men behind the machine gunner fired at the gray, shifting shadow that was The Avenger. Both hit!
But Benson stayed upright. The Avenger had devised a plastic, tougher than most steel, pliant as yarn, which he called celluglass. From this marvelous stuff, he had fashioned bulletproof garments for himself and his aides. The celluglass stopped the automatics’ slugs now.
The machine gun swung toward him again. Benson’s left hand flashed forward. Ike left the hand like a pebble from a catapult. The machine gunner screamed and tried to drop the gun and could not because his left hand was pinned to the hardwood stock like a butterfly pinned to a cork with a needle.
He flopped around, trying to get his hand loose, and screaming as each wrench at the knife produced more and more unbearable agonies. But no one paid attention to him. Mike’s silenced little muzzle had spat out a tiny leaden pea. And one of the two with automatics went down. But he wasn’t dead. The Avenger himself never took life. He deftly creased the gunman with Mike, slamming a small slug so that it glanced from the top of his skull, producing unconsciousness instead of death.
But the other man didn’t know that. He saw one pal trying to jerk his impaled hand from a machine gun, and the other lying on the floor, apparently dead. And this in a spot where the three of them were going to kill the one—the fellow with the dead-pan face and blazing, colorless eyes. The guy had on a bulletproof vest or something. The third man yelled hoarsely and sent three shots at the head with the virile white hair on it. But a head is a poor target, particularly when it is moving as rapidly as Benson was shifting his.
Mike spat a second time, and this third man went down. Then Mike served as a club, while Benson tapped the wildly screaming machine gunner where it would do the most good. The Avenger went to the telephone on the desk nearby, staring dispassionately with icy, pale eyes at three still forms as he did so. He reported to the police that they could pick up three burglars at this address and hung up.
He walked from the building to see Smitty sitting in one of their cars at the curb with a look of horror on his moon face. “Chief!” the giant gasped. “I came to get you. But just as I pulled up here, after missing you at the other two places, I began to get a message. It was from Nellie, chief! She’s in an awful mess.”
Benson listened to Smitty’s tiny radio. From it was coming, not a voice, but fluttering kind of tappings. Morse code.
“Nellie calling. S. O. S. Held in place with beam ceiling; thing with horns over me. Don’t know where. Come fast—”
The fluttering of her fingers at her waist had not been entirely fruitless. She had been tapping like that for minutes. Praying that it could be heard in time; that the man with the infallible brain would be able to figure out where she was and come to her.
CHAPTER XII
Mysterious Cauldron
Had Benson been piloting the plane in which Mac and Josh sped to British Columbia, it would have followed the map line of Smitty’s direction-finder with rulerlike precision. But Mac was piloting it. Mac was an excellent pilot; but he hadn’t the genius of The Avenger. Hence, he came out at the Pacific coast nearly a hundred miles north of the line. He spotted it quickly enough, with the sun’s rise. And he found that the mileage wasn’t wasted after all.
Two glaciers, Benson had said, within a hundred and ten miles of the line. They were almost at the most northern of the two; so Mac swung still farther north, and they located it. The glacier, from twelve thousand feet, was like a wide ribbon of white in the dark earth. But it wasn’t that smooth when they zoomed down. It was a tumbled mass, with great hillocks and slashing cracks. It poked its foot into the sea itself; and even as the two winged down, a huge section splashed off into the sea.
“Very interestin’,” said Mac indifferently. “But I
But Benson stayed upright. The Avenger had devised a plastic, tougher than most steel, pliant as yarn, which he called celluglass. From this marvelous stuff, he had fashioned bulletproof garments for himself and his aides. The celluglass stopped the automatics’ slugs now.
The machine gun swung toward him again. Benson’s left hand flashed forward. Ike left the hand like a pebble from a catapult. The machine gunner screamed and tried to drop the gun and could not because his left hand was pinned to the hardwood stock like a butterfly pinned to a cork with a needle.
He flopped around, trying to get his hand loose, and screaming as each wrench at the knife produced more and more unbearable agonies. But no one paid attention to him. Mike’s silenced little muzzle had spat out a tiny leaden pea. And one of the two with automatics went down. But he wasn’t dead. The Avenger himself never took life. He deftly creased the gunman with Mike, slamming a small slug so that it glanced from the top of his skull, producing unconsciousness instead of death.
But the other man didn’t know that. He saw one pal trying to jerk his impaled hand from a machine gun, and the other lying on the floor, apparently dead. And this in a spot where the three of them were going to kill the one—the fellow with the dead-pan face and blazing, colorless eyes. The guy had on a bulletproof vest or something. The third man yelled hoarsely and sent three shots at the head with the virile white hair on it. But a head is a poor target, particularly when it is moving as rapidly as Benson was shifting his.
Mike spat a second time, and this third man went down. Then Mike served as a club, while Benson tapped the wildly screaming machine gunner where it would do the most good. The Avenger went to the telephone on the desk nearby, staring dispassionately with icy, pale eyes at three still forms as he did so. He reported to the police that they could pick up three burglars at this address and hung up.
He walked from the building to see Smitty sitting in one of their cars at the curb with a look of horror on his moon face. “Chief!” the giant gasped. “I came to get you. But just as I pulled up here, after missing you at the other two places, I began to get a message. It was from Nellie, chief! She’s in an awful mess.”
Benson listened to Smitty’s tiny radio. From it was coming, not a voice, but fluttering kind of tappings. Morse code.
“Nellie calling. S. O. S. Held in place with beam ceiling; thing with horns over me. Don’t know where. Come fast—”
The fluttering of her fingers at her waist had not been entirely fruitless. She had been tapping like that for minutes. Praying that it could be heard in time; that the man with the infallible brain would be able to figure out where she was and come to her.
CHAPTER XII
Mysterious Cauldron
Had Benson been piloting the plane in which Mac and Josh sped to British Columbia, it would have followed the map line of Smitty’s direction-finder with rulerlike precision. But Mac was piloting it. Mac was an excellent pilot; but he hadn’t the genius of The Avenger. Hence, he came out at the Pacific coast nearly a hundred miles north of the line. He spotted it quickly enough, with the sun’s rise. And he found that the mileage wasn’t wasted after all.
Two glaciers, Benson had said, within a hundred and ten miles of the line. They were almost at the most northern of the two; so Mac swung still farther north, and they located it. The glacier, from twelve thousand feet, was like a wide ribbon of white in the dark earth. But it wasn’t that smooth when they zoomed down. It was a tumbled mass, with great hillocks and slashing cracks. It poked its foot into the sea itself; and even as the two winged down, a huge section splashed off into the sea.
“Very interestin’,” said Mac indifferently. “But I
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