 Farzan of the Apes, brought to you from out the pages of Edgar Rice Burroughs' immortal book. John! John! You can't leave us here! It's murder! No! And why not? Why, it's monstrous! It ain't outrageous! You're trying to tell me that the young lady spoke the truth, when she said that she threw the bottle overboard. It is the truth! I swear it! And if that's the truth, why are all of us such a freak, Lord? By the time Jake gets back with the plan, well, there won't be any way he comes back. If ever I get out of here, John, I'll kill you. Get out! Back to that! This door is barred on this side. In 30 minutes. Oh, maybe a minute or two more. The water will be up to the staff, please. Get out! Oh, this is terrible! The water is up to the pipeline! No, no, you're wasting time and breath on these villains, Clayton. Come on, come on. Get out of the water and climb out of this locker. It's all right. This water is pouring in here. It won't take any half hour to drown us. No, no, Jane. You climb out of this higher pipe. See, I'll help you. And you, Professor, you'd better get on top of the gear. Yes, yes. What are you going to do, Clayton? I just can't say too. I must do something. But there's nothing to be done, old man. I'm not going to sit here and drown. I won't. I'll think of something. Oh, my dear chap, what can we do? It's all up with a... Could break the door open. They shoot us like dogs are old. Oh, look out, look out. I nearly lost my balance. Bye, Joe. I say, quickly, Jane, that pipe above you. Is it warm, hot? Oh, yes, burning. Then the steam in it. Not only there are tools in the locker. Well, what are you... I'm no engineer. I've heard that if you turn cold water into a hot boiler, the boiler blows up. Well, I don't understand. See here. The water will go down the pipe into the engine room. But by the time the water is that high, we'll be drowned. Oh, no. You climb out of this ridge here. That's right. Hang on to that and see any plans or whatever it is. And look here, if it's a choice between being blown up and being drowned, I just as soon be drowned. Yes, but don't forget, Professor, if we get blown up, so do Yoncle and his crew. I can't find much consolation in that. Not consolation, Professor, but threats. Make enough noise here and Yoncle will come to see what's up. If he refuses to let us out, calls are up left, in other words. He'll blow the ship up. Oh, you'll have to hurry. I can't hold on much longer. The water is hot. Can't get into that locker now, please. Can't I, though? Watch. Let's see if I got the right wrench. Just one more minute, please. Either we win or... I'll help you, Clayton. I can hang on to that pipe. You come. You couldn't keep your head high enough. It'll be over our heads in a minute. Ready? Hold the wrench while I hit it. Yes, Daddy. There are three of them out. Both, I mean. Sam stops in his race through the treetops. Tracy draws a deep breath. Since the moment Tarzan had thrown him across his shoulders, the journey has been one long nightmare. Every moment he's expected to be his last, any second to find himself hurtling through space, down, down to the ground, a hundred feet below. Tarzan lures Tracy from his shoulders, holds him until the captain's feet find a resting place. But Tracy needs no warning to hang on. Stretching himself, Tarzan grins, opens his mouth, and robs an expressive hand across his stomach. Tracy laughs. Yes, old man, I am hungry. And language or no language, that's one sign I understand. Tarzan nods. He grips Tracy about the waist with the speed of a falling stone, like some burnished bronze missile he drops from limb to limb. The speed almost sickens Tracy. He closes his eyes only to open them again when he feels Tarzan shaking him, finds himself on solid ground. With a word and a sign which Tracy takes to mean, stay here, Tarzan speeds into the undergrowth. He searches with keen eyes the moss cover drowned. His nostrils quiver, a sigh of satisfaction escapes him. The fine hairs on the nape of his neck stand up. He has seen the spool of water, the bore. Tarzan crutches, moves forward stealthily, his sun-browns body melting into the jungle growth. His feet fall on the tangled twigs and leaves with never a sound. There's a crackling of bush ahead. He brushes aside a giant furnace, looks into the clearing. There is his meal. Porter, the bore. And Porter has seen the egg-bam. For the snarls, the beast roars his head. It's piggy-sized glint-evilly. The curl-foaming lips draw back viciously from the pointed tusks. His cloven hooves paw the ground. The top tight titans as he senses for the charge. Tarzan grips his knife. His muscles quiver stand out like knotted cords against the gleaming skin waiting for Porter to make the first move. For the charges, the gleaming fangs sharper by far than seabores mist the egg-bam's leg by a fraction of an inch. Like a flash, Tarzan drops on Porter's back. The root stops, leaps forward. Tarzan hangs on. The bore wheezes from one side to the other, digs its hooks into the moss, flashes its tail. Then a vicious wing of its head tusks fared. One of them grazes Tarzan's leg. But it's the move that Tarzan's been waiting for. His arm raises and falls. He punches his knife into the root's neck. A scream of pain. One of them raises on its punches, throws himself on his back, rolls over. Upwards, down sideways, Tarzan's knife flashes again and again. The gleaming steel sinks into the root's neck, but Porter is not easily killed. Threshing, squirming, twisting, he throws Tarzan from his back. Like a flash, he turns on his tormentor. The maddened brood is on top of the egg-man. Tarzan thrusts both arms upwards, trying to keep those deadly cuts from his throat. He raises his knees, trains his back, pushes upwards. The pains in his forehead are almost bursting. A superhuman effort as he forces Porter's head back. Slowly, a fraction of an inch, a little more, more yet, Porter strangles, gathes, closes his eyes, trains his head. Tarzan draws his leg on back, brings it forward with a blow like a sledgehammer. Buries the knife in the root's throat. And throws the carcass aside. Tarzan jumps to his feet, places his foot on Porter's neck, and from his powerful throat comes the victorious cry of the great egg. He goes for miles around his quiet. Even new monsters are measly at Tarzan's call. Suddenly, Tarzan hears a call that Jungle has never heard before. Tarzan stops. The sound comes from the face he bluffs, leaping like a pantry bound across the clearing. Seedless of noise, he sweeps aside, flanks and vines at Barney's path, and twists into the open. The crying is weaker. Gritty, searching for water, has wandered away from the spot where Tarzan left him. He's trapped in a quick time. His arms, fresh like quails, his fingers clenching and untinged, grasping, striking, clawing, clawing, reaching for nothing in an agony of despair. Tarzan goes to do him to be filled in his frenzy. He plays no attention. The sound is up to his middle. He feels it sucking, clawing, drawing him down, and down, and down. Tarzan reaches the edge of the sand but pulls himself on the ground. That he is arms to Tracey. He pulls, press themselves into the sand. Tracey casts, switching for the eight man's hand. Their hands touch. Tarzan eases himself forward. The soft, wealthy sand gives under his chest. He braces himself. His seniors crack under the pulling, bearing strain. His blood whittles through his feet. He pulls harder and harder. Tracey gets detailed passes by the treacherous man. He goes panicky. Why? He twists. He struggles harder. Deeper, deeper under the flagmire. Tarzan's breath comes in gas. Lungs are at the bursting point. He catches thieves with a strain. Tracey struggles going closer, closer, deeper, deeper, further into the bottomless sand.