The Short-Wave Superman

Metal squeezed like putty in Brad Brandon's fingers. How had he acquired such might?


Excerpt
An ugly premonition slithered into Brad Brandon's heart as he came within view of the open door and saw what lay beyond. "Good God—!" he choked; and he broke into a loping run; catapulted himself along the carpeted corridor.
Then, at the threshold of Celene Verlaine's efficienette apartment, he drew up short; stared with dazed disbelief at the chaos which lay before him.
Ordinarily homelike and feminine, the interior of the flat was now a shambles of overturned furniture, disordered drapes and shattered bric-a-brac. Lu-cite glow-rods countersunk in the ceiling cast down heatless artificial sunlight upon a havoc apparently wrought by some stupendous struggle; and over in a far corner of the living room stood the mute wreckage of a phonovis instrument, its power line sundered, its stroboscope view plate cracked and rendered useless, its audiomitter ripped out by the roots.