r’s. “I can’t see what needles with roots have to do with a broadcastin’ station.”
Smitty had been increasingly thoughtful since leaving the airport.
“A radio tower looks a little like a needle,” the giant said slowly. “A great big needle sticking up into the sky—”
“Sure,” said Mac sardonically, “with a root on it!”
“Well, there’s a ground cable, isn’t there?” snapped Smitty.
“Is there?” said Mac, who left all things electrical to the huge fellow with the china-blue eyes.
“A ground cable,” worried Smitty. “And a radio tower, like a great big needle—”
Something huge and breathless, some blinding flash of intuition as to what this was all about, was almost edging into the door of his brain. But he couldn’t quite get it.
They all went into the audience chamber of the broadcasting station and sat down. Through the heavy glass between them and Studio B they could see an announcer at a microphone.
The man was standing there with a script in his hand, and with the little preliminary smile on his lips affected by those who try hard to project their personality over the ether waves.
“Good morning, folks,” the announcer said. “It is now exactly two o’clock, and you are about to hear some of your favorite music as arranged by Jimmy Truetone and played by Jimmy’s orchestra. We’ll hope this broadcast will not be interrupted as was the one at midnight.”
The man’s lips retained the shape of their smile, but for a moment lost its spirit. However, his voice continued to be smooth and carefree, with an implicit chuckle in it.
“Everything’s normal, now, after the little power tie-up. You know, folks, that was a funny thing. It looks as if it is to become the studio mystery—a mystery that our radio experts are unable to explain. Anyway, they haven’t explained it yet. All the power tubes blew at once, and the program went dead. And that’s then only comment on the matter. I could tell as much about it myself, and your announcer is no radio expert, folks.”
He glanced at the control man, who good-naturedly shook his fist, grinned, and went on.
“There’s a story around here that somebody saw a crazy gorilla or something go up the radio tower. Maybe it was the monkey that blew the works. If so, folks, there will be no more monkey business. Take it, Jimmy.”
The music of the Truetone orchestra faded in, and a girl stepped with a bright smile to the mike to go into a torch number with the repetition of the chorus.
Smitty nudged Benson suddenly and pointed furtively. Sitting ahead of them, and as yet seemingly unaware of their presence in the back row, was a man alone. It was the man who had run into the power plant at Marville, Ohio, with the tale of seeing Nevlo blasted into a mad, crippled thing.
“Pretty long hop from Marville to Portland,” Smitty whispered. “And you wouldn’t think a power-plant roustabout had the dough to go traveling around like that.”
Benson nodded, eyes like chips of stainless steel in his dead face.
“Watch him, Smitty. When he leaves here, trail him and see where he goes. Report to me on your belt radio.”
He was gone, then. And his disappearance was almost as swift and simple as the sentence. He was there, instructing Smitty, and then he wasn’t there, and his exit was pointed by the soft closing of the door. The Avenger could move as silently as a ghost, and as swiftly as flickering moonlight.
Benson went to the radio tower.
It soared above him into the starry, but black, sky, a skeleton of an obelisk two hundred feet tall. But The Avenger did not look up for a moment. He looked down.
The tower had four spraddling legs, and at the foot of the leg pointing roughly northwest, about in line with the magnet’s north pole, he found it. Something vaguely reminiscent of the yarn told by the man at Marville about Nevlo.
The man had said something about a blue hole in the ground, there, at the spot from which Nevlo
Smitty had been increasingly thoughtful since leaving the airport.
“A radio tower looks a little like a needle,” the giant said slowly. “A great big needle sticking up into the sky—”
“Sure,” said Mac sardonically, “with a root on it!”
“Well, there’s a ground cable, isn’t there?” snapped Smitty.
“Is there?” said Mac, who left all things electrical to the huge fellow with the china-blue eyes.
“A ground cable,” worried Smitty. “And a radio tower, like a great big needle—”
Something huge and breathless, some blinding flash of intuition as to what this was all about, was almost edging into the door of his brain. But he couldn’t quite get it.
They all went into the audience chamber of the broadcasting station and sat down. Through the heavy glass between them and Studio B they could see an announcer at a microphone.
The man was standing there with a script in his hand, and with the little preliminary smile on his lips affected by those who try hard to project their personality over the ether waves.
“Good morning, folks,” the announcer said. “It is now exactly two o’clock, and you are about to hear some of your favorite music as arranged by Jimmy Truetone and played by Jimmy’s orchestra. We’ll hope this broadcast will not be interrupted as was the one at midnight.”
The man’s lips retained the shape of their smile, but for a moment lost its spirit. However, his voice continued to be smooth and carefree, with an implicit chuckle in it.
“Everything’s normal, now, after the little power tie-up. You know, folks, that was a funny thing. It looks as if it is to become the studio mystery—a mystery that our radio experts are unable to explain. Anyway, they haven’t explained it yet. All the power tubes blew at once, and the program went dead. And that’s then only comment on the matter. I could tell as much about it myself, and your announcer is no radio expert, folks.”
He glanced at the control man, who good-naturedly shook his fist, grinned, and went on.
“There’s a story around here that somebody saw a crazy gorilla or something go up the radio tower. Maybe it was the monkey that blew the works. If so, folks, there will be no more monkey business. Take it, Jimmy.”
The music of the Truetone orchestra faded in, and a girl stepped with a bright smile to the mike to go into a torch number with the repetition of the chorus.
Smitty nudged Benson suddenly and pointed furtively. Sitting ahead of them, and as yet seemingly unaware of their presence in the back row, was a man alone. It was the man who had run into the power plant at Marville, Ohio, with the tale of seeing Nevlo blasted into a mad, crippled thing.
“Pretty long hop from Marville to Portland,” Smitty whispered. “And you wouldn’t think a power-plant roustabout had the dough to go traveling around like that.”
Benson nodded, eyes like chips of stainless steel in his dead face.
“Watch him, Smitty. When he leaves here, trail him and see where he goes. Report to me on your belt radio.”
He was gone, then. And his disappearance was almost as swift and simple as the sentence. He was there, instructing Smitty, and then he wasn’t there, and his exit was pointed by the soft closing of the door. The Avenger could move as silently as a ghost, and as swiftly as flickering moonlight.
Benson went to the radio tower.
It soared above him into the starry, but black, sky, a skeleton of an obelisk two hundred feet tall. But The Avenger did not look up for a moment. He looked down.
The tower had four spraddling legs, and at the foot of the leg pointing roughly northwest, about in line with the magnet’s north pole, he found it. Something vaguely reminiscent of the yarn told by the man at Marville about Nevlo.
The man had said something about a blue hole in the ground, there, at the spot from which Nevlo
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