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the Sky Tower braced back into the push of the wind; the groan faded into a dim creak. Wentworth found he was holding his breath and he blew it out noisily.
    "There's about a forty mile wind now," he said, clearing the hoarseness from his throat. "My guess is that when she hits fifty, the building goes."
    They stared into each other's eyes and their smiles were forced. They went swiftly down the steps together. At the floor below, they paused for a moment on the platform, facing each other. Their palms touched briefly in a hand-clasp—two lean-faced men with death upon them, but with small smiles on their lips.
    "See you in hell," Wentworth said trying to make it sound like a joke. He snapped his cigarette into a corner, clattered down stairs and into an office. People were standing excitedly; the fire gong was dinning, but they all thought it was a false alarm. How could the Sky Building burn?
    "Get out quickly!" Wentworth shouted at them. "There's no danger if you move quickly and in orderly fashion. There'll be an elevator here in a moment. Wait in the hall."
    "What's the matter?" a man demanded harshly. He was fat-cheeked and fat-bodied, but his clothes fitted faultlessly. "We have business to do and haven't any time for fire drills."
    Wentworth eyed him coldly, his mouth grim. "If your business is more important than your life, by all means stay," he barked. "Your workers are leaving. This whole building will go within ten minutes."
    Women squealed; a few men laughed. One said something about being nonchalant and tried to light a cigarette, but the flame danced in his trembling fingers and went out. The workers filed swiftly from the office. Wentworth had no trouble in the other offices. He simply held open the door so that those within could see the other people waiting in the hall. While he was in the second office, the first elevator took on a load.
     
     

Chapter Four
Flight From Doom
    A PERSISTENT worry thrust through the horror in Wentworth's brain. If the building swayed and failed to come back, the elevators would be blocked even if the structure did not topple at once. Hundreds would be trapped, helpless. The stairs would be too slow . . . .
    "Women in the elevators," Wentworth barked. "Men, down the steps!"
    A man began to curse shrilly. "Walk down ninety stories! You're a damned fool."
    Wentworth drew his automatics, a small white smile on his lips.
    "Walk down," he ordered, "or I'll let you have it!"
    The men walked; Wentworth's mind kept veering to the tragedy at hand. He tried to estimate the chances of escape for those hundreds and his head jerked in a tense negative. The cords of his neck felt stiff and hard. No matter how rapidly they moved, scores would die—millions of dollars worth of buildings would be ground to powder. And all to satisfy the mysterious criminal plans of some monstrous killer.
    When the third cage stopped at his floor, a policeman stepped out and saluted. "I'm taking over, sir," he said.
    Wentworth nodded tightly. "I've got the men walking down," he said. "The idea is that as soon as the women are out on all floors, we'll start picking up the men."
    "Okay," the policeman said. He turned to the crowd. "Get a move on there," his hearty voice rang out. "Think you got all day? In about ten minutes this building is going to fall down! And boy, oh boy, it will go boom!"
    Wentworth forced a laugh and men and women joined. It was nervous laughter and shrill, but it was better than the white-faced silence and fear. Wentworth stopped to light a cigarette before he strolled to the steps. Still his hand did not shake. The women, huddled together, watched him with wide, frightened eyes. He smiled at them and it took all his courage to make that smile genuine. So many of them—and he, too—might never reach the street alive. He lifted his hat politely . . . Kirkpatrick, walking also, met him on the steps.
    "The police have taken over," he said sharply. "They're clearing the other