might escape as Benson had. But The Avenger didn’t consider thousand-to-one chances on the safety of his aides if he could help it.
He glided down again, watching with eyes like the eyes of a hawk. Now, forewarned, he could get a glimpse of the bags from closer up, outlining them by the stars they eclipsed. There were six of them, three high, three low, spread far apart, making it almost impossible to land on the Portland field from the west. Perhaps more than six—
The Avenger reached for a bracket above the control board. There was a gun there looking at a casual glance much like a standard army rifle. A closer examination would have disclosed a lot of difference, however.
The gun had a smooth bore; was unrifled. It loaded both at muzzle and breech. Into the breech went a powder cartridge without a charge. Into the muzzle went a thing that looked like an apple on a long stick. The stick just fitted the barrel of the gun. The “apple” was an explosive case containing colored powders that gave off skyrocket flares when they were released.
The thing was like a miniature trench mortar, designed for night signaling. But it could do excellent work right now. Work that had nothing to do with sending signals.
Benson swept back along the top line of gas bags. The gun thudded with its extra-heavy recoil against his shoulder. There was a bonfire in the sky, and then there were five balloons.
Six flashing trips back and forth. Six shots. Six aerial fires. And down below, somewhere in the night, was a heap of tangled cable, a trap that had been destroyed before it could destroy.
When Benson landed, wondering field attendants surrounded his plane, puzzled and alarmed by the fires in the sky.
“Captive balloons with cable,” Dick explained briefly. “Stolen from the army warehouse, no doubt. They were a menace, so I shot them down. Phone the warehouse; have the loss checked and government operatives set to tracing the thieves.”
In the sky could be seen the lights of Mac’s plane as it passed serenely through a space that would have caught it in a deadly web if The Avenger hadn’t intervened.
“When that plane lands,” Benson commanded quietly, “direct the pilot to the administration building. I’ll be in the manager’s office. There will be three more planes landing in the next half-hour, with the lettering ‘Justice, Inc.,’ on their fuselages. Send the occupants to the manager’s office, too.”
He went off, a gray steel bar of a man, leaving the attendants gaping.
The plane Benson had pointed to came in. A man with the map of Scotland on his homely, freckled face stepped out and was told where to go.
In a short time Benson’s five aides were in the manager’s office with him. The manager himself, alternately thrilled and alarmed at the presence of a man like Benson, was outside at his stenographer’s desk. Benson called him. He ordered a car.
“What’s the next stop, Muster Benson, how we’re together?” asked MacMurdie.
“The Portland radio station.”
Their eyes asked more questions.
“Needles,” Dick said. His pale eyes narrowed as he recalled the seemingly senseless mumble of Janet Weems at the hospital. “Needles with roots. I can’t imagine as yet what the roots might be. But I think we may find out at the radio tower.”
CHAPTER VIII
Leaning Tower
The Portland radio station was like most in the country. There were the glass-walled broadcasting chambers and the larger rooms where the audience could watch through sound-proofed windows and hear through an amplifier.
It was two o’clock in the morning when Justice, Inc., got there, but the place was fairly full.
It was the vogue at the moment to conclude night parties with a visit to the station and an earful of dance music.
Smitty and Mac were a little behind the others as they entered the building housing the station.
“Needles with rrroots,” burred Mac. When he was deeply puzzled or moved, he had a tendency to roll his
He glided down again, watching with eyes like the eyes of a hawk. Now, forewarned, he could get a glimpse of the bags from closer up, outlining them by the stars they eclipsed. There were six of them, three high, three low, spread far apart, making it almost impossible to land on the Portland field from the west. Perhaps more than six—
The Avenger reached for a bracket above the control board. There was a gun there looking at a casual glance much like a standard army rifle. A closer examination would have disclosed a lot of difference, however.
The gun had a smooth bore; was unrifled. It loaded both at muzzle and breech. Into the breech went a powder cartridge without a charge. Into the muzzle went a thing that looked like an apple on a long stick. The stick just fitted the barrel of the gun. The “apple” was an explosive case containing colored powders that gave off skyrocket flares when they were released.
The thing was like a miniature trench mortar, designed for night signaling. But it could do excellent work right now. Work that had nothing to do with sending signals.
Benson swept back along the top line of gas bags. The gun thudded with its extra-heavy recoil against his shoulder. There was a bonfire in the sky, and then there were five balloons.
Six flashing trips back and forth. Six shots. Six aerial fires. And down below, somewhere in the night, was a heap of tangled cable, a trap that had been destroyed before it could destroy.
When Benson landed, wondering field attendants surrounded his plane, puzzled and alarmed by the fires in the sky.
“Captive balloons with cable,” Dick explained briefly. “Stolen from the army warehouse, no doubt. They were a menace, so I shot them down. Phone the warehouse; have the loss checked and government operatives set to tracing the thieves.”
In the sky could be seen the lights of Mac’s plane as it passed serenely through a space that would have caught it in a deadly web if The Avenger hadn’t intervened.
“When that plane lands,” Benson commanded quietly, “direct the pilot to the administration building. I’ll be in the manager’s office. There will be three more planes landing in the next half-hour, with the lettering ‘Justice, Inc.,’ on their fuselages. Send the occupants to the manager’s office, too.”
He went off, a gray steel bar of a man, leaving the attendants gaping.
The plane Benson had pointed to came in. A man with the map of Scotland on his homely, freckled face stepped out and was told where to go.
In a short time Benson’s five aides were in the manager’s office with him. The manager himself, alternately thrilled and alarmed at the presence of a man like Benson, was outside at his stenographer’s desk. Benson called him. He ordered a car.
“What’s the next stop, Muster Benson, how we’re together?” asked MacMurdie.
“The Portland radio station.”
Their eyes asked more questions.
“Needles,” Dick said. His pale eyes narrowed as he recalled the seemingly senseless mumble of Janet Weems at the hospital. “Needles with roots. I can’t imagine as yet what the roots might be. But I think we may find out at the radio tower.”
CHAPTER VIII
Leaning Tower
The Portland radio station was like most in the country. There were the glass-walled broadcasting chambers and the larger rooms where the audience could watch through sound-proofed windows and hear through an amplifier.
It was two o’clock in the morning when Justice, Inc., got there, but the place was fairly full.
It was the vogue at the moment to conclude night parties with a visit to the station and an earful of dance music.
Smitty and Mac were a little behind the others as they entered the building housing the station.
“Needles with rrroots,” burred Mac. When he was deeply puzzled or moved, he had a tendency to roll his
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