Then we get another jolt. They bring us our chow and say it is angleworm and hellgrammite porridge as that is what the Subterro denizens live on mostly. There is a salad made out of what looks like skunk cabbage leaves. We found out later that Hitler’s brain trust had made an artificial sun for the Subterrors and they had been given greens for the first time and increased in size over a hundred per cent.
“We have got to escape,” I says to my pals.
“That is easy,” Zahooli sniffs. “First we have to break through the walls here, get to the Mole which can’t never move again, and then fight off maybe six million creeps. We would git reduced to cinders by ray Betsys the minute we hit the street.”
I sigh deeply and reach into my knapsack. I find some lamb stew and tapioca pudding capsules and split them with Zahooli and Wurpz. Then I come up with a little box and glance at the label. It says, URGOXA’S INSECT POWDER—Contains Radiatol.
I get up nonchalantly and call the guard to the barred window. Beetlehead sticks his face in close and asks what I want. I empty some of the powder into the palm of my hand and then blow it into his face. The Subterro sentry’s eyes cross. His face turns as pale as milk and he collapses like a camp stool.
“Eureka!” I yelp. “We are in business, pals.”
I hide the box of bug powder when I hear two other creeps come running. They start yakking in Universa and in bug language both. Agrodyte Hitler appears and looks in at us.
“What happened, Great One?” I ask very politely.
“We will perform an autopsy,” Hitler’s grandson says, and turns to another beetlehead. “Open the door,” he says. “I am showing my guests something before we exterminate them. Too bad about Voklogoo. Most likely a coronary entomothrombosis. Achtung! Raus mitt!”
“It means get the lead out in old Germanic literature,” I says to Wurpz and Zahooli.
“It is curtains,” D’Ambrosia gulps. “In about five minutes we will be residue.”
The Neofeuhrer is like all egomaniacs before him. He wants to brag. We get into a Subterro Jetjeep and drive about twenty miles through the underground countryside to the entrance to a cave guarded by some extra tall Subterrors. Hitler the Third leads us into the spelunker’s nightmare and we finally come to a big metal door about eighty feet long and twenty feet high.
Agrodyte pushes a button and the steel door lifts. Then we walk up a flight of steps to the top of a dam and take a gander at a fleet of submarines that makes Earthian pig-boats look like they belonged in antique shops.
“We will take you for a ride in one,” the dictator of Subterro says. “After that I will turn you over to the executioner.”
“We need lawyers,” Wurpz says.
We cross a thin gangplank and enter the sub. The lights in it are indirect and are purplish green. Hitler Number Three shows us the telepathic machine, the radar, and the viso-screen that pictures everything going on upstairs on Earth, and on Mars, Jupiter and all other planets. There are four other beetleheads on the sub and they carry disintegrators.
“These Subterro U-boats,” our genial host brags, “can go as fast in reverse as full speed ahead, as the situation warrants. They are alive with guided missiles no larger than this flashlight I have here, but one would blow up your Metropolita and leave hardly an ash.”
He looks at me, and then goes on: “We will proceed to the lock that will raise us to the underground river and cruise along its course for a few hundred miles. It is the treat I should accord such distinguished visitors from the outside of Earth, nein?”
The skipper of the Subterro sub pulls a switch and there is a noise like three contented cats purring. The metal fish slides along the surface of the underground lake and comes to a hole in a big rock ledge.
We see all this through a monitor which registers the scenery outside the sub within a radius of three miles. The sub slides into the side of the rock, and then is lifted up to the underground river that winds and winds upward like a corkscrew to the outlet under Brazil. Every once in a while a blast of air that smells like a dentist’s office goes through the sub from bow to stern and I ask why.
“There is such terrific potency to the power we use from our puranium,” Hitler Number Three says, “that we purify the air every few seconds with formula XYB and Three-fifth. The basis of the gas is galena.”
I nudge Wurpz and Zahooli as the Neofeuhrer goes over to converse with his crew. “It is our big chance,” I whisper. “You watch how they run this tub for the next few minutes. Then when I cough three times you be ready. I do not know how much powder it will take to knock off the big bug as he is half human. Once I blow this insect powder at the same time as the purifying blast is to take place, you two be ready to jump Agrodyte. I noticed that a small purple light flashes on over the monitor just before that stuff turns loose. It is a warning so the beetleheads can take deep breaths.”
“Sep,” D’Ambrosia Zahooli says. “I take back all the insults of the past five hours. Shake.”
“I am doin’ that already,” I says. “We have to work fast while we are in the underground river.”
We wait. The Neofeuhrer comes walking back to where we are sitting. The purple light flashes on, and I count to three. Just as the blast of air loaded with XYB plus cuts loose I throw all the bug powder left in the box into the current. Hitler Number Three breathes in a big gob of it and buckles a little at the knees.
“Grab him!” I screech. “Don’t let him yank that disintegrator loose. Hit him with anything you see, pals!”
I see the other beetleheads collapse like they had been hit with bulldozers and I know now that insecticide is more dangerous in Subterro than all the radioactivity harnessed up on six planets.
Agrodyte Hitler, however, has some moxey left in him as he has two of his hands around Wurpz’s throat, the third around Zahooli’s leg and is reaching for a ray Betsy with his fourth. He grabs the disintegrator just as I belt him over his ugly noggin with a wrench about two feet long and which was certainly not made of aluminum or balsa wood.
“Himmel!” the Neofeuhrer gulps. “Ach du lebensraum!” He has to be hit once more which is enough and we tie him up with rope that looks like it was made out of plutonium filaments.
“Well,” I says. “We have a sub from Subterro. Wurpz, you just sit there at the controls and make sure that needle on the big dial don’t move as I am sure this creep has it on robot so that this tub will automatically follow the course of the river.”
“We are sure takin’ a powder,” D’Ambrosia yelps. “Look at the monitor!”
We see fish gaping at us from the screen that even Earth citizens with delirium tremens never saw, and I look quite anxiously at the instrument panel.
“A thousand miles per and we are climbin’,” I says. “I am glad this Hitler used old Germanic on his subs, and that I majored in it once. I—er—I am gettin’ arthritis all at once! The bends! Uh—er—look, peel them suits off the other creeps and fast, Zahooli, as I bet they can be inflated and made into compression chambers. They have got connections that plug into something.”
We pull on the suits which were too big for the beetleheads and for a good reason. More bends than there are in the Ohio River are with us before we plug into the right socket. The suits bulge out until our feet almost leave the floor. I grin through my helmet at Wurpz.
The sub keeps purring and purring. The altimeter registers four thousand feet. It is a caution, an altimeter in a sub. Two hours later we shoot out through a hole deep under the coast of Brazil and I know we are in the ocean as the monitor shows some old wrecked ships about three miles from us. We disconnect the Subterro anti-bends kimonos and peel them off. Agrodyte Hitler is moving two of his arms when we climb toward the surface.
“Hah, we will