 Tarzan of the Eight. Brought to you from out the pages of Edgar Rice Burl's Immortal Book. Tarzan feels his whole giving way. The sucking, slithering sand has drawn Tracy down too deeply for the Eight-Man to pull him out. For two hours Tarzan has fought with death. Now every nerve, every muscle, every fiber of his strong body aches and pulses with the unnatural strain. He tries to free his hands. Tracy, feeling the movement, struggles in frenzy, grips more tightly. His nails dig into the Eight-Man's wrists. His raised eyes stare unseemly before him. Again Tarzan tries to free himself from his deathly grip. Again Tracy clutches at his salvation. Tarzan's arms. With a mighty effort Tarzan braces himself. His tortured lungs feel the relief of his screams. The shock hits Tracy like a blow. His fingers relax. Clutch again, open and close convulsively. Claw-like. They grasp empty air. Tarzan has freed himself. Gasping, he throws himself on the sand. His breath comes painfully. The blood throbs in his temples. Tarzan pulls himself painfully to his knees. Tracy is almost up to his armpits on the sand. Every futile movement draws him deeper, pulls him more securely in the treacherous sand. With blown black mouth and bloodshot eyes, riding like a maniac, Tracy clutches at Tarzan as the Eight-Man staggers to his feet. Tarzan hears the answering call from the tall trees. The eights have heard. Every movement is tortured to Tarzan. Every joint is strained and wrenched. He glances at Tracy. He decides to be sure that his knife is there and starts for the nearest castle tree. His fingers are almost numb with pain as he pulls himself up from branch to branch. Up, up, up he goes. Sits a slider branch and hacks the tough joints of a creeping vine. The knife that is so easily killed hotter finds the fibers of the vine a different matter. Tarzan splashes, pierces. The fibers pop. The Eight-Man gages the distance to the ground, drops like a sounding lead from limb to limb, throws himself clear and grasps the broken vine. Side to side, swinging like a pendulum, breaking his fall with beaten elbows. He tears the sturdy tendrils from that clarin tree. Close to the ground, hanging to the vine like grim death, he shoots through the leaves. At last he reaches the ground. Tarzan points to the vines, then to the quicksands. The smaller eights bound forward. The older take their time. Tarzan leads them to the quicksands. Quickly he passes one end of the vine under Tracy's armpit, throws himself on the ground, reaches out, pulls the vine around Tracy's chest. Tracy's touching fingers try to grasp Tarzan, but the eight-man twists to one side. Tarzan points to the free end of the vine. The vine pulls fantastically. The eights follow two. Tracy yells in agony as the vine bites into his chest. The eights, canning among themselves, pay no attention to them, join in Tarzan's new game. The vine stretches and creeps. That wound is out of the fiber. It's clear. A horrible cutting down on the quicksands. Tracy struggles. His feet move. He runs it forward. He creeps the sand with his fist. The eights reel back. Tracy dances momentarily in midair, pulls on the sand, clear the clap. Meanwhile, aboard the steamer, snikes, hearing the hammering in the hole is on to find John. And Clayton works desperately to loosen the last remaining bolt. How long, Clayton? I can't hold on. Just a few seconds, Daddy. Just a few seconds. That's right. Now, I'll give you ten seconds, John. One more blow of the hammer and the water goes to the boilers. We've been to the boiler room and set the valves to the hole. That's right, Ben. It's too late. The water's over the pipe now. One blow from the hammer and we all go together. Come on, Clayton. John seems to be slow on the take-off. He opens the door, the water rushes. When the door opens, hang on till the first rush of water is over. Get a gun. First thing, stick it in your ribs. All right. Well, John... Don't move. Professor Porter has an automatic breast in the small of your back. Now, Miss Porter, are you all right? Yes, I think I am. Yes, I'm all right. I am a man of peace, but at the present moment, I feel almost tempted to press this trigger for you. You can't do that. Why? Why kill a man in cold blood? Oh, by Joe. I say, what a crust. Here you jolly well try to drown us. I think I promised to kill you. Now, if one of you makes a move, John, die. John, I'll let you live on one condition. Anything. Anything. If the professor here will quit shaking that gun in my back. Not for a while, John. Not for some little time yet. Miss Porter, take night's gun. You won't mind. We'll use snipes. All right, all right. Give us a gun, you fool. Do you want to see me killed? I ain't sure, but what that ain't a bad idea. Come on, come on. We're wasting time. John, where's Mr. Philander? He's below in his cabin. Is he all right? He's all right. Just... Get him up here. Yes, sir. And John? Yes, sir. Get the boat ready. That, that's it, mate. Fill the boat for them. I'll turn them free. You do as you're told, John, or the professor's finger will itch and... Anything you say, Mr. Clayton, anything. Miss Porter, will you go below? Get all your things that you can carry and stow them in the boat. Now, John, I want water, provisions, clothes, a good compass, rope, matches, firearms, and ammunition. Yes, sir. And John? Yes, sir. Rockets. And be sure they're a good one. White, red, green. Yes, sir. And John? Yes, sir. Not only pistol, but four rifle. Now, John, order your rats. So, all right, then, mate. Do as the gentlemen thought it. Thank goodness. Thank goodness. Well, she needs to land us. What have you been doing? Doing. Doing? I haven't been doing anything. I've been done too. These things... Yes, yes, yes, I know. We haven't been able to think of a good name for them either. Don't you even blunt or I'll shoot. They locked me in the cabin. Accused me of hiding some map or something. Threatened me with some very refined methods of torture. No, no, I think this is all... Why, hello, Mr. Philander. Why, hello, Jane. You brought our hunting clothes, eh? That's the thing. And all the fair shoes. We might be able to make some dresses and kills out of grass, but I like shoes. I'll relieve you of the gunpowder. If you go below and get some ravers... I did forget them. I went to your cabin, Cecil, and brought your kids. Oh, good girl. Now, I think that's what's going on here. That's right, Killy. Why, you are no famous... Now, you listen to me, Professor Archimedes. I think you've seen the boat, Mr. Clayton. Fine. Now, Yont, I'll hold this gun on you till Miss Porter, the Professor, and Mr. Philander are in the boat. Then the Professor will keep you covered till I get aboard. How's that? But, sir... It doesn't suit you, eh? Well, we'll row away a few hundred feet and then you can get out. But, sir, that... that ain't right, sir. What's the matter? Can't you swim? No, sir, no, sir. I'm the shark, sir. Well, that's too bad. Now, swing out the boat. Can you get in? Yes, yes, sir. And you, Killy? After you, Professor. In you get. And stop arguing. Oh, very, Mr. Clayton. Right. Lower away. Your neck. In I say. I'll go. I'll go. Looming. Don't shoot. Don't shoot. Don't go. Don't go. Light it up. Oh, my God! Hey, what's that? You dropped on you.