earths are exactly alike with only slight differences.
Hall had not come to the Steinberg Deli to catch criminals or would-be world dominators. He had arranged to meet an old friend. The archaeologist sat at the booth and quietly waited.
At last a short, swarthy man with an iron-gray beard entered the deli. He wore a dark blue pinstripe suit with a wine-colored tie. The newcomer looked like a businessman of Middle Eastern descent.
Abdullah Yassin was a Libyan. Hall and Yassin had known each other for many years. They both were opposed to the hatred and prejudice that oppressed the Middle East. Arab and Jew, they both thought, could live in peace if they would only learn to set aside the baggage of the past. Understanding and mutual respect were the only hope for a lasting peace in the Middle East.
Yassin smiled when he saw Hall. He approached the booth and extended a hand to his friend.
"Assa-la'mo alai-kum, kwiyis sa'diq," Hall greeted in Arabic, which translated to "Hello, my good friend" in English.
"Since this is a Jewish restaurant," Yassin began, "It may be unwise to converse in Arabic."
"I don't hink you have to worry about Mr Steinberg pulling a machine gun from under his counter," Hall assured his friend.
The only other customers in the Steinberg Deli were a pair of middle-aged housewives who were exchanging stories about how their children made them suffer. One woman had two more offspring than her friend, but the other woman's son had dropped out of medical school so the prize for who had suffered the most remained up for grabs.
"They don't look like an Irgun terrorist hit team," Yassin commented, tilting his head toward the women.
"Are you saying that you think someone is out to kill you?" Hall asked grimly.
"I'm certain a team of assassins is trying to kill me," Yassin answered. "I am not certain who actually ordered this. It is possible that by killing me, someone might gain favor in the eyes of the Libyan government, who might respond with a generous contribution to repay them for such a favor."
"Right now all that matters is that there's a death threat hanging over your head," Hall said. "Why haven't you gone to the authorities, Abdullah?"
"My dear Carter," Yassin sighed. "I fled Libya three years ago and I've never gone to the authorities since. I arrived in the United States with a forged passport, pretending to be an Egyptian tourist. Then I found some people who forged another passport so I could claim I was a refugee from Algeria. They also forged a green card so I could get employment here."
"But employers usually check on those cards to make certain they are valid," Hall commented.
"I know," Yassin replied. "But the additional ID helped me move about and find shelter at boarding houses and such. I've been working for people who don't mind hiring illegal immigrants. I've picked lettuce, worked in garment shops and processed chemicals for metal refineries. The work is hard and the wages low by American standards, but I haven't minded it at all. Besides, I haven't had to pay taxes, either."
"Don't tell me you're worried about the IRS," Hall said dryly. "You should have defected directly to the American Embassy in Cairo or Tel Aviv."
"That is exactly what I wish to avoid," Yassin replied. "I don't want to defect. I'm a Libyan. I still love my country, but I hate politics. I've had enough politics to last a lifetime."
"We've known each other for quite a while, Abdullah," Hall said. "I know you used to butt heads with the leaders of your country when you were an advisor. Not many men would dare criticize the Libyan policies against Israel."
"That doesn't mean I approve of everything the State of Israel has done," Yassin declared. "Especially that Suez Canal fiasco a few years back."
"That makes two of us," Hall assured him.
"But the Libyan monoarchy doesn't believe Israel has a right to exist," Yassin stated. "They don't realize that they are more apt to destroy Libya than Israel. I'm sick to my heart of the politics and bitterness of the Middle East and I think it is only going to get worse in the coming years. I am a Moslem Arab. Does that automatically mean that I should be against all Jews? Is it my duty to hate all Jews? The Koran teaches that God is mercy and love and forgiveness. Why do so many forget this?"
"People tend to look at religion and take what they want from it and ignore the rest," Hall said with a shrug.
"It's politics," Yassin insisted. "And I don't want anything to do with it again. I'd rather do honest labor for dishonest employers than work for another government, whether its Libya or the United States. I am still a Libyan, but I can never go home again. Now all I want is peace."
"Too bad the people stalking you don't feel the same way," Hall said. "I'm just an archaeologist. What do you want me to do, Abdullah?"
"I know you're not like me, Carter," Yassin began. "But you must know people that may be able to help me. You've always had a reputation for being mysterious and have had contact with some of those costumed American heroes that work outside of official sanction."
"So you think I have some sort of covert connection that can help," Hall said with a smile. "Well, I think I can arrange --"
Suddenly Hall noticed two men at the front door of the deli. They wore dark clothing and black ski masks. The pair were either would-be assassins or they were fond of winter sports in the middle of July in Manhattan.
"Down!" the civilian-attired hero shouted as he dove for cover.
The assailants burst through the door and charged inside, pulling weapons from their coats. One gunman held a machine pistol in his fists while the other carried an old reliable Colt 1911 autoloader. Both weapons were equipped with silencers. That meant the attackers had received some professional training, but Hall did not consider such men to be true professionals. Their warped minds and extremist attitudes prevented them from becoming disciplined warriors or competent agents.
But a fanatic amateur can kill you just as dead as an experienced professional.
Hall had bolted from his seat, reacting to the situation instinctively. His battle-honed reflexes were faster than his adversaries thought, and Hall immediately evaluated the circumstances and instantly went into action.
He set his sights at the greater threat -- the man armed with the machine pistol. Hall threw himself into a leap and tackled the man with his arms around his torso. The two men crashed to the floor with Carter Hall on top. Hall had aimed at the man's lower torso in order to knock the air out of the gunman and give him time to attack the second would-be assassin. With the machine pistol out of action, there was also a lesser chance that innocent bystanders might be hurt.
One gunman was now on the floor trying to catch his breath. The attacker blindly fired his machine pistol. Bullets slammed into the floor and buried themselves in the linoleum. The other gunman swung his .45-caliber automatic toward Carter, but the non-costumed Hawkman had dashed to cover at the end of the counter. A bullet burned air more than a foot from Hall's new position. The missile smashed into a cardboard sign advertising hot pastrami and potato salad.
Hall heard the screams of the terrified women. Better frightened than dead, ladies, Carter thought. The tough archaeologist threw two glasses. Both of them hit the second assailant in the chest, stunning the man for a moment. The gunman stumbled, tried to raise his .45 Colt and then was sent crashing to the floor as Hall slammed into him. The back of the man's head hit the floor hard and he was knocked unconscious.
Two more figures, clad in ominous nondescript clothing, burst from the rear door of the deli. Hall had expected this. A two-pronged attack was a professional tactic, but the assailants did not carry it out in a professional manner. This was typical of the criminal breed. Criminals usually received only a crash course in weapons, explosives, and strategy.
The attackers did not coordinate their actions to strike simultaneously, and they failed to use distractions to attempt to catch their opponents off guard. Since they didn't care about the lives of innocents, the would-be assassins could have simply lobbed grenades into the deli, but they chose to come in shooting, probably because they enjoyed seeing the fear on the faces of their victims.
Amateurs, the veteran super-hero thought as he punched the closest invader in the face. The man's head recoiled and red blood began to stain the mask from the broken nose he had just received. The assailant's gun slipped from his fingers. The attacker's jacket flapped open as the assassin fell. Ripe young breasts strained the fabric of the invader's black shirt.
Hall was amazed that he had struck a would-be female killer. Female savages could be just as deadly as males, he knew. He had, of course, run into some female super-villains. But rarely an armed woman who was part of an assassination team.
The man behind the female caught her before she could hit the floor from Hawkman's blow. He pushed the woman forward, using her body as a battering ram. The woman struck Hall's arm, knocking him off balance for a moment.
"Gotcha, jerk!" the gunman snarled as he aimed a .38 snub-nosed revolver at the reincarnated Egyptian's chest.
Hall raised his right arm and pointed the hand at his opponent. The gunman snickered, amused by Carter's reaction.
The assailant barely glimpsed the flash of Hall's left fist before a terrible pain lanced through his right eyeball. Blood gushed from the socket from the terrific blow and he went down for the count.
The report of a medium-caliber weapon bellowed within the deli. Hall whirled, his body poised in a crouch.
Abdullah Yassin held a snub revolver in his fist, a ribbon of smoke curling from the muzzle. The gunman that Hall had tackled in the chest had started to rise, so Yassin had shot the man in the back of the head.
Suddenly two more dark shadows with ski masks charged through the front entrance. Yassin pumped two .38 slugs into the closest attacker. The assailant, another female barbarian, screamed as bullets punched into her left breast. The woman collapsed, but her male companion fired a machine pistol. Yassin groaned and fell back against the table of the booth.
As the assassin prepared to put another round in the wounded Libyan, Hall lunged forward and pounced like an angry hawk. The hero slammed into his opponent. Both men stumbled against the counter, and Hall slashed the side of his right hand across the gunman's wrist. The attacker cried out in pain as bone snapped. The machine pistol fell from trembling, numb fingers.
Hall swatted the back of his hand across the man's face, and the assailant slid along the glass casing of the counter, blood oozing from his mouth. He spat out two broken teeth and glared at the tall archaeologist.
"Sum-bitch!" the would-be assassin snarled as he swung his left fist at Hall's face.
The JSA leader raised his right arm and blocked the punch. The attacker grunted when his smaller forearm connected with the large, battle-hardened forearm of Carter Hall. Hall slammed his own right hook to the bastard's jaw, knuckles cracking against bone forcibly.
The hero swiftly swung a leg and kicked the assailant in the groin. The toe of his shoe smashed into the killer's testicles, mashing them into pulp. The man doubled up with a choking gasp. Then Hall stepped forward and karate-chopped the attacker at the base of the skull.
The savage fell to his knees. Hall hit him again, using the edge of his hand as a club. He struck a third blow to the seventh vertebra in the assassin's neck. Bone crunched and the criminal dropped face first to the floor -- unconscious.
"My God!" Steinberg exclaimed as he cautiously peered up from behind the counter. "My place looks like a goddamn slaughterhouse!"
"Sorry," Hall replied gruffly, more concerned about his wounded friend than the condition of the delicatesen. "It wasn't my idea."
"Edgar!" one of the women at the opposite end of the room cried out. "I think Sara is dead! God in heaven, those gangsters killed her!"
"I'll call an ambulance," Steinberg announced. "And the police ... and my lawyer. Hey, you in the tweed suit. You a cop or what?"
Hall ignored him. He had placed two fingers to Yassin's neck, hoping to find a pulse. There was none. Hawkman shook his head sadly and gently pressed Yassin's eyes shut.
"Sara is alive!" the woman declared. "She only fainted. Wake up, Sara. You trying to give me a heart attack? I should kill you for scaring me so!"
Carter Hall folded Yassin's pudgy hands on his chest.
"Ila al-laqah," Hall whispered, saying goodbye to Abdullah Yassin for the last time. "May you finally find a lasting peace with Allah in paradise, my friend. May Ra be with you as well."
To be continued ...