The Avenger 32 - The Death Machine

THE GREATEST CRIME FIGHTER
OF THE FORTIES RETURNS!

IN THE ROARING HEART OF THE CRUCIBLE, STEEL IS MADE. IN THE RAGING FLAME OF PERSONAL TRAGEDY, MEN ARE SOMETIMES FORGED INTO SOMETHING MORE THAN HUMAN.

IT WAS SO WITH DICK BENSON. HE HAD BEEN A MAN. AFTER THE DREAD LOSS INFLICTED ON HIM BY AN INHUMAN CRIME RING, HE BECAME A MACHINE OF VENGEANCE DEDICATED TO THE EXTERMINATION OF ALL OTHER CRIME RINGS.

HE TURNED INTO THE PERSON WE KNOW NOW: A FIGURE OF ICE AND STEEL, MORE PITILESS THAN BOTH; A MECHANISM OF WHIPCORD AND FLAME; A SYMBOL TO CROOKS AND KILLERS; A TERRIBLE, ALMOST IMPERSONAL FORCE, MASKING CHILL GENIUS AND SUPER NORMAL POWER BEHIND A FACE AS WHITE AND DEAD AS A MASK FROM THE GRAVE. ONLY HIS PALE EYES, LIKE ICE IN A POLAR DAWN, HINT AT THE DEADLINESS OF THE SCOURGE THE UNDERWORLD HEEDLESSLY INVOKED AGAINST ITSELF WHEN CRIME’S GREED TURNED MILLIONAIRE ADVENTURER RICHARD BENSON INTO—THE AVENGER.

THE DEATH MACHINE

WHEN THE SUICIDE RATE IN SAN FRANCISCO SOARS, RUMOR BLAMES A FANTASTIC NEW DEATH MACHINE AS THE CAUSE. CAN A DEATH MACHINE DRIVE PROMINENT MEN TO SUICIDE? ONLY THE AVENGER HAS THE SCIENTIFIC KNOW-HOW TO VERIFY WHETHER SUCH AN INSTRUMENT EXISTS. IF IT DOES, CAN THE AVENGER DEFY IT?

THE BOX BEGAN TO HUM

Dr. Hershman dropped his briefcase in bringing his hands up to cover his ears. “Would you, please, stop . . .”

It was like music. Some kind of horrible music which bored right through the bones of your skull. And yet it wasn’t like music at all, because . . . there was no sound. Not even a humming now.

“Do you hear me, Dr. Hershman?”

“Yes, I hear you.”

“You are going to do me a favor.”

“I will do you a favor.”

“This is what you will do . . .”

Mind control! And it is in the hands of the country’s enemies. The genius of the Avenger is needed to combat the evil men who employ . . .

THE DEATH MACHINE.

Also In This Series

By Kenneth Robeson

#1: J
USTICE
, I
NC
.
#2: T
HE
Y
ELLOW
H
OARD
#3: T
HE
S
KY
W
ALKER
#4: T
HE
D
EVIL
’
S
H
ORNS
#5: T
HE
F
ROSTED
D
EATH
#6: T
HE
B
LOOD
R
ING
#7: S
TOCKHOLDERS
IN
D
EATH
#8: T
HE
G
LASS
M
OUNTAIN
#9: T
UNED
FOR
M
URDER
#10: T
HE
S
MILING
D
OGS
#11: R
IVER
OF
I
CE
#12: T
HE
F
LAME
B
REATHERS
#13: M
URDER
ON
W
HEELS
#14: T
HREE
G
OLD
C
ROWNS
#15: H
OUSE
OF
D
EATH
#16: T
HE
H
ATE
M
ASTER
#17: N
EVLO
#18: D
EATH
IN
S
LOW
M
OTION
#19: P
ICTURES
OF
D
EATH
#20: T
HE
G
REEN
K
ILLER
#21: T
HE
H
APPY
K
ILLERS
#22: T
HE
B
LACK
D
EATH
#23: T
HE
W
ILDER
C
URSE
#24: M
IDNIGHT
M
URDER
#25: T
HE
M
AN
FROM
A
TLANTIS
#26: R
ED
M
OON
#27: T
HE
P
URPLE
Z
OMBIE
#28: D
R
. T
IME
#29: T
HE
N
IGHTWATCH
D
EVIL
#30: B
LACK
C
HARIOTS
#31: T
HE
C
ARTOON
C
RIMES

WARNER PAPERBACK LIBRARY

WARNER PAPERBACK LIBRARY EDITION
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RINTING
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ANUARY
, 1975

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OPYRIGHT
© 1975
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HE
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ONDÉ
N
EST
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UBLICATIONS
, I
NC
.
A
LL
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IGHTS
R
ESERVED

T
HIS
W
ARNER
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APERBACK
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IBRARY
E
DITION
IS
P
UBLISHED
BY
A
RRANGEMENT WITH
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HE
C
ONDÉ
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EST
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UBLICATIONS
. I
NC
.

C
OVER
I
LLUSTRATION
BY
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EORGE
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ROSS

W
ARNER
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APERBACK
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IBRARY
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ARNER
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Printed in the United States of America

THE
DEATH
MACHINE

He didn’t know he was going to kill himself.

He was alone in the circular lecture hall. The last student had long since shuffled up the stone steps and out into the crisp autumn afternoon. Dr. Eric Hershman was leaning against the lectern, his old briefcase dangling from his left hand, a chunky grey-haired man dressed in a baggy tweed suit. Finally he sighed, raking his lecture notes into his briefcase. Tired, he seemed to be always tired now.

He walked, feet dragging, slowly across the platform. The formulas he’d chalked on the immense blackboard didn’t make any sense when he looked at them in passing.

“Oh, yes, I see it now,” he muttered after he’d stopped, brow furrowed, to check over the figures. “I’ve got too much to keep straight in my head.”

He climbed down from the platform like a man returning from a very long mountain climb. This doing two jobs, it was no good. Teaching physics by day here at the University of Berkeley, then for five hours every night going up to work on the Vermillion Project.

“But it’s important. You know they’re working on this, too. Yes, even while you were still in Germany they were working on it.”

Professor Hershman walked toward a side door. “No matter what happens to you here, my friend,” he reminded himself. “No matter how addled and bone-weary you become . . . it’s better than what you left.”

He yawned as he stepped out into the corridor.

“You ought to talk to them up there. See If there’s not some way to get more—”

The door at the other end of the short corridor had opened. “Professor Hershman?”

“Yes?” He lifted his rimless glasses up, resting the lenses on his forehead. The declining sun made the doorway a glowing orange rectangle. There was someone standing there, a student from the sound of his voice. Hershman couldn’t see him for the glare. “You wish to see me?”

“I have something I’d like you to see.” The boy, or possibly it was a man, had an object held out in front of him in his two hands.

A box of some kind; the professor couldn’t make out the details. He lowered his spectacles. “You are one of my students?”

The box began to hum.

Dr. Hershman dropped his briefcase in bringing his hands up to cover his ears. “Would you, please, stop . . .”

It was like music. Some kind of horrible music which bored right through the bones of your skull. And yet it wasn’t like music at all, because . . . there was no sound. Not even a humming now.

“Do you hear me, Dr. Hershman?”

“Yes, I hear you.”

“You are going to do me a favor.”

“I will do you a favor.”

“This is what you will do . . .”

The town of San Renaldo lies a hundred miles north of San Francisco. The Oakland–San Francisco train roars through the quiet little town every evening at this time; in the fall it’s the first hour of darkness. This train doesn’t stop.

Sitting on the platform in front of the San Renaldo station, a tiny gingerbread building, were three old men in wooden chairs.