The Philip K. Dick Megapack
The Erckmann-Chatrian Megapack
The Jacques Futrelle Megapack
The Randall Garrett Megapack
The Second Randall Garrett Megapack
The Anna Katharine Green Megapack
The Zane Grey Megapack
The Edmond Hamilton Megapack
The Dashiell Hammett Megapack
The C.J. Henderson Megapack
The M.R. James Megapack
The Selma Lagerlof Megapack
The Murray Leinster Megapack
The Second Murray Leinster Megapack
The Arthur Machen Megapack**
The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack
The Talbot Mundy Megapack
The Andre Norton Megapack
The H. Beam Piper Megapack
The Mack Reynolds Megapack
The Rafael Sabatini Megapack
The Saki Megapack
The Darrell Schweitzer Megapack
The Robert Sheckley Megapack
* Not available in the United States
** Not available in the European Union
OTHER COLLECTIONS YOU MAY ENJOY
The Great Book of Wonder, by Lord Dunsany (it should have been called “The Lord Dunsany Megapack”)
The Wildside Book of Fantasy
The Wildside Book of Science Fiction
Yondering: The First Borgo Press Book of Science Fiction Stories
To the Stars—And Beyond! The Second Borgo Press Book of Science Fiction Stories
Once Upon a Future: The Third Borgo Press Book of Science Fiction Stories
Whodunit?—The First Borgo Press Book of Crime and Mystery Stories
More Whodunits—The Second Borgo Press Book of Crime and Mystery Stories
X is for Xmas: Christmas Mysteries
THE MIRACULOUS BUDDHA
Duane had never heard of Korla; the name meant absolutely nothing to him. Yet he was one of Stratolines’ most active and far-traveled trouble shooters. Ever since the war ended, he had been rushing from corner to corner of the globe—yes, the new air-age geography did square the world’s circle—on business for Stratolines. But Korla struck no echo in his memory.
He scowled at the brief memorandum he had found on his desk:
Captain James Duane: Headquarters Office:
Report to me at 10:40 if willing to accept detail to handle situation at Korla.
Upshott, President Stratolines.
Looking up, Duane glanced about the headquarters office used by the Strata-shooters, as the corps termed itself when not on field duty. Blount sat working at the corner desk, and Duane called to him.
“Hey, Blount! Where’s a place called Korla?”
Blount gave him a grin. “Same location it was two thousand years ago, maybe three. Turkestan, or Sinkiang as the Chinese call it. It’s the capital of the province now, and going great guns since the peace was signed.”
“Thanks.” Duane scowled again at the memorandum. “Turkestan or the South Pole, I don’t care which. Why in hell doesn’t the Chief quit calling me Captain? That went out when the war ended.”
Duane was just in bad humor, that was all, and looking for trouble. This corps of picked men were treated with deference by Stratolines. Even that enormous air-freight network covering most of the earth, handled its trouble shooters cautiously. They were all former war pilots. Further, they were sworn officers of the International Air Control, which gave them wide powers. They had to have exceptional ability in a dozen ways, for there was no telling what they might run up against. Stratolines had become practically a world power. It handled long-haul freight exclusively, but handled it everywhere, and ran into some queer things that needed fixing. Men like Duane did the fixing, and some of them were not particular how they did it, either.
Duane, for example. He had started out married; his wife died in childbirth while he was bombing Tokio. He went to work for Stratolines a hard-boiled, unhappy man. Now, three years after the war, he had been in love again, only to be turned down rather cruelly. It hurt. It left him, as on this particular morning, looking for trouble and not giving a damn where it might turn up.
He walked into Upshott’s office promptly at 10:40. The Stratolines president, who looked not unlike a bulldog, gave him a cigar and a barked greeting.
“Hiya, Jim. Know anything about Turkestan or Sinkiang?”
“Not a solitary thing, Chief.”
“Good. You got a lot to learn; but ignorance is one advantage. Only an outsider can help us here. Carter and Browne have been there and know it well, and they step around the subject like a cat around a pool of water.
“Why?” demanded Duane, to the point as usual.
“Why? Because it’s devilish unhealthy, that’s why.” Upshott chewed a cigar, unlit. “We’ve got a special run going—Korla, Urga, Yakutsk—as a feeder to our main Siberian lines; it’s doing a tremendous business, and we’re dickering now with the Soviet people, who want to take it over.”
“So what?” asked Duane, biting at his cigar.
“So trouble at Korla, or somewhere near there. The trouble is named Ming Shui, which means Clear Water. She is a woman. She is the abbot of a monastery at the back door of nowhere—”
“Wait a minute,” said Duane. “You’re getting off the track. An abbot is a man; a monastery holds monks.”
“Shut up,” snapped Upshott. “This is a Buddhist monastery. Of course it doesn’t make sense! If it did, the trouble would have been adjusted before this. It’s all cockeyed; that’s why I’m sending you. Any arrangement is impossible; our Siberian headquarters say so flatly. Here’s their report. Read it and you’ll go crazy like I did. Go to Yakutsk and hop one of our ships down to Korla and do anything possible.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“Okay.” Duane took the typed report and stood up.
“Wait,
