* * * * *
"You can't be serious!" Constable Weir finally managed to retort.
"Would that I were anything else," replied Sir Anthony: "The evidence I speak of us has allowed us to discern that this super-zeppelin is based on Big Diomede Island, in the Bering Strait. And, that it's kept abreast of precious cargoes through the use of a string of wireless relay operators. One of whom is camped atop Sleepy Giant Mountain within a cave system accessible through...What's the local name for that nose-shaped pinnacle of rock?"
"The Nostrils of Nanabozho," muttered the constable, in reply.
"Quite right. So, what Dr. Thorpe and I plan to do (with your help, of course) is surprise that blackguard; capture him; and interrogate him as to when that airborne monstrosity is due to strike next. That way, we can prepare a suitable trap for it!"
Constable Weir shook his head: "I still can't believe it. I mean; even if what you've told me is true, why would the Commies tip their hand like that? By abducting a train load of children?"
"Making a test run, I suppose. After all; if they can abscond with a whole train, what trouble could they have with one single freighter?"
Two hours later, as I lay in one of the two British army-surplus cots Constable Weir had provided us, I looked over at Sir Anthony and grudgingly complimented him on his improvisionational skills.
He shrugged, somewhat apologetically.
"As I said, back in Detroit," he whispered: "It's more plausible, to the common man, than a glorified were-harpy."
The next morning, after breakfast, we set out for Sleepy Giant Mountain. With the constable explaining (before he turned on the tractor's engine) the Canadian Indian legend behind its name.
"Nanabozho, whose emblem is a giant sturgeon, used to provide all the fish caught and eaten by the Algonquian tribes of the Great Lakes. But, he warned them never to reveal the where-abouts of certain silver deposits to the White Man. Otherwise, he would probably faint and become petrified with horror at such betrayal!"
"And, that's precisely what happened?" I asked.
Constable Weir nodded: "According to the legend."
"Hence, the presence of that silver mine we flew over on our way in? The one on that rocky islet, near the mouth of the Kaministiquia?" Sir Anthony now asked.
Constable Weir nodded again. Adding that, in hindsight, it now made sense why the Communists would aerially go after shipping along this stretch of Lake Superior. Whereupon, as the tractor pulled out, I gave Sir Anthony a reproving glare. To which he responded with a note that he hurriedly scribbled on a page torn out of his little black book.
"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."
Our journey by tractor ended at the foot of a trail that wound its way upward from what one might call "the Waistline of Nanabozho." And, even though it was summer, we were each dressed in fur-lined red plaid jackets and beaver hats with ear flaps. Mostly, because Constable Weir had assured us that it would be very cool and windy atop Sleepy Giant.
So, our ascent began. Constable Weir first; followed by Sir Anthony and, then, myself. Each of us testing the narrow trail in front of us with an alpenstock.
It was about two o'clock when we finally reached the summit. And, Constable Weir had not exaggerated the steepness of our climb one iota! So, we doffed our backpacks and had an ersatz lunch (jerked beef and tepid, canteen-borne water) around a shallow circular depression one might call "the Navel of Nanabozho."
Having duly refreshed ourselves, we continued on toward the aforementioned Nostrils. Upon arriving there, I looked in the cavern mouth to my right. And, the battery-powered electric lantern I held in my right hand (one of two Constable Weir had supplied us with) showed a very narrow tunnel that dropped down almost vertically.
Then, Sir Anthony called to me from my left. So, I went over to him.
"She was definitely here," he said.
Slowly and carefully, he backed his way out of the other cavern mouth. And, when he turned around, I immediately saw why.
Held in both his hands was what looked like a scale model train from the Toy Department at Macy's.
"OH, MY GOD!" the constable shouted: "Sir Anthony; Dr. Thorpe! Look out!"
This was followed by three shots from his Colt .45 "Alaskan Model" Peacemaker, what sounded like the flapping of giant wings, and then an agonizing scream. In that order!
We spun as one. Sir Anthony drawing his Colt Model 1911. While I drew my .38 caliber Colt Police Positive revolver. But, neither of us fired right away. Primarily, because we were just too stunned by the sight before us.
On the ground was the ill-fated constable. A look of indescribable terror on his face. And, his life's blood staining the rocky surface around him.
While standing atop him--with one taloned foot having already disemboweled his upper torso--was our culprit. Eleven feet tall if she was an inch! With the feathered legs of a giant golden eagle below the waist.
And, with the breasts of a beautiful, naked, raven-haired woman above it.
tbc
Giantess World
