Read Online Doc Savage: Glare of the Gorgon (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 19) by Kenneth Robeson, Lester Dent, Will Murray - Free Book Online
Tags: action and adventure
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precautions had saved his life.
As far as it was possible to do so, the sub-basement garage Doc maintained beneath his skyscraper headquarters was a secret. But it was a discoverable secret.
His comings and goings were disguised in part by his fleet of vehicles, none of which were flashy. But in order to operate freely in congested Manhattan, many of these machines sported special number plates, such as the vehicle he now drove whose tag read: DOC-1.
To those in the know, these designations marked the automobiles as belonging to a person of distinction. Nor was it possible to completely conceal the garage since the bronze man was forced to drive up the ramp through special doors, over the sidewalk and onto the street.
The entrance door to the skyscraper basement was unmarked, and resembled the type of loading dock many larger skyscrapers boast, through which supplies are delivered. The main loading dock, in fact, stood around the corner.
The fact that the garage door was not well known did not make it a complete secret, however.
As Monk wheeled the roadster around the corner preparatory to climbing onto the sidewalk, Doc Savage’s alert eyes scanned the surroundings.
It was now late afternoon, and throngs had begun to empty out of the buildings, making their way to the subways, trolleys and busses to wend their way homeward for the evening.
As Monk twisted the wheel and prepared to mount the sidewalk, Doc rapped out, “Monk, stop.”
There was no great volume in the bronze man’s voice, but it possessed an imperative quality that caused the homely chemist’s broad foot to tramp down on the floor brake.
“What is it?” demanded Monk.
Doc Savage did not reply. He stepped out onto the running board, scrutinizing the entrance door. From their seats, Monk and Ham did the same.
On the sidewalk near the door stood an ash can, a thing of galvanized sheet steel of the type used to haul cold ashes from coal furnaces.
Normally such a container would not be found on the sidewalk at this spot. For the towering skyscraper was heated by steam piped in by the city through great system mains. No furnaces supplied it.
Doc studied the container briefly, and suddenly swung back, throwing himself behind the wheel with such violent force that Monk Mayfair’s powerful bulk was slammed into the passenger seat. He grunted explosively.
The windows were open, and Doc’s finger snapped out to tap a dash button. Miraculously, all open windows rolled shut. They were electrically operated.
Monk and Ham came to the same conclusion. “Bomb?” they chorused.
If Doc Savage meant to reply, it never came.
For the windshield of the roadster erupted in a flash of livid green. Of the three passengers, only Doc Savage reacted in time to preserve his eyesight.
Closing his eyelids, he threw up a great cabled arm before his face, and so the stabbing brilliance did not impact his optic nerves.
Not as quick, Monk and Ham got the worst of it. Their fingers flew to their faces, and they began exclaiming.
“I can’t see a dang thing!” howled Monk.
“I cannot see at all,” groaned Ham.
Nor could Doc Savage immediately. For once the green glare had ceased to paint his face, and he felt it safe to open his eyes, the bronze giant beheld only roiling smoke.
This smoke looked like something coming out of the bowels of Hades. It was black, gray, brown in turns, as if some enemy had thrown every combustible substance known to man into one hot furnace.
The roadster had been built in a factory, then rebuilt under the bronze man’s direction. It was bulletproof, gas tight, capable of withstanding the detonation of hand grenades and even larger explosives.
A tank shell could certainly have done it damage, but under ordinary circumstances, the armored automobile would have turned most violent assaults.
Doc Savage sat calmly behind the wheel, waiting for the smoke to dissipate, his flake-gold eyes peering about with a trace of concern in their
As far as it was possible to do so, the sub-basement garage Doc maintained beneath his skyscraper headquarters was a secret. But it was a discoverable secret.
His comings and goings were disguised in part by his fleet of vehicles, none of which were flashy. But in order to operate freely in congested Manhattan, many of these machines sported special number plates, such as the vehicle he now drove whose tag read: DOC-1.
To those in the know, these designations marked the automobiles as belonging to a person of distinction. Nor was it possible to completely conceal the garage since the bronze man was forced to drive up the ramp through special doors, over the sidewalk and onto the street.
The entrance door to the skyscraper basement was unmarked, and resembled the type of loading dock many larger skyscrapers boast, through which supplies are delivered. The main loading dock, in fact, stood around the corner.
The fact that the garage door was not well known did not make it a complete secret, however.
As Monk wheeled the roadster around the corner preparatory to climbing onto the sidewalk, Doc Savage’s alert eyes scanned the surroundings.
It was now late afternoon, and throngs had begun to empty out of the buildings, making their way to the subways, trolleys and busses to wend their way homeward for the evening.
As Monk twisted the wheel and prepared to mount the sidewalk, Doc rapped out, “Monk, stop.”
There was no great volume in the bronze man’s voice, but it possessed an imperative quality that caused the homely chemist’s broad foot to tramp down on the floor brake.
“What is it?” demanded Monk.
Doc Savage did not reply. He stepped out onto the running board, scrutinizing the entrance door. From their seats, Monk and Ham did the same.
On the sidewalk near the door stood an ash can, a thing of galvanized sheet steel of the type used to haul cold ashes from coal furnaces.
Normally such a container would not be found on the sidewalk at this spot. For the towering skyscraper was heated by steam piped in by the city through great system mains. No furnaces supplied it.
Doc studied the container briefly, and suddenly swung back, throwing himself behind the wheel with such violent force that Monk Mayfair’s powerful bulk was slammed into the passenger seat. He grunted explosively.
The windows were open, and Doc’s finger snapped out to tap a dash button. Miraculously, all open windows rolled shut. They were electrically operated.
Monk and Ham came to the same conclusion. “Bomb?” they chorused.
If Doc Savage meant to reply, it never came.
For the windshield of the roadster erupted in a flash of livid green. Of the three passengers, only Doc Savage reacted in time to preserve his eyesight.
Closing his eyelids, he threw up a great cabled arm before his face, and so the stabbing brilliance did not impact his optic nerves.
Not as quick, Monk and Ham got the worst of it. Their fingers flew to their faces, and they began exclaiming.
“I can’t see a dang thing!” howled Monk.
“I cannot see at all,” groaned Ham.
Nor could Doc Savage immediately. For once the green glare had ceased to paint his face, and he felt it safe to open his eyes, the bronze giant beheld only roiling smoke.
This smoke looked like something coming out of the bowels of Hades. It was black, gray, brown in turns, as if some enemy had thrown every combustible substance known to man into one hot furnace.
The roadster had been built in a factory, then rebuilt under the bronze man’s direction. It was bulletproof, gas tight, capable of withstanding the detonation of hand grenades and even larger explosives.
A tank shell could certainly have done it damage, but under ordinary circumstances, the armored automobile would have turned most violent assaults.
Doc Savage sat calmly behind the wheel, waiting for the smoke to dissipate, his flake-gold eyes peering about with a trace of concern in their
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