By LEE TARBELL There was a mysterious golden statue that always pointed one way—and it led to sudden death in the valley where flying disks landed. Like a lodestone drawn to a magnet, the tiny golden statue leaped from his hand and darted toward its huge counterpart. They say cross-eyed men are bad luck. He stood there, in my doorway, eyeing me up and down with those in-focused black eyes. His face was hideous even if the eyes had been normal. He was slashed with a wide cicatrice of livid scar t