Special apparatus for supplying oxygen within the sub, concentrated foods which were composed simply of the necessary chemical elements for nourishment in a form easily assimilated — these and other things were products of Monk's genius.

Renny was doing work which his experience as an engineer eminently fitted him. He was the navigator. At this, Renny had few equals. Moreover, he was making maps. The voyage of the Helldiver would lead through unexplored arctic regions, and Renny's maps would be of great value to future generations.

The archaeologist and geologist, Johnny, possessed a fund of knowledge about the polar ice cap and ocean currents which would be invaluable. There were very few things about this old ball of mud we call the earth which Johnny did not know.

As for Ham, he had taken care of the legal angles, such as securing the necessary permission to put in at Greenland seaports. The Danes run Greenland as a monopoly, and a hatful of permits are necessary before a foreign vessel can touch there.

Ham also furnished everybody aboard the Helldiver an example of what the well-dressed voyager under the polar ice should wear. His oilskins were impeccable. The fact that he always carried an innocent-looking black cane afforded Captain McCluskey's crew some chuckles. They didn't know this was a sword cane. If Ham ever drowned, he would still have that sword cane in one hand.

About noon, Ham searched Doc Savage out. Doc was on deck. It seemed a miracle that each terrific wave did not sweep him overboard. But the seas had no more effect upon Doc than upon a statue of tough bronze metal. There was a strange quality about Doc's bronze skin — it seemed to shed water like the proverbial duck's back, without becoming wet.

Ham was excited.

"Good news!" he yelled. "Radio message from New York, Long Tom just copied it!"

"What is it?" Doc asked.

"Victor Vail left the hospital this morning," Ham replied. "He is no longer blind. He can see as well as anybody!"

THE SMASHING waves soon drove the immaculate Ham into the greasy vitals of the submarine.

"I've inhaled so much oil already, it's oozing out of my hide," he told Monk.

But Monk was making a chemical concoction capable of giving off warmth for several hours at a stretch — something that would be very handy to tuck in a man's shoes and gloves when he took a. stroll on the ice in the vicinity of the north pole. He didn't want to be bothered.

"G'wan off an' chew a bacon rind!" he sneered.

Ham bloated indignantly. Monk had been goading him for several days about pigs and pork, and Ham hadn't been able to devise a single way to get back at Monk. Ham wished mightily he dared take a swing at Monk, but he knew better. A grizzly bear with any sense would think twice before tackling Monk.

Muttering to himself, Ham ambled forward. He heard a sound which might have been an angry bull in a china shop. Ham quickened his pace. It sounded like a fight. He ducked gingerly through a slit of a door in a steel bulkhead.

One of the Helldiver's crew sprawled on the grilled floor of the engine room. The man was an oiler. He was big — fully as big as Monk. He looked tough. Privately, Ham had considered getting this oiler and Monk embroiled in a fight, just for his own amusement.

But the fighting oiler now sprawled on his back. He whimpered. His lips had been smashed into a crimson pulp. One of his eyes was closed.

Over him towered walrus-like Captain McCluskey.

"I kin lick any swab aboard this iron fish!" the captain bellowed. "Rust my anchor, but I'll wring the neck of the next scut I find shirkin' his work. Get up on yer feet, you! An' see that them engines is kept better oiled!"

Captain McCluskey evidently ran his craft like an old-time clipper master.

Ham mentally kissed the oiler good-by as a prospective opponent for Monk. He addressed Captain McCluskey.

"I like your discipline methods," he said flatteringly.

"They'll do, pretty boy." bellowed the walrus.

Ham writhed under the appellation of pretty boy. But he kept the oily smile of admiration on his face.

"I'm afraid you're going to have trouble with one man aboard this vessel," he said in the air of imparting a warning to his hero.

"Who?" roared the giant captain.

"The hairy baboon they call Monk," said Ham blandly.

"I'll watch 'im!" boomed the walrus ominously. "If he bats an eye at me, I'll hit the swab so hard his fur will fall off!"

Ham had a foxy look in his eye as he ambled back to Monk's steel cubicle. He looked in at Monk.

Monk gave him an elaborate, pig-like grunt.

Ham ignored the insult.

"The captain says the next time you bat an eye at him, he's gonna hit you so hard you'll shed all that red fuzz," Ham advised.

"Yeah?" Monk heaved to his feet. "Yeah? Well, I'll just go tell 'im I don't like guys talkin' behind my back like that."

He waddled out. He was so big he barely got through the door of his cubicle.

Ham trailed along. He wouldn't have missed what was going to happen for a thousand dollars.

MONK FOUND walrus-like Captain McCluskey in the officers' quarters. The two giants promptly glowered at each other. Monk's little eyes sparkled with the prospect of a fight. The walrus blew noisily through his mustache, each hair of which was like a crooked black peg.

"Listen, guy!" Monk began in a sugary voice. I don't like — "

The walrus hit Monk. It sounded like a gun going off.

Monk hadn't expected it so soon. He was caught off guard. The blow drove him backward as though he had accidentally stood in front of a twelve-inch coast-defense gun.

His bulk collided with Ham, who was standing behind him. That kept Monk from falling.

But Ham was tumbled end over end. His head cracked a valve wheel. He was promptly knocked senseless.

From Ham's point of view, nothing worse could have happened. He slept through the whole fight. He was cheated of enjoying the fruit of his devilment. it was the biggest disappointment Ham had suffered in years. For days afterward, he was wont to get off in a corner and swear to himself about it.

Monk emitted a series of deep bawling noises. He jumped up and down like an ape. This cleared his head. He rushed the walrus.

The walrus kicked him in the stomach.

Monk folded down to the floor. The walrus leaped high into the air, and came down — and his face collided forcibly with Monk's driving feet.

Captain McCluskey turned over completely in the air. He spat out three teeth. He got up, roaring. Monk knocked him down, loosening two more teeth in the process.

The walrus tried to bite off Monk's left ear with what teeth he had left.

Monk stopped this by grasping great folds of his opponent's ample stomach in monster fists and striving to tear the man open.

They stood toe to toe and traded haymakers. They swapped indiscriminate kicks.

It was a battle of the giants. A fray primeval! A thing of pristine savagery! It would have drawn a million-dollar gate in the prize ring — except that the women's clubs would have stopped it.

And poor Ham, sleeping through it all, would have cut off an arm rather than miss it.

Captain McCluskey lunged unexpectedly. Monk was carried backward. His bullet of a head crashed against a hard steel bulkhead.

Monk fell senseless.

The walrus drew back a foot to kick him.

At this point, Renny dashed forward. He grasped McCluskey's huge arm.

"You whipped him!" Renny rumbled. "No need of crippling him!"

Renny only wanted to keep Monk from serious damage. He was a peacemaker. He got what peacemakers usually get.

The walrus knocked Renny flat on his back.

THE FIGHT now started all over. Renny was nearly as heavy as Monk. He was also a fine boxer. And for years he had been smacking panels out of doors with his fists.

Renny got up from the floor and hung a left jab on McCluskey's nose.

The walrus emitted a sound that was a combination of Vesuvius and Niagara. By a marvelous feat of acrobatics, he managed to jump on Renny's midriff with both feet.

Air came from Renny's mouth so fast it almost blew out his teeth. He collapsed — largely to keep his middle from being jumped on again.

Captain McCluskey rushed in to the kill.

Renny hooked a fist. It hit McCluskey's ear. It smashed the ear fiat as a well-ironed handkerchief.

A strange thing now happened.

McCluskey got to his feet as calmly as though he were arising from the mess table. He ambled toward the slit of a door. He was unsteady on his feet, it was true, and nearly walked a circle. But he seemed to have forgotten there was such a thing as a fight.

McCluskey was extremely punch drunk.

He sobered before he got out of the room, though. Whirling, he emitted a bellow and sprang upon Renny.

Renny roundhoused two good swings. The first folded McCluskey like a barlow knife. The second ruined the walrus's other ear and spun him like a top.

McCluskey staggered backward and fell into a bunk. An instant later, however, he came out of it.

He was a lot of man, that walrus.

The two bartered punches. Renny blocked one with his jaw. For an instant, he was dazed. That instant was his undoing. Another swing landed on top of the first.

Renny dropped, kayoed for one of the few times in his career.

Mountainous Captain McCluskey took two weaving steps for the narrow bulkhead door. Then he sighed loudly, and, turning around twice like a dog finding a place to lay down, slumped prone on the floor.

Afterward, Ham awakened. The combatants had been attended to, and Ham was so disappointed that he crawled out on deck and actually mingled salty tears with the sea.

DOC SAVAGE now inaugurated a campaign of his own. He began to fraternize with the crew in a most diligent manner. It was only another evidence of his immense knowledge that he found something of interest to discuss with each man.

Doc was hunting for the fellow whose teeth clicked.

A strange thing became evident. None of the crew was willing to open up and talk frankly with him. Instead, half a dozen of them sought, none too adroitly, to worm from Doc his reasons for coming along on the under-the-polar-ice expedition.

The big oiler whom Captain McCluskey had chastised for neglecting the engines was most outspoken. His name was, not without reason, "Dynamite" Smith.

"Just where is this boodle yer goin' after, sir?" asked Dynamite Smith.

"What boodle?" queried Doc innocently.

Dynamite Smith shifted uneasily.

"Well, me an' my mates kinda got the idea yer was goin' after somethin' up in the bloody arctic," he said. "Have yer got a map that shows where it is?"

"What put all this into your head?"

"Nothin'," muttered Dynamite Smith. Then, unable to stand the searching gaze of Doc's strangely potent golden eyes, the big oiler turned away.

It was obvious the man knew more than he had divulged. It was also evident that some sinister devilment was breeding among the crew.

Doc didn't like it.

"I'll bet that bird with the clicking teeth is stirring up the crew," Doc decided.

An idea hit him. He went to make sure he still had the treasure map he had taken off the back of blind Victor Vail by X ray.

The map was gone! Somebody had stolen it!

SEVERAL DAYS passed. Nothing happened. The Helldiver now sailed off a barren section of northern Greenland. Great blue icebergs cocked nasty snouts out of the sea all about them. The sub sloughed through mile after mile of thin pan ice.

Occasionally, where the pan ice had joined with fields of growlers, or small bergs, to make a solid barrier, they submerged and passed under.

The submarine was behaving beautifully. Long Tom's wonderful apparatus kept them out of danger, with the double safeguard of Monk's special chemicals, should something go amiss.

Monk, Renny, and the walruslike Captain McCluskey had resumed relations. Indeed, they got along handsomely. They had a hearty respect for each other's fighting qualities.

Doc hadn't found the man with the clicking teeth. He was mystified He couldn't imagine who had his treasure map, but he did not worry greatly about it His retentive brain held all details of the chart. He could sit down and reproduce it perfectly from memory.

The only discovery of note he had made was that Dynamite Smith, the big oiler, used narcotics almost steadily. Doc consulted Captain McCluskey about this.

"Sure, I knowed the swab was a dope head," the walrus assured him. "Rust my anchor, but it don't seem to hurt him. He's been usin' the stuff for years. Let'm alone, matey. The stuff just keeps 'im harmless."

Doc was not so sure about that. But there was nothing to be gained by starting trouble.

Long Tom radioed their position daily to Victor Vail. The violinist showed a great interest in their progress, as well as the exact course they intended to follow.

Sometimes Doc wondered about Victor Vail's avid desire to know their whereabouts to the fraction of a mile.

They were in a zone of continuous daylight now. The sun shone the full clock around. It was never night.

"Confound such a region!" Ham complained. He had just found out that for the last three days, Monk had awakened him at midnight, and made him believe it was noon the next day. Consequently, Ham had been losing a lot of sleep, and couldn't understand what was making him feel so groggy.

A strange, sinister tension was growing aboard the Helldiver.

The crew congregated in groups, whispering. They dispersed, or fell to speaking loudly of commonplaces when Captain McCluskey, Doc, or any of his five men came near.

"Rust my anchor, but I smells trouble!" Captain McCluskey confided to Doc.

Day after day, the submarine bored into the polar regions. Twice it traveled under the ice more than a score of hours. It made many shorter jaunts under the pack.

On one occasion, they would surely have been trapped under a vast field of ice more than thirty feet deep, had it not been for Monk's chemicals. Released from compartments in the skin of the underseas boat, the stuff let the craft reach the surface through a great self-made blow hole.

It was now but a matter of dozens of miles to the spot where the treasure map indicated the long-lost liner Oceanic lay.

Doc noted a perceptible increase in the sinister tension.

"We're in for a jam," he told his five men seriously. "The crew of this sub, part of them at least, know what we're after. And one of these surely must have my map."

Monk grinned with all his homely face, and popped his knuckles.

"Well, we ain't seen no signs of Keelhaul de Rosa or Ben O'Gard," he chuckled. 'That's one consolation."

"It's my opinion that Ben O'Gard's man with the clicking teeth is behind this trouble brewing with the crew," Doc replied.

"Confound it." declared Ham. "The clicking of the teeth should make the man easy to find!"

"That's what 1 thought," Doc said wryly. "But, bless me, brothers, I do believe that fellow's teeth have stopped clicking. I've gone around, straining my ears day after day, and not a click have I heard."

"Maybe it was really a dream Long Tom had about the man with the noisy teeth bending over him that night?" Johnny suggested.

"I didn't dream the black wig!" Long Tom retorted.

There was nothing to be said to that. The conclave broke up. At a scant five miles an hour, the Helldiver nosed for the dab of unmapped land where the liner Oceanic supposedly lay.

This was virtually an unexplored region where they now cruised. Possibly a polar aviator had flown over it, but even that was highly unlikely.

Doc retired, confident another twenty-four hours would bring action of some sort.

It did.

Johnny's frantic plunge into Doc's quarters awakened the big bronze man. Johnny's breath was a procession of gulps. His spectacles with the magnifying lens on the left side, were askew his nose.

"Renny! Monk!" he shouted. "They are both gone! They vanished during their watch on deck!"