"I'm going to see Lee Garth. Come on, men."
He led the way. Scoop piled into the car. Those who couldn't get into the car, hung on the sides.
They came in sight of the tower of concrete. It was a squat fortress in the starlight. There wasn't a light in it.
"There it is, men," the chief of police said. "Drive up to it. We'll find out if Garth knows anything about this."
Suddenly, to the occupants of the car, the tower seemed to lean toward them. The trees seemed to shiver in a blast of passing air.
But there was no wind. The air was very quiet.
How could trees dance in a wind when there was no wind?
The ground seemed to writhe. It seemed to twitch.
Men screamed.
The car left the drive, plunged forward into a tree. The motor sputtered, coughed indignantly, died. Then the night was silent, except for the deep, bull-throated roar pounding from the tower which Lee Garth had constructed.