Free Doc Savage: Skull Island (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage) by Will Murray

tropical whites and a pith helmet, which he doffed upon approach.
    “Good day, gentlemen. Permit me to introduce myself. I am Talbot Friday, His Majesty’s Port Officer for this jurisdiction. We were not expecting you. I regret to inform you that the Governor is not available to receive you. He is upriver, on a pressing matter.”
    “Captain Clark Savage, Senior. Good to make your acquaintance. We are in search of the dismasted clipper reported floating in the vicinity.”
    Doc thought: That is my father—getting down to brass tacks.
    Doc put out his hand. “Clark Savage, Junior, late of France and No Man’s Land.”
    For the occasion, Doc had changed into the only fresh clothes he possessed—his military uniform.
    “Good to have you. Come, we’ll have tea and I will tell you all you need to know.”
    OVER English afternoon tea, they exchanged news of the world.
    Doc took the lead. Younger and more personable than his father, his participation in the Great War had impressed the official, who soon dropped his British stiffness.
    “The Courser was a marvel in her day,” Friday said with reserved respect, and a trace of admiration. “Weatherly, yet constructed for speed.”
    “The finest kind,” said Captain Savage approvingly.
    “What was her last position?” asked Doc.
    “Southwest of here. In beastly empty waters. It was a wonder that we’ve had any sightings of her at all. These are trackless seas, if you know what I mean. Trackless and treacherous.”
    “How can that be?” asked the elder Savage.
    “Pirates, you know.”
    “Malays?”
    “Malays and Dyaks. Mainly Dyaks. They seem to like to take an occasional run down into those lower reaches.”
    “What could they possibly want there?” wondered Captain Savage.
    Friday shrugged elaborately. “No one seems to know. But those waters are haunted—troubled and taboo. No one goes there. Positively no one. Or if they do, they scarcely ever return.”
    Doc interjected, “From the last reported positions of the Courser, where might she have been?”
    “Drifting north by northwest. That would plot her deep down into the Indian Ocean, where dry land is scarce indeed.”
    “Surely there are islands?” asked Captain Savage.
    “Isles perhaps, and curious fogs.”
    “Fogs?”
    “Perpetual pea soups, I am told. Not that I have ever been down in those vasty parts. We have enough of a job of work watching over these scattered islands.”
    Friday took out a map and two stickpins, pressing the latter into the blue grid.
    Captain Savage leaned forward and his eyes sharpened.
    “If I know my trade winds, that would suggest she is being blown from this area.” He placed a sun-bronzed hand on the expanse of the Indian Ocean west of Sumatra.
    “Hardly narrows it down, you know,” offered Friday.
    “Sir, up until these reports, I have had no inkling if the Courser lay marooned at the northern pole or sunk in the deeps of the South China Sea.”
    “I understand it had been a good ten years since there was word of her,” the official said sympathetically.
    “Longer.”
    Friday took a sip of steaming tea. “Surprised she floats, unmanned after all this time,” he remarked.
    “The reports say the masts were sheared off,” offered Doc.
    “Right. Rather remarkable. Suggests a frightful blow.”
    Captain Savage retorted, “I would question if any blow could dismast a stoutly-constructed ship such as the Courser. ”
    “No ship is invincible, or storm-proof,” Friday said pleasantly. “We all recognize that, I trust.”
    “Aye. But I practically grew up under her foresail. Her masts are stout. A blow sufficient to snap them as cleanly as reported should have sent her below.”
    Friday smiled crookedly. “I shall not weigh in against your superior knowledge, but facts are facts. She was seen here and again there by two different ships’ crews. Both reported that the clipper floated along, entirely seaworthy as to her hull integrity, but utterly shorn of