Doc Savage - The Monsters Part 8

He swung the gyro in the direction of the strange walled enclosure with its grille of copper cables. From this, great quant.i.ties of smoke still poured.

Renny circled the fire for a time. Then he returned, and hovered "is craft in the air over Doc's head.

The big-fisted engineer had an e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n which he used at every opportunity. He employed it now.

"Holy cow!" he boomed. "That's the dangedest-lookin' place!"

Then he climbed his plane, and followed Hill Road into the distance.

Griswold Rock had been an interested observer. He now addressed Doc.

"I believe the tales I've heard of you were to the effect that you have five a.s.sociates. Was that fellow with the enormous hands one of them?"

Doc nodded. "He's one of the greatest of engineers, when he chooses to work at it."

From the loud-speaker in Doc's roadster came the words which he had been awaiting.

"Here's the van, Doc," said a shrill voice.

GRISWOLD ROCK started violent!y. Evidently the ramifications of Doc's communication system were beyond his comprehension.

"Who was that?" he gulped.

Instead of replying, Doc started the roadster engine. The giant bronze man had a habit, somewhat disconcerting to those who did not know him well, of seeming not to hear questions which he did not wish to answer.

Had he chosen, he could have taken time to explain that the voice belonged to Major Thomas J.

Roberts, an electrical wizard whose contributions to that science were among the greatest ever made.

The public knew little of "Long Tom" Roberts' work, for the reason that his discoveries were largely beyond the understanding of the average layman. Within fifty or sixty years, textbooks would no doubt state that Major Thomas J. Roberts had done important pioneering and discovery work along many lines.

"Where is the van, Long Tom?" Doc asked.

"It's going north on Hudson Turnpike."

"We'll see if we can overhaul it," Doc said grimly.

Griswold Rock grimaced and became quite pale. "Can't you -- can't you let me out somewhere?"

Doc and the others eyed Griswold Rock curiously. Most men, when frightened, put up a front of exaggerated bravado to hide their fears. Not so this fat man. He was terrified, and not backward abouta.s.serting the fact.

"I'm an awful coward!" he wailed. "I'm especially scared of these devils."

"Do you want them punished?" Monk demanded.

"Of course I do! But I don't care about going after them myself."

Ham eyed his sword cane thoughtfully. Apparently he was wondering how a man with such a marked lack of physical courage had managed to become manager and major owner of a railroad. Big business men, with whom Ham had come in contact, had always been go-getters with plenty of courage.

"You go with us," Doc told Griswold Rock. "We'll keep you out of danger."

Often in the past, Monk and Ham had seen the remarkable voice of the bronze man work miracles.

Never had it secured a more profound effect than now. Griswold Rock seemed to draw courage from the powerful tones.

"I feel as safe with you as anywhere," he said, and got into the roadster.

THE CAR hurtled forward in a fas.h.i.+on which caused Griswold Rock to utter a terrified choking sound and grasp the door. However, as he observed the expertness with which Doc guided the machine, his trepidation subsided. Within a mile, he was resting easily on the cus.h.i.+ons, although seventies were dancing on the speedometer.

"Still got the man in sight?" Doc asked into the radio mike.

"I'm cruising above it," came Long Tom's radioed reply.

"Sure it's the right machine?"

"Positive. The fluoroscopic gla.s.ses show the presence of the chemical mixture you always use, Doc."

Griswold Rock wrinkled his plump brow at these words. "You put something on that van to identify it?"

"Shot bullets laden with a chemical concoction at it," Doc replied. "They splashed the chemicals on the sides and roof of the van."

The fat man waved his pursy hands. "For the life of me, I cannot comprehend how that could help you."

"To the naked eye the chemical mixture presents nothing extraordinary. In fact, it's hardly noticeable. But the stuff has the property of fluorescing, or glowing, when exposed to ultra-violet light. Ordinary vaseline, for instance, has a similar property. This stuff glows with a different color -- a hue peculiar to itself."

"But you speak of fluoroscopic eyegla.s.ses."

"The glowing marks are very small. Since it is now daylight, special eyepieces are needed to make the glow visible."

There came an interruption, a sound like metal knocking rapidly on wood. It emanated from the radio loud-speaker.

"Doc!" Long Tom's voice rapped excitedly from the instrument. "They've got a machine gun -- "

The rapping grew louder, drowning out the electrical wizard's tones. Then, with an ominous abruptness,the racket ceased completely.

"That clatter sounded like a machine gun!" Griswold Rock wailed.

Doc Savage said nothing. He put weight on the gas accelerator. Larger and larger speedometer figures crawled past the dial marker.

For a time, Griswold Rock failed to note the new pace at which they were traveling. Then, chancing to look at the speedometer, he turned very white.

Chapter 12. THE TUNNEL.

LONG TOM Roberts had studied the red van intently through binoculars, before dropping down close to it. He had searched particularly for possible loopholes, but had seen none.

Too late, he learned they had been covered by clever covers caps disguised as the heads of rivets that held the van body together.

A procession of lead slugs, gnas.h.i.+ng angrily at his left wing, was his first warning of disaster. The leaden stream made a quick march for the c.o.c.kpit.

It was the hammer of these slugs which Doc Savage had heard over the radio.

Long Tom was not flying a gyro, but another of Doc Savage's s.h.i.+ps -- a rather nondescript-looking biplane. Doc used this type of craft when not wis.h.i.+ng to attract attention by being seen in his distinctively-designed speed s.h.i.+p, or the gyro.

The crate heaved over on a wing tip as Long Tom trod the rudder and cornered the stick. It got away from the hungry lead.

He jerked a lever in the c.o.c.kpit. On the cowl, hatches rolled back; a disappearing machine gun jumped into view. This was synchronized to fire through the prop.

Out of the van top, more bullets climbed. Every third or fourth slug seemed to be a tracer. The metallic threads waved like a deadly, windblown gray procession of raindrops.

Long Tom's gun fired from Bowden controls on the stick. He ringed the van in his sight; his hand clamped the Bowden trip. The gun on the cowl shook its iron back, and smoked.

Like cobweb spun by an invisible spider, Long Tom's tracers ran down through the late afternoon sunlight to the van. Against the steel van body, however, they only made splotches of chemical fire, or spattered into shapeless blobs.

Long Tom felt his s.h.i.+p jar under him. The stick waggled in his hand as bullets lashed at the control services. He jockeyed the stick madly to evade the fire.

His plane had never been intended for combat It handled sluggishly. A procession of slugs beat against the engine. Their sound was like rapid hammer blows.

The engine stopped.

Long Tom booted the s.h.i.+p into a flat glide, then looked overside. What he saw made him grind his teeth.

The only field suitable for a landing was one near the road. To plant the plane anywhere else would mean an almost certain crackup, for all around were trees, rocks and abrupt hills. Long Tom slowed the plane by fish-tailing. He three-pointed perfectly on the clearing. While the s.h.i.+p was still rolling, he dived out and ran for the nearest bush.

He had hardly taken a dozen leaps when a machine gun stuttered behind him. He saw hazy tracer lines near his head. Dust gushed on a hillside in front of him. A dozen feet to the left he saw a shallow ditch.

Long Tom dived into it.

The machine gun stilled its noisy chatter.

"Take the guy alive if you can!" shouted a man.

Take him alive they did. The ditch was not deep enough to permit Long Tom to crawl away. It chanced that he was at the moment unarmed.

Four men ran Up. They were unsavory fellows, men who had followed the path of crime so long that it was reflected in their voices and actions.

"Lamp the guy!" snorted one of the quartet. "He looks like a case for the hospital!"

This statement about Long Tom was caused by the electrical wizard's unhealthy appearance. Long Tom was slender and only fairly set up. He was very pale, as if no sunlight had reached him for a long time.

His appearance, however, was deceptive. Few men were healthier than he.

The four men pointed machine guns at Long Tom. These weapons were an airplane type, firing full-sized cartridges. Recoil was taken care of by an elaborate bracing device, which each man wore harnessed about his middle.

Long Tom arose from the ditch. He was searched.

"Who are you?" asked one of the gang.

The electrical wizard ignored the query. A man lunged forward and gave him a painful kick.

"Maybe that'll give you a voice!" the fellow growled.

The last word was still rattling his vocal cords when Long Tom's fist collided with the point of his jaw.

The blow had the sound of a loud handclap. The man's eyes rolled, showing the whites. He sagged to hands and knees and began shaking his head fish.

"I ought to snuff your wick!" one of the other men snarled, and jutted his rapid-firer at Long Tom.

"Keep your s.h.i.+rt on!" growled a red-necked thug. "We'll drag him along. The boss may want to juice him for information. The punk had some reason for taggin' us with the sky lizzie."

"I'm in favor of giving him a lead pasting, Hack," grumbled the blood-thirsty one.

"Dummy up!" said Hack. "The big shot may not want him rubbed."

They placed stout handcuffs on Long Tom's wrists and his ankles. Then hurried him over to the big red van.

A man stood beside the machine, dancing about in his impatience. He was tall and waspish, and had freckles and dark hair and a mustache.

Doc's story, coming to Long Tom over the radio, had included a description of this man. The fellow wasthe murderer of Carl MacBride, the electrical wizard realized.

"Why didn't you smear him?" he yelled, indicating Long Tom.

"We thought the big greezer might want to put the screws on him, Caldwell," said the florid-necked Hack.

Caldwell -- he had evidently not troubled to give Carl MacBride a fake name on the plane -- considered this.

"No good! Too risky. Croak 'im!"

The men lifted submachine guns. For an instant Long Tom stared death in the face.

"Wait!" Caldwell rapped. "We'll plant 'im in the truck. That's better."

The van cab was commodious. It accommodated Long Tom and the four men who had seized him.

Caldwell clambered into the rear.

The engine started; the van swung into motion. It traveled swiftly, taking tremendous runs at the hills.

THE ELECTRICAL wizard listened. The monster, whatever it was, which had broken through the floor of Griswold Rock's house, must be in the rear of the van. He hoped to ascertain, from some sound, what the thing might be.

He heard nothing in the nature of a clew.

Hunched down in the seat, Long Tom surveyed the heavens. Twice, he saw planes. They were too distant for him to tell whether they were Doc's s.h.i.+ps.