Spider (16 page)

"I could not destroy him sooner," it said in a booming voice. "There was no time for a battle and I had to take him unawares. I am sorry for the driver's death!"

Kirkpatrick pushed to his feet, flung wide the door of the car and stepped courageously to the pavement. His fist was wrapped about the grenade, clenched to throw. Nita gasped, and flung herself forward to seize that wrist!

"Don't throw!" she cried. "Don't you recognize that voice? It's . . . it's the
Spider
!"

Kirkpatrick's wrist stiffened in her grasp, and the two stood staring up into the blankly unfeeling face of the steel monster. The yelp of sirens was thin in the air behind them and Nita's head whipped that way. Two Fifth Avenue buses were roaring toward them, while motorcycle police cleared a path with their sirens. A machine gun stammered from its motorcycle mount, but the bullets screamed overhead.

"Back in the car, Commissioner!" a voice trumpeted from the police. "Give us a clear target!"

The robot did not glance toward the attack. Incongruous in a great steel fist, Nita saw a slim platinum cigarette lighter which she recognized with a throb. Even as she gasped, the robot bent and pressed the base of that lighter to the break in the pavement of the viaduct, and when he had straightened, the gleaming red seal of the
Spider
shone there! But the robot was talking. . . . "The 'lesson' which the Iron Man intends to inflict tonight," the
Spider's
amplified voice boomed, "will be inflicted on the subway at Forty-second and Fifth Avenue. I will do what I can to prevent it, Kirkpatrick. Have your men armed with flame bombs, but if you value the salvation of your city, do not let them throw at me until after the battle! I will mark myself!"

As he spoke, the steel hand lifted again and, on the forehead of the helmet, he imprinted the seal of the
Spider
!

"Hurry, Kirkpatrick," he said once more. "I do not know how much time is left to us!"

With the words, the robot turned away toward the railing of the viaduct. There was a shout, and a roar of motors behind and the Fifth Avenue buses, police at their wheels, charged toward the retreating form of steel. Nita cried out, and flung herself at Kirkpatrick.

"Stop them!" she cried. "Don't you realize he is your only hope!"

Kirkpatrick wrenched himself free, sprang toward the car, but Nita flung herself straight forward—into the path of the onrushing buses! It was only when she heard Kirkpatrick's voice boom out over the loudspeaker of his car that she realized he had taken the more effective way to stop that charge.

"Stop!" he bellowed above the roar of the charging motors. "Stop those buses! Kirkpatrick's orders!"

Nevertheless, Nita stood firm, straight and slender in the path of those juggernauts. Through long seconds, it did not seem possible that they could stop in time, but finally they grumbled to a halt within feet of where she stood. Angry police poured from them. Men sprang from the motorcycles and charged toward her, shouting, but Nita looked toward the railing of the viaduct.

There was a great gaping tear in the steel balustrade, but of the robot, there was no sign at all. One of the men darted to the verge, and began blasting bullets down into the darkness.

"It's climbing down the pillar!" he shouted. "Circle around! We can still catch it on the streets below!"

Inside the steel shell he had captured in the burning wreckage of the ferry house, Wentworth made no effort to avoid the bullets rained upon him from above. Their hammering was like a trip-hammer in the curved top of the helmet, but all his attention was concentrated on the stupendous task of managing the robot in a climb down the steel pillar of the viaduct. He was crouched in the body of the monster, on an upholstered saddle to which he was strapped like an airplane pilot. His feet rode in stirrups which controlled the movements of the legs, and there were two hand grips before him by which he could direct the arms. Other specialized movements were controlled by a series of push-buttons set like a miniature typewriter keyboard before him.

Below and around him, there was the whirr of machinery which he had not stopped to examine and the oily stench of it was strong in his nostrils. The noise was terrific, deafening. And he needed the crash helmet which he had stripped from the man slain inside the ferry house. The lurching of the robot was impossible to control, and his head banged again and again on the steel sides of the monster.

His plans were carefully made. He would find a truck here in the heavy traffic that filed toward the ferry and, in it, would make his dash to Fifth and Forty-second.

How many robots would be sent to destroy the subway he could not guess. He only knew that, by means of the small radio receiver within the robot, he had received orders with another of the monsters to destroy Kirkpatrick and, afterward, to go to the appointed place of the subway attack. If there were many others there, and this double duty seemed to indicate that the whole force was involved— it was a question how much he could accomplish against them, even in this powerful robot!

Wentworth heard the thin wailing of sirens as he reached the earth beneath the viaduct and looked slowly about him through the great blank eyes of the robot. Men were running from him in screaming terror, abandoning their automobiles in panic. He saw a driver leap from an oil truck and, in the sheer blindness of his terror, dart almost straight toward him!

As gently as possible, Wentworth picked up the man, and spoke to him through the microphone which dangled before his lips. "I won't hurt you," he said, and tried to make his voice soft. "I need transportation. We are going back to your truck. I will sit astride it, and you will drive me to Fifth Avenue and Forty-second Street. Understand?"

He was holding the man high before the blank eyes of the robot, and he could see the writhing terror of the man's face, but the driver managed some sort of affirmative. Wentworth had never ceased to advance, and now he eased the man into the cab of his truck, swung astride of it.

Wentworth's gaze ranged ahead down Fifth Avenue, seeking some trace of the steel monsters he must destroy. His earphones were silent save for the ceaseless rasping of police orders. Twice, he heard Kirkpatrick's clear voice and heard the command to manufacture flame bombs!

Abruptly, he snapped to attention. Far down the length of Fifth Avenue, he caught the glint of street lights on steel. At first it was no more than that, and then his straining eyes made out the regular ranks of the robots, marching up Fifth Avenue. There were only six of them now, behind the taller figure of the Iron Man, but they were enough!

"Faster!" he shouted at the driver. "Faster, man!"

The bellow of his voice beat back into his ears, and he saw windows shiver and crash inward at the concussion of the sound! And then, dead ahead of him, two trucks swung out of a side street! For an instant, they clashed together and then they straightened out, completely closing Fifth Avenue. Wentworth surged forward as the power brakes of the oil truck took hold. Then, with a titanic collision, the three trucks slammed together and Wentworth felt himself falling!

Twice, he had seen robots fall from slighter distance than this and each time the men inside them had been knocked out! Even as the thought flashed across his mind, he saw oil gush from the torn side of the truck, saw flame flick upward. The robot, carrying Wentworth with it, plunged toward a lake of flaming oil!

Chapter Nine
Battle Of The Giants

FALLING TOWARD THAT LAKE OF BURNING OIL, Wentworth did the only thing he could. He braced himself rigidly against the strap that bound him and thrust the arms and legs of the robot rigidly forward. If he plunged into the flames, he was done for. There was small chance that he would be able to extract himself from the suit before the terrific heat overpowered him, even if the police would allow him opportunity.

An eternity passed while he plunged toward the street, but the weight of the outthrust arms and legs decided the issue. They pointed downward and it was in that position, he fell to the street. The flames splashed toward him, coated his limbs almost to the joints. For an instant longer, Wentworth held motionless until sure that the robot was balanced, and then he straightened and plunged toward the sidewalk!

He held the hands of the monster straight out to the sides, and the flames flapped back from them, away from his body. On the legs, the polished surface of the steel shed the oil downward. So the
Spider,
flaming, hurled himself toward the scene of battle.

Wentworth turned the robot's head and peered at the traffic, spotted a bus from which the passengers fled in terror, and suddenly he saw how he could attack the robots! Wentworth lunged toward the bus, pointing a gun finger at the driver.

"Drive down Fifth!" he shouted, "or you die!"

Left-handed, Wentworth reached out to one of the light standards that rose on each side of the avenue. A single wrenching heave, and the iron post snapped off in his hand. The next instant, he had thrown himself prone atop the bus. He dangled a hand to point into the cab, and the truck lurched forward beneath him. Grimly, then, Wentworth straightened atop the bus, while it roared down the avenue.

He could see the robots more clearly now. They were passing Forty-first Street. It would be a close thing whether the robots or Wentworth reached Forty-Second Street first.

"Faster!" Wentworth shouted. "Faster! Pass the robots on the left! And do not be afraid.
I am the Spider!
"

His voice boomed hollowly down the street, and it seemed to him that after that the bus was driven more positively, more steadily.

At the last moment, two of the robots understood and tried to dodge aside, but Wentworth was ready! The iron post whirled like a polo mallet and crashed against the helmet of the foremost giant. There was a hollow clang, and the shock of the impact ran along the iron club . . . and the helmet was driven in as if it were no more than papier-mache! A shout of triumph burst from Wentworth's lips again, and he swung the war club a second time before the bus rushed past in that fierce charge.

"Turn!" Wentworth shouted. "Turn the bus and charge again!"

He twisted about to peer backward. Three of the robots were down after his headlong charge, but it was apparent one of them had only been overturned. Already, with stiff movements, it was climbing to its feet again. Wentworth was almost unseated as the bus whipped around a corner and headed for Madison Avenue. He set the robot legs more tightly about the truck body and braced himself for the next curve.

When the bus rounded back into Fifth Avenue, Wentworth saw that a line of blue clad police was advancing cautiously toward the robots. Guns were blasting futilely in their fists, and Wentworth could not determine whether they also carried flame bombs. It was a vain gesture they were trying if they carried any lesser arms, but Wentworth thrilled to the courage of the men advancing in the face of certain death. He saw the Iron Man wade toward them, deliberately crush one of the helpless police underfoot! A scooping hand picked

up another and dangled him, screaming in mid-air!

"Faster!" Wentworth shouted. "Straight for that big one!"

The engine of the bus strained mightily—and then Wentworth saw what defense the robots would use against him! Two of them had caught up the steel giants he had slain, and held them poised above their heads! Too late, Wentworth recognized the peril and tried to shout a warning to the driver. He whirled the massive club about his head and let it fly straight at the nearest of the enemy! It struck solidly, and he saw the armor plate of the robot buckle inward at the moment it launched its awful missile! That robot, hurtling through the air, did not fly true. It struck in the path of the bus and Wentworth gripped hard with both hands to withstand the shock. An instant later, the bus struck. Its rear wheels lifted high into the air and, at the same instant, the second hurled robot crashed against it!

The double impact jarred Wentworth savagely against the sides of his steel prison. His head, inside the crash helmet, swam dizzily, but his hand-hold was not jarred loose. He sat through a long moment atop the wreckage of the bus and saw three of the remaining robots stride toward him. With a gasp of thankfulness, he saw that his club had penetrated the chest of the third victim. It lay flat upon its back, with the steel post jutting from it like a spear. But the Iron Man himself still dangled the policeman from his hand. As Wentworth shook himself free of the lethargy of shock, he saw the Iron Man clamp another hand on the helpless policeman's head and . . . and
pull
!

His senses still reeling, he hoisted the robot to its feet just as the robots charged upon him! Somehow, Wentworth floundered aside from that first attack. Three strides took him to another light standard and he wrenched it loose and whirled it fiercely about his head!

As he slashed down once more, a police car screamed around the corner behind the robots. Wentworth saw something that glittered sail through the air, something that flapped a thin trailer of flame behind it—and then the object struck the rearmost robot and flames splashed over the steel armor!

Laughter pumped from Wentworth's lips, the thin and mocking laughter of the
Spider.
Two other robots remained. One of them turned upon the police car, and it lashed out with a kick of its tremendous foot. There were screams from the car, and then the machine was overturned. An instant later, the wreckage burst into flames.

But Wentworth was once more in motion. The iron club slashed through the air and caught the robot across the back of the helmet. The casque split like a ripe melon and the robot pitched to the street. The remaining robot wheeled and began to retreat! For an instant, Wentworth hesitated, then he sprang toward the wreckage of the police car. With a swift surge of power, he set the machine right side up again, saw two men wrench themselves free and rush to safety.