The Scorpia Menace

THE PHANTOM

PROLOGUE

HOW IT ALL BEGAN

Over 400 years ago, a large British merchant ship was attacked by Singg pirates off the remote shores of Bangalla. The captain of the trading vessel was a famous seafarer who, in his youth, had served as cabin boy to Christopher Columbus on his first voyage to discover the New World. With the captain was his son, Kit, a strong young man who idolized his father and hoped to follow him as a seafarer. But the pirate attack was disastrous. In a furious battle, the entire crew of the merchant ship was killed and the ship sank in flames. The sole survivor was young Kit who, as he fell off the burning ship, saw his father killed by a pirate. Kit was washed ashore, half dead. Friendly pygmies found him and nursed him to health.

One day walking on the beach, he found a dead pirate, dressed in his father's clothes. He realized this was the pirate who had killed his father. Grief-stricken, he waited until vultures had stripped the body clean. Then on the skull of his father's murderer, he swore an oath by firelight as the friendly pygmies watched. "I swear to devote my life to the destruction of piracy, greed, cruelty, and injustice, and my sons and their sons shall follow me."

This was the Oath of the Skull that Kit and his descendants would live by. In time, the pygmies led him to their home in
Deep Woods
in the center of the jungle where he found a large cave with many rocky chambers. The mouth of the cave, a natural formation formed by the water and wind of centuries, was curiously like a skull. This became his home, the Skull cave. He soon adopted a mask and a strange costume. He found that the mystery and fear this inspired helped him in his endless battle against worldwide piracy. For he and his sons who followed became known as the nemesis of pirates everywhere, a mysterious man whose face no one ever saw, whose name no one knew, who worked alone.

As the years passed, he fought injustice wherever he found it. The first Phantom and the sons who followed found their wives in many places. One married a reigning queen, one a princess, one a beautiful red-haired barmaid. But whether queen or commoner, all followed their men back to the
Deep Woods,
to live the strange but happy life of the wife of the Phantom. And of all the world, only she, wife of the Phantom and their children could see his face.

Generation after generation was born, grew to manhood, assumed the tasks of the father before him. Each wore the mask and costume. Folk of the jungle and the city and sea began to whisper that there was a man who could not die, a Phantom, a Ghost Who Walks. For they thought the Phantom was always the same man. A boy who saw the Phantom would see him again fifty years after; and he seemed the same. And he would tell his son and his grandson; and his son and grandson would see the Phantom fifty years after that. And he would seem the same. So the legend grew. The Man Who Cannot Die. The Ghost Who Walks. The Phantom.

The Phantom did not discourage this belief in his immortality. Always working alone against tremendous—sometimes almost impossible—odds, he found that the awe and fear that the legend inspired was a great help in his endless battle against evil. Only his friends, the pygmies, knew the truth. To compensate for their tiny stature, the pygmies mixed deadly poisons for use on their weapons, in hunting or defending themselves. It was rare that they were forced to defend themselves. Their deadly poisons were known through the jungle, and they and their home. The
Deep Woods,
were dreaded and avoided. Another reason to stay away from the
Deep Woods—
it soon became known that this was a home of the Phantom, and none wished to trespass.

Through the ages, the Phantoms created several more homes or hideouts in various parts of the world. Near the
Deep Woods
was the Isle of Eden, where the Phantom taught all animals to live in peace. In the southwest desert of the New World, the Phantoms created an eyrie on a high sheer mesa that was thought by the Indians to be haunted by evil spirits and became known as "Walker's Table"—for The Ghost Who Walks. In Europe, deep in the crumbling cellars of an ancient castle ruins, the Phantom had another hideout from which to strike against evildoers.

But the skull cave in the quiet of the
Deep Woods
remained the true home of the phantom. Here, in a rocky chamber, he kept his chronicles, written records of all his adventures. Phantom after Phantom faithfully wrote their experiences in the large folio volumes. Another chamber contained the costumes of all the generations of Phantoms. Other chambers contained the vast treasures of the Phantom acquired over centuries, used only in the endless battle against evil. =

Thus, twenty generations of Phantoms lived, fought and died, usually violently, as they followed their oath. Jungle folk, sea folk and city folk believed him the same man, the Man Who Cannot Die. Only the pygmies knew that always, a day would come when their great friend would lie dying. Then, alone, a strong young son would carry his father to the burial crypt of his ancestors where all Phantoms rested. As the pygmies waited outside, the young man would emerge from the cave, wearing the mask, the costume and the skull ring of the Phantom; his carefree happy days as the Phantom's son were over. And the pygmies would chant their age-old chant, "The Phantom is dead. Long live the Phantom."

In this story, the Phantom of our own time—the twenty- first generation of his line—confronts an evil force that had menaced his ancestor four hundred years ago. This time, the threat strikes close to home, as the Phantom's sweetheart—the beautiful and world-famous American Olympic athlete, Di
a
na Palmer—falls into the clutches of Scorpia.

Lee Falk New York 1972

1

THE DEEP WOODS

The brilliant shafts of sunlight, beating down through the fronds of broad-leaved vegetation, sent steam rising from Ihe depths of the Bangalla Jungle. It was already mid-morn
ing
and the forest was a-chatter with the screams of brightly-hued birds and the fierce shrieking of monkeys, which swung excitedly from branch to branch. The vivid stripes of (he lordly tiger showed momentarily, the muscles undulat
ing
beneath the silken skin, as the great beast passed through the glade on his way to a hidden pool to drink.

Somewhere a kakar barked and a herd of deer, grazing in a clearing, lifted their delicate heads in brief alarm, before sinking them to browse again. Even beneath the green umbrella of the jungle and between the boles of great trees, the heat was stifling. The syn brought with it the flickering breath of a furnace, a fiery reminder of the great desert which fringed the jungle not far away.

The sun was life to the people of the desert cities and to the folk of the jungle, but it could also bring death from thirst and torturing heat if not treated with respect. The sun was as much one of the vital factors of the Bangalla Jungle as the lordly tiger himself or the dreaded viper of the deep forest. Now, as its rays struck sharp spears of light through the gloom, a baboon shrieked with sudden fear and bounded upward into the branches of a tree, sending a flock of parrots exploding in a rain of multicolored feathers.

The baboon's alarm was caused by the faint, almost imperceptible passage of hoofs in the soft debris of the jungle floor. Then, from the green of the undergrowth, emerged a huge white horse, walking slowly as it picked its way delicately through the tangled mass of branches and vines. The
rider of the white horse reined in and glanced about him keenly, noting the baboon's presence in the tree and seeming to sniff the air like the animals, as if alert to danger.

This big man, who sat his finely-matched mount like a king, was an extraordinary sight. His chunky form was over six feet in height. His face was craggy, broad and good looking. Strong, square white teeth flashed in his tanned features as his eyes ranged the terrain before him. His eyes themselves were covered with a small black mask and his massive torso with a close-fitting jerkin of thin material under which his pectoral muscles stood out sharply.

The iron-hard muscles of his upper arms rippled under the light-colored material whenever he moved. The jerkin was in one piece and rose to a close-fitting hood which held tight to his head so that it was impossible to see the colour of his hair.

His legs and thighs were encased in similar material and his feet in thick black riding boots. He wore two revolvers in black leather holsters at either side of his body. Around his middle he wore close-fitting shorts of a thick striped cloth and over that a massive black belt. On the front of this was a triangular motif which had a tiny skull-symbol in the center. The effect should have been bizarre and sinister but it wasn't.

This was The Phantom, the man superstition whispered could never die; of whom a thousand legends were circulated over as many miles of jungle. The spirit of the Deep Woods of the Bangalla Jungle, a man of tradition, a god almost, whose life was dedicated to overthrowing evil. Men said he had lived for hundreds of years; that he could never be killed and the sight of him in this wild and remote place would have convinced any watcher that the legends were true, so durable and eternal did he look, sitting at ease on the white horse's back as though carved of bronze.

Nothing moved except The Phantom's eyes as he surveyed the terrain; the group formed by the man and the horse was like a statue, so perfect was the rapport between master and mount. Then The Phantom relaxed. He chuckled, his white teeth showing square and strong in the dim light of the jungle, as he leaned forward to pat the horse's mane. The great stallion whinnied and tossed his head in a lordly gesture at the familiar touch.

"Well, Hero," said The Phantom in a deep, sonorous voice, "We shall be home in another hour."

His booted heels delicately touched Hero's flanks and the white horse started off again. Hero hardly needed his master's subtly indicated instructions, so much in accord were the two. The character of the forest was now changing slightly, the undergrowth thinning out, with here and there rocky outcrops and once a stream tumbling over boulders into a sparkling pool. The trees too were bigger, their boles more broadly spaced so that The Phantom and his white horse seemed to be within the dim, misty confines of a cathedral.

Then the floor of the jungle rose into a low cliff and through the thick tangle of trees could be seen the white tumble of a descending waterfall. Hero, without hesitation, plunged into the last belt of trees and they came out onto a hroad, reed-fringed pool into which the waterfall descended with a loud roar, the water foaming white where the spray mingled with the sunlight to form rainbows.

Hero splashed hock-deep into the pool and made straight for the cliff face over which the waterfall tumbled with a dizzy tumult. The water made a brilliant white, dazzling wall through which it seemed impossible to penetrate. But The Phantom and Hero went imperturbably on, the horse needing no urging from his master, he had repeated the process so many times.