Read Online The Avenger 11 - River of Ice by Kenneth Robeson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kenneth Robeson
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at all good. Smitty was puzzled. “Seems to me the rats who went to the trouble of locking us in here could do something more dangerous than just freeze us a little with dry ice.”
“It isn’t a question of freezin’, you brainless mountain of suet,” said Mac. “ ’Tis the fumes. The vapor from meltin’ dry ice can knock you off into eternity as slick as anything you’ve ever inhaled.”
Smitty coughed a little. “This would be scientifically airtight, of course,” he said quite calmly. “And that door couldn’t be broken down by an army.” He picked up the bench. The thing was very heavy, made of wood nearly three inches thick, with massive legs. But the giant whirled it around like a top. Whirled it around and smashed it against one of the glass block walls.
Smashed was right! Nothing could withstand the impact of that tremendous blow. Either wall or bench had to go. And, unfortunately, it was the bench. Smitty was left with two legs of the bench in his hands, looking kind of surprised and sheepish. And the wall wasn’t damaged in the least. Glass in thick blocks is not fragile like it is in thin panes or sheets.
“Ye’ll be gettin’ out that way about the time ye sprout a long white beard,” coughed Mac. The fumes were getting very noticeable indeed, by now.
“Looks like we’re hooked,” said Smitty. He said it resignedly, regretfully, but with little fear in his voice. The Avenger and his aides knew that some day their number would be up. They lived with death, literally, in their constant war against the underworld. And they knew that no man could go on risking death, forever, without sometime catching it in the neck.
Thus, they were half ready for death in any serious trap. And that this was serious was apparent enough. By the simple process of getting themselves locked in a refrigerating room, they were in a worse spot, really, than they had been the night before, with six stories of masonry and mortar falling toward their sedan. In this spot, both men looked toward The Avenger. He was the type of leader to whom men instinctively look when their own minds are baffled.
Benson was staring at one of the glass-block walls, with the glass seeming no paler, no colder than his eyes. At length, he nodded. “Keep your coat lapels over your mouths and nostrils,” he said.
As regular precaution against gas, the aides of The Avenger kept the lapels of their coats saturated with a gas resisting chemical of Benson’s invention. They held their collars tighter to their faces now.
“I’m afraid we’re going to disappoint our captors,” said The Avenger, steel-white fingers dipping into two of the many pockets of his specially made vest. He drew out two pieces of glass and fit them together. The result looked like an atomizer. But it was not an atomizer; it was the world’s smallest blow torch. Into the body of the tiny torch, Benson dropped two grayish pellets. These were the work of MacMurdie, chemist extraordinary. Moistened, they gave off a concentrate of acetylene gas.
Benson wet the pellets, and touched a match to the glass tip of the protruding tube. Tiny, but intensely hot flame lanced out. “Some of that dry ice, Smitty,” said Benson, pale eyes intent on a section of the glass-block wall between this and the next cold-room. He was playing the thin lance of fire over a large section. Smitty came with a cake of the dry ice, protecting his hands from burning by his folded coat.
“Against the heated part of the wall,” said Benson. Smitty pressed the intensely cold cake against the heated glass. There was a thin shriek, and a crack appeared. The thick glass could hardly be broken with a sledge hammer, and the three had no sledge hammer. But it could crack with quick alternates of heat and cold, like an ordinary milk bottle.
Benson was continuing to play the torch over the glass. “Again.” First the torch, and then the ice. The partition began to look like a sheet of rotten,
“It isn’t a question of freezin’, you brainless mountain of suet,” said Mac. “ ’Tis the fumes. The vapor from meltin’ dry ice can knock you off into eternity as slick as anything you’ve ever inhaled.”
Smitty coughed a little. “This would be scientifically airtight, of course,” he said quite calmly. “And that door couldn’t be broken down by an army.” He picked up the bench. The thing was very heavy, made of wood nearly three inches thick, with massive legs. But the giant whirled it around like a top. Whirled it around and smashed it against one of the glass block walls.
Smashed was right! Nothing could withstand the impact of that tremendous blow. Either wall or bench had to go. And, unfortunately, it was the bench. Smitty was left with two legs of the bench in his hands, looking kind of surprised and sheepish. And the wall wasn’t damaged in the least. Glass in thick blocks is not fragile like it is in thin panes or sheets.
“Ye’ll be gettin’ out that way about the time ye sprout a long white beard,” coughed Mac. The fumes were getting very noticeable indeed, by now.
“Looks like we’re hooked,” said Smitty. He said it resignedly, regretfully, but with little fear in his voice. The Avenger and his aides knew that some day their number would be up. They lived with death, literally, in their constant war against the underworld. And they knew that no man could go on risking death, forever, without sometime catching it in the neck.
Thus, they were half ready for death in any serious trap. And that this was serious was apparent enough. By the simple process of getting themselves locked in a refrigerating room, they were in a worse spot, really, than they had been the night before, with six stories of masonry and mortar falling toward their sedan. In this spot, both men looked toward The Avenger. He was the type of leader to whom men instinctively look when their own minds are baffled.
Benson was staring at one of the glass-block walls, with the glass seeming no paler, no colder than his eyes. At length, he nodded. “Keep your coat lapels over your mouths and nostrils,” he said.
As regular precaution against gas, the aides of The Avenger kept the lapels of their coats saturated with a gas resisting chemical of Benson’s invention. They held their collars tighter to their faces now.
“I’m afraid we’re going to disappoint our captors,” said The Avenger, steel-white fingers dipping into two of the many pockets of his specially made vest. He drew out two pieces of glass and fit them together. The result looked like an atomizer. But it was not an atomizer; it was the world’s smallest blow torch. Into the body of the tiny torch, Benson dropped two grayish pellets. These were the work of MacMurdie, chemist extraordinary. Moistened, they gave off a concentrate of acetylene gas.
Benson wet the pellets, and touched a match to the glass tip of the protruding tube. Tiny, but intensely hot flame lanced out. “Some of that dry ice, Smitty,” said Benson, pale eyes intent on a section of the glass-block wall between this and the next cold-room. He was playing the thin lance of fire over a large section. Smitty came with a cake of the dry ice, protecting his hands from burning by his folded coat.
“Against the heated part of the wall,” said Benson. Smitty pressed the intensely cold cake against the heated glass. There was a thin shriek, and a crack appeared. The thick glass could hardly be broken with a sledge hammer, and the three had no sledge hammer. But it could crack with quick alternates of heat and cold, like an ordinary milk bottle.
Benson was continuing to play the torch over the glass. “Again.” First the torch, and then the ice. The partition began to look like a sheet of rotten,
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