Doc Savage: The Miracle Menace by Kenneth Robeson, Lester Dent, Will Murray Page A

it—where—?
    “It’s Christopher Columbus!”
    The whisper rushing into Gull’s ear lifted him almost off the ground, brought him around. He found himself looking into the staring eyes of the old giant with the hairy ears, sampling his powerful breath. The old fellow must have climbed out of the compressor room window—the window had been open, but Gull hadn’t expected the old soak to awaken—and circled around, keeping out of sight.
    “Columbus!” The old man pointed at the trance-like figure in the van. “Great Columbus!”
    Gull looked into the truck again, then put his hand on his head, half expecting to find his ivory hair on end. The man in the van familiar? Of course! He had seen his picture a thousand times! It was in all the history books—at least a picture of Christopher Columbus was in the books—and this man looked exactly like that picture!
    When Gull turned to where the old man with the hirsute ears had been standing, the old fellow was gone.

Chapter VIII
    MIDNIGHT MIRACLE
    ONCE MORE, DOC SAVAGE’S melodious trilling came forth. It had a hollow quality this time, as if its individual notes were devoid of certainty. They wandered about the air, as if seeking a melody to embody, yet ebbed away before they could become organized.
    “This is nuts!” Monk howled. He began stamping around in frustrated circles. “This can’t be!”
    “Jove!” breathed Ham, twisting his elegant cane in his manicured hands. He unjointed it as if wishing to use its sharp point on something or someone. But no appropriate object of wrath presented itself.
    Renny, Johnny and Long Tom just stared as if not believing their eyes.
    It was weird, uncanny to behold. Even in the moonlight, the Victorian roof stood out distinctly. It was sheathed in what appeared to be slate, so the conical structure looked as substantial as anthracite coal.
    They trained their flashlights upon it, and the beams quested about, seeking answers.
    Presently, a lone bat whirred into view and circled the tower several times, finally alighting. It could be seen that it wriggled into a chink high up.
    Ham sniffed, “Bally thing is actually a belfry.”
    Doc Savage had his pocket telescope out and was studying the tower roof.
    “It appears so,” he decided after a time.
    “Could it be a shell, strung between trees by guy wires?” ventured Renny, who had been appraising the situation with an engineer’s trained eye.
    “Or a tricky balloon, filled with helium,” suggested Long Tom.
    “It is not responding to the wind,” said Doc. “If it were not anchored to something solid, it would betray its instability. And no bat would dare nest in an unstable shell.”
    “Let’s turn back and get to the bottom of this!” proclaimed Ham.
    Doc Savage hesitated.
    “Every time we have approached, the dwelling seemed to vanish,” he advised. “That is the report from our operative as well.”
    “Only to reappear after we depart,” agreed Long Tom, tugging at one sail-like ear.
    Doc Savage seemed to make a sudden decision. “You men take up positions where you can observe the house clearly.”
    “What are you gonna do, Doc?” asked Monk.
    But the bronze man did not reply. He had vanished into the woods, seeming to melt into the clotted darkness beyond their flash rays.
    Moments later, they heard the throaty whirring of the dirigible’s twin motors and they realized that Doc Savage had reclaimed his tiny airship.
    Not long after, he floated past their heads at a height safely over the spiky tree line, but not very high above that.
    The dirigible slid along a-pace, then Doc cut the motors. They fell quiet. A spectral silence fell over the forest. Somewhere an owl hooted, as if questioning the sudden stillness.
    When the airship reached the black tower, Doc dropped the grappling hook. He snagged the tower on his first pass, arresting the airship over the dwelling—if there was an actual dwelling. They could only discern the slate roof.
    A moment