
Tom wrenched himself upward, for one dizzying
moment hanging free in space
|
|
THE TOM SWIFT INVENTION ADVENTURES
TOM SWIFT
AND HIS MEGASCOPE SPACE PROBER
BY VICTOR APPLETON II
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
|
|
TOM SWIFT AND HIS
MEGASCOPE SPACE PROBER xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
CHAPTER 1
STOLEN SCIENCE
“TOM! Someone has stolen your invention!” gasped Bud Barclay as he
scanned a news story on the front page of the Shopton Evening
Bulletin through the plastic cover of its street-side rack. Tom
Swift, a crew-cut blond youth who was Bud’s closest friend, looked
over in astonishment.
“Stolen my invention?” Tom echoed. “Which one?”
The pretty dark-haired girl standing next to Tom also looked over.
“Yes, Bud, you really must be specific. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
Tom has ever
so many inventions to steal, you know.”
The last member of the strolling foursome, Tom’s blond younger
sister Sandra, giggled at her friend Bashalli’s ironic remark. “What
is the latest one anyway? I’ve sort’ve lost track.”
“Your new machine for fooling around with molecules, Tom!”
Bud continued pointedly with a humorously rankled look at the two girls. “Look,
here it is on the front page.”
Tom approached and leaned down to study the article. “Hmm! Well...”
Dropping in some coins he pulled the newspaper from its rack and began
to read, flipping to an inside page as the others waited expectantly.
“What does the headline say?” Sandy asked Bud.
“Something like, ‘French Scientist Goes Swift One Better With
Matter Machine’ ,” was Bud’s reply. He added disgustedly: “Pretty typical pot-stirring from our pal Perkins.” Dan Perkins, editor of the Bulletin, had long had a somewhat strained relationship with Tom
Swift Enterprises, where Tom and his father deve- loped their renowned
inventions. He had proven himself quick to report the advances of xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
xxxxxxxxxxxx |
Enterprises’ presumed
“competitors.”
Tom read the story with growing excitement, commenting aloud for the
benefit of the others. It stated that Roland Galaspain, a French
engineer, had developed a revolutionary method of manipulating certain
of the fun- damental properties of matter. Details of his invention were
not given, but a demonstration would take place Monday of the following
week in Paris, to which scientists from all over the world were being
invited.
Bud pointed. “No details — but that photo sure shows a gizmo like the
one you were showing me just yesterday! And the basic idea sounds like
the same deal!”
“Quite a coincidence,” Tom murmured.
“Coincidence my hat!” snorted the black- haired flyer angrily. “You
perfected the same kind of machine just a few days ago, Skipper!”
“Bud does have a point,” Bashalli said softly. “When lightning
strikes twice, you have to wonder about it. And run for cover.”
Tom nodded. “I know. But lightning some- times does strike
twice, guys, and this Gala- spain fellow might have thought it up
himself. But I’ll ask Harlan what he thinks when I come xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
in to work tomorrow.”
Harlan Ames, a former member of the Secret Service and the chief
security officer at Enterprises, had dealt with many instances of theft
and espionage at the high-security Swift installation.
The four friends were taking a relaxed stroll down Shopton’s
Commerce Avenue. They had just taken in an early-evening movie and were
headed toward a restaurant down the block. In the distance they could
see the reflections of the setting sun on Lake Carlopa.
“This is enough to spoil a person’s dinner,” Sandy grumbled. “Bud
and Tom finally manage to work us into their labors-of-Hercules
sche-dule, and now this.”
Bud broke the mood with a sudden grin. “Don’t fret, ladies — I
still have an appetite.”
Tom’s sleep was troubled by questions that night. He drove to work
early the next morning, waiting in the spacious office he shared with
his father for Ames, who had the adjacent office, to arrive. Soon he was
engaged in spelling out the story as the lean older man listened
attentively across his desk.
“I read the story myself, yesterday,” Ames stated. “But I didn’t
think a whole lot about it. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
You say the man’s
invention resembles your own?”
Tom nodded. “Very much. Of course it’s true that the science
dictates the engineering on things like this. But the photo shows
certain details that strike a little too close to home.”
“All right. But just what is this new inven- tion? What does
it do?”
“I call it a matter translimator.” Tom smiled at the wry expression
on Ames’s face as he encountered yet another opaquely-named Tom Swift
invention. “The ‘lim’ part comes from ‘sublimate’ — the phenomenon
of solids turning directly to gas without a liquid phase.”
“Like with dry ice?”
“Uh-huh.” The young inventor explained that he had devised a
scientific means of changing the state of matter without heating or
cooling, or altering the ambient pressure. “In other words, a piece of
metal could be liquified without melting it, or water could be turned to
ice without freezing it. It uses a variation on the matter-lens
technology we developed for the space solartron.”
“I see. Now, boss, tell me how such a thing would be valuable enough
to be bait for a xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
thief.”
For a moment Tom was quiet and thoughtful. “Harlan, I pretty much
work up these inventions for the fun and the science — plus the personal
challenge. But ultimately the translimator could have all sorts of
applications in materials engi- neering. If we could find a way to
stabilize what it produces — right now ‘solid helium’ lasts about three
nanoseconds outside the receiving chamber before falling apart! — all
sorts of un-expected super-technologies could come over the horizon.”
“All right, then,” said Ames crisply. “So in the long run it has
tremendous potential. The supposed ‘inventor’ could peddle it to any
number of manufacturers.”
“Yes, or perhaps lease it out in some way and collect fees.”
“Which leads to the next all-too-obvious question, my friend. If the
French version is stolen, how did they do it?” The security chief looked
grim. “Where’s the leak?”
Tom shrugged. “I’ve gone over and over the whole thing in my mind. I
just don’t see how it’s possible. This isn’t a case where some rogue
employee could be acting as a spy. I’ve never xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
allowed the
blueprints or guide-models out of my sight. At night it’s all locked
away in the security cabinets.”
“Which only unlocks for someone with Tom Swift’s DNA. And of course,
the patrolscope radar system should reveal any intruders on the plant
grounds. It had better after all the money you folks spent
improving it since the last time it let us down!”
Tom laughed. “Right. But despite all precautions our thief might
have stolen one of the improved deactivator amulets. Or come up with a
bootleg version despite all our copy- defeat gimmicks.”
“Let’s try another tack. What about tapping one of your
computers? — remotely, maybe.”
“Not possible. I haven’t put anything about the translimator in my
daily journal, since we know that isn’t completely secure. I haven’t
used a server or network of any kind, internal or external.”
“Then what about the physical hard drive on your lab computer?” Ames
speculated. “You do a lot of computer-assisted design. You must save
your work.”
“Sure. But I save it all directly to a remov- xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
able hyper-density
chip, which goes in the secure cabinet like everything else.” Tom
pointed out that even the very slight radio-pulses caused by his
keyboard strokes and mouse movements — which conceivably could be
electronically monitored from a distance — would be blocked by the special
coating of the lab’s walls.
“Okay, Tom. You’ve convinced me.”
“Yeah,” Tom responded ruefully. “And you know what, Harlan? I’m
convinced that I’m wrong!”
Troubled and uncertain, Tom left the administration building and
hopped into a nanocar, one of Enterprises’ electric micro- jeeps. Seeing
Bud on one of the moving ridewalks, Tom invited his pal to join him.
When they reached a modernistic glass-walled building of striking
design, Tom braked to a halt. Inside was his private design laboratory,
crammed with the latest in research equipment. This was where the matter
translimator had been worked out, and where the prototype model Tom had
demonstrated to Bud — constructed within its secure walls — had been
thoroughly tested, then immediately dismantled.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
“Guess I should have
used the underground lab,” Tom fretted. “But it’s set up for testing,
not design work.”
“I take it you think there might be
something to my suspicions — now,” remarked Bud with raised eyebrows and a hint of
friendly irony.
The boys sprinted to the lab, where Tom beamed an electronic key at
its reinforced door. The door swung open and Tom approached the row of
safe-like security cabinets, built directly into the thick wall. He
touched the DNA-reader pad next to one of them, and its covering panel
slid aside. “Pal, if something’s missing, you’ll have to scrape me up
from the floor!” Tom muttered to Bud.
Tom hastily ruffled through a sheaf of blueprints, sketches, and
printed data sheets. He picked up several of the oblong data chips and
read-off their classification index numbers. At last he sighed with
relief.
“Nothing missing,” be announced.
Bud, a tall muscular youth who, like Tom, appeared no older than 18,
glared at the mass of papers. Then he shook his head, unconvinced. “Then
the mystery isn’t solved, Tom — it’s worse! I still think there’s
something fishy about xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
that guy coming up with the
same invention! And I know you do too.”
Securing the cabinet, Tom gazed off into blank space, a worried
expression on his face. “I’ll admit I’d like to have a look at
Galaspain’s machine.”
Bud snapped his fingers. “Hey! Wait a minute! Didn’t that news story
say scientists from all over the world were being invited to Galaspain’s
demonstration? So that includes you. Right?”
“But Dad and I haven’t received an invita- tion.”
Bud thumped his fist angrily on the laboratory workbench.
“There’s your answer, pal. Tom and Damon Swift are two of America’s
most famous scientists. I mean, genius boy, you’re practically a brand
name! If anyone rated invitations, you both did — which proves
Frenchy wasn’t taking any chances on being found out!” Tom conceded the
point, and Bud continued stubbornly, “If Galaspain stole your idea, I
intend to find out.”
Tom looked quizzically at his friend. “That’s great, flyboy. So how?
It looks to me like we’ve hit a dead end.”
The young flyer grinned back. “Dead end? xxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
No such thing! I’ve already put a plan
together. I’ll contact the guy for an invitation to his big show and hop
over to Paris. And don’t think I won’t fire plenty of questions at him!
It’ll make him nervous. Maybe he’ll panic and confess the whole thing
right in front of the news cameras.”
As Tom looked on skeptically, Bud picked up a pad and roughed out an
e-cablegram to be sent to Galaspain. It read:
MONSIEUR, I AM ENGAGED IN
LOW- TEMPERATURE RESEARCH ON EXOTIC PHYSICAL STUFF. HIGHLY INTERESTED IN
EXAMINING THE MACHINE YOU CIPED FROM TOM SWIFT. PLEASE RUSH ME AN
INVITE. B. BARCLAY, PRESIDENT AND RESIDENT GENIUS, CRYONAUTICS RESEARCH
COR- PORATION.
Tom burst into laughter. “What, no Ph.D. after your name, President
Barclay?”
Nothing more was said. But unbeknownst to Tom and his father, Bud
did send a message to the French scientist, having found a contact
address on the Internet. He stated that he would like to bring the
famous Swifts to the demon- stration. During the next two days, Bud
checked his home computer frequently. But no reply xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
from France was received.
Lotta nerve, he grumbled to himself, blowing off a message
from Tom Swift’s best friend!
Saturday evening, as the Swifts were en- joying a weekend at home,
Bud dropped in for a brief visit. He discussed the Galaspain mystery
with Tom and his father in the den. “It does seem odd,” admitted Mr.
Swift, to whom Tom bore a striking resemblance.
Bud now told them about his e-mailed message. “Galaspain paid no
attention. What’s more, I called ten different people around the country
from Rafe Franzenberg’s list — out- standing American scientists, all of
them — and not one of them has received word one from the guy.”
“Evidently he doesn’t trust anyone from our country,” said Mr. Swift
soberly. “One wonders why, hmm? But national pride plays its role in
science, as in everything else. We’ve been on both sides of it at
Enterprises.”
As Bud started to comment, Tom interrupted him by suddenly bolting
to his feet from his chair. “Good night! I just realized — ”
Mr. Swift looked alarmed. “What is it, son? xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
What’s wrong?”
“I — I think I’m
the cause of the information leak,” replied the young inventor. A
stricken expression had settled on his young face. “And if I’m right,
Galaspain and the others at that demonstration are in terrible danger!”
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
CHAPTER 2
A DEADLY MALFUNCTION
STARTLED into silence, Bud and Mr. Swift waited for Tom to continue.
The youth ran a nervous hand through his spiky crewcut. “When I tested
my original design,” Tom explained, “a few bugs showed up, pretty
serious ones. Dad, you remember how I had to redesign the regi- ster.”
“Yes. You said the carbon bonds were flash- vaporizing.”
“Right, producing unmanageable backpres- sure in the chamber.”
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
“So?” Bud put in with
a puzzled look.
“I redesigned that feature of my machine and had Arv Hanson work up
a second prototype, the one you saw the other day, Bud,” Tom replied.
“But Galaspain may not know that.” The youthful inventor added
excitedly, “Unless he perfected the register himself, the machine may
blow up!”
Bud gave a low whistle. Mr. Swift’s ex- pression was grave and
thoughtful.
“But what’s this bit about you having leaked the plans to
Galaspain?” asked Bud.
“I completely forgot. When I was trying to solve the problem, I
asked Dr. Roggarson to look over the specs and blueprints.”
“Irv Roggarson?” repeated Tom’s father. “But he’s
— ”
“Up at the space outpost,” Tom concluded, referring to Swift
Enterprises’ space station orbiting 22,300 above the equator. “I
trans- mitted the materials up to him over the high- baud lasercom!”
Damon Swift shook his head. “Let’s take a breather for a second. Irv
Roggarson himself is surely above suspicion. Are you suggesting that
someone tapped into the laser communications xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
beam? Tell me how that’s
possible, Tom. You have a tight beam a few inches in diameter linking
Enterprises and the outpost for no more than a few seconds. A spy would
have had to position himself precisely in the way — invisibly, as
he went undetected — then in-tercept the beam, record the signal content,
and then re-transmit it along its way. All in a matter of
moments!”
“I’m not saying I know how it was done,” admitted Tom. “But
there’s the weak link we’ve been looking for. The question right now
is, should I warn Galaspain, Dad? Maybe try to stop the demonstration?”
The elder scientist again shook his head. “Frankly, I’m afraid
there’s nothing you can do. If you tried to stop Galaspain, he and the
au- thorities might construe it to mean you’re calling him a thief.”
“Which would be true,” Bud noted wryly.
The young inventor looked resigned. “But Dad’s right, Bud. It would
complicate getting him to act on the warning, because he would be afraid
that acting on it would come across as admitting the accusation,” said
Tom. “And yet we have to do something. We can’t just let the xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
man blow himself up!”
Bud shrugged with a look that told Tom he understood
— but didn’t
entirely agree.
After some thought Tom called Harlan Ames and asked him to use some
of his contacts in government to allow Tom to pass along a message that
would appear to have a degree of official sanction behind it. He worded
the message carefully, politely mentioning his own work in a “similar
area of research,” and noting the problem that had cropped up.
All of Sunday passed by. There was no response back from France.
“He’s a well- known engineer,” pronounced Mr. Swift. “He may have been
able to correct the problem using your input, though he doesn’t choose
to acknowledge it.”
Tom said with worry in his voice, “Let’s hope he knows what he’s
doing.”
The demonstration in Paris was scheduled for six o’clock Monday
morning, which would be one A.M. in Shopton, New York. Bud and the Swift
family planned to watch the proceedings on television. Despite the
shadow over the event, Sandy was delighted when she heard of the late
night gathering. “A TV party! Won- xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
derful!” she announced
with a giggle. “I’ll ask Bashi over to share the popcorn.”
Sunday evening Bud brought Bashalli over to the Swifts’ home in his
convertible. Mrs. Swift, a slim and pretty woman, welcomed the guests
warmly. After one of her delicious chicken dinners and dessert provided
by Bashalli, the young people played music and videos, danced, and
chatted until the time for the demonstration approached.
“Will we be receiving the picture direct from France?” asked
Bashalli as Tom switched on the living room’s big, elaborate TV screen.
Tom nodded. “That’s right, Bash. Via our outpost in space.” The
space station not only engaged in research and in manufacturing work,
but was also used for relaying high-definition television signals from
point to point around the world. “We’ll be getting a simultaneous audio
stream from news sources on the Net, too. The Paris broadcasts wouldn’t
be in English, of course.”
“Inconsiderate of them,” stated Bashalli, a native of Pakistan, with
a smile.
The Paris network — evidently a channel devoted to science and
technology — came into xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
focus on the screen. From
the audio setup came: “We bring you now on-the-spot web coverage of an
important news event, direct from Galaspain Laboratories in Paris.” As
the commentator talked about the machine and its potential industrial
significance, the TV camera panned across the device itself. The picture
briefly zoomed in on Galaspain, a hawk-faced man with spectacles and a
ragged, dark mustache. The engineer made a brief speech in French,
pointing out the features of his inven- tion.
“That phony!” Bud gritted. “His machine looks just like
yours, Tom!”
His friend was too absorbed to comment. The whole group, now
including Mr. and Mrs. Swift, watched the screen closely as the engineer
threw a switch to start his machine in operation.
The audio announcer spoke softly, as if nar-rating a crucial golf
match. “We’re informed the machine has performed well in small-scale
testing, but today we’re promised something dramatic that hasn’t been
tried before. We’ll see the result any minute now.”
Galaspain watched smugly, strutting about xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
the room and occasionally
checking a valve or dial. There were murmurs of appreciation from his
on-screen audience — men and women in white scientific coats, business
persons, media techs.
Suddenly there came a loud explosion! As the picture quivered on the
screen, Tom shot his father an anguished look. When the image settled
into focus again, the demonstration hall was in turmoil, filling with a
haze of white smoke and echoing with the shouts and groans of the
injured. The horrified viewers in the Swift living room saw that the
matter-control machine had blown apart. Some parts of the wreckage
flickered with sparks or flames. Debris was scattered about and a number
of people, including Galaspain, had been knocked off their feet.
The reporting announcer was beside himself with the thrill of fresh
catastrophe. “You heard it, folks! Something has gone tragically wrong!”
he shouted above the screams of the audience. “That blast you heard was
the machine blowing up! And what a blast it was.”
“You tried, Tom,” said Mrs. Swift comfor- tingly. “This wasn’t your
fault.” Her son could xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
only nod, with a shrug of
regret and lingering shock. Bud put a hand on his shoulder.
Later in the day the media were reporting the grim effects of the
explosive malfunction. Se- veral members of the audience had been rushed
to the nearest hospital in serious condition. And there was one
fatality. Standing closest to the machine, Roland Galaspain had borne
the full force of the blast.
“I wonder if this is the end of it,” Tom murmured.
“It never is,” Bud declared. “Someone was behind it,
Skipper,
and we’re sure to hear from him again.”
Tom spent the afternoon making triply sure he had solved the
destructive problem in the translimator. At eight o’clock he and Bud
left the plant to catch a late snack together before going their
separate ways.
He still feels like it’s his fault, Bud thought, looking on
with concern at the bronze-hued two-seater in front of him.
The narrow highway into the main part of town ducked through the
lightly wooded area that skirted Shopton. Suddenly Bud’s musings on his
chum and the mystery were interrupted xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
as he saw Tom’s car veer
wildly into the opposite lane, tires screeching.
“Hey! Watch it, pal!” Bud gasped. Had Tom fallen asleep at the
wheel — or blacked out?
For a moment it looked as though Tom had brought his car under
control, and Bud breathed a sigh of relief. But the next instant Tom’s
car shot off toward the shoulder of the road, teetered on the edge of
the ditch that ran alongside, spraying gravel — and then turned over!
|
|
CHAPTER 3
LADY WITH A RAY-GUN
HAD Tom been hurt, perhaps seriously?
Bud, thoroughly alarmed, slammed on the brakes of his own car
and swerved the con- vertible toward the side of the road. As the wheels
screeched to a skidding stop, and he leapt right over the door like a
pole-vaulter, Bud caught a momentary glimpse of a figure darting off
among the trees and underbrush. Could he have had anything to do with
Tom’s accident?
Can’t waste time on him, Bud thought.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
Bud turned toward the
ditch and scrambled down the sloping shoulder. Tom’s sportscar rested
propped up on its side, wheels still spinning, headlights still beaming.
A hopeful sign! But how the heck can I get him free? the young
flyer worried. The passenger side of the car was pressed against the
ground, and the other was level with the top of Bud’s head, the door
handle well out of reach!
“Okay now — this is a thinking challenge,” he muttered to himself
frantically. “What would Tom do?”
As a thought struck him, he ran to one of the roadside trees. Using
all his strength, the ex- footballer ripped down a thick, sturdy bough
and dragged it back to Tom’s car, propping it up at a sharp angle
between ground and underside.
Bud began to rock the car, and it began to slip and tilt. Abruptly
it overbalanced and fell against the bough full force, just as Bud had
hoped. The bough bent, splintered, and gave way — but it had managed to
cushion the car’s fall, preventing a jolt that might have caused Tom
further injury.
Bud managed to lunge through the shattered
driver’s window to kill the power, then knelt xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
beside it in a frenzy of fear. The young inventor
was slumped inside, not moving.
“Tom! Tom!” Bud cried out, testing the door handle.
To Bud’s immense relief, his pal moved and opened his eyes. “Ohh!”
Tom said and rubbed his forehead dazedly.
“You’ll be all right,” Bud said hopefully.
“Yes, I’m all right — I guess,” Tom mur- mured. “Just shaken up. The
anticrash system kept me in my seat at first, until it cut out.” The
youth was referring to an automatic protective mechanism he had first
developed for his most recent invention, his triphibian atomicar. The
setup used his force-ray repelatron in place of the usual safety straps.
“Guess the impact jarred something loose... You know, I really should
embed the control circuitry in — ”
“Yep, you really are all right, genius boy!” Bud commented
with a relieved grin. He made sure his friend had suffered no broken
bones or other serious injury, then helped Tom to his feet. The young
inventor’s face was only slightly bruised, and his blue-striped t-shirt
had come through the ordeal unscathed. “It was just xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
the sudden stop that acted
as my knockout punch,” said Tom.
“What happened to your car?” Bud asked with a puzzled frown. “I
mean, before it kissed the ground!”
“Search me. The car went out of control all of a sudden,” Tom said.
“Wouldn’t seem to answer the wheel. Weird. I’ll check right now.”
“I don’t think so,” Bud retorted as Tom started toward the
dented sports car. “What I think is, you’re going straight to
sickbay and let Doc Simpson do the checking up. He said he’d be working
late.”
Overriding Tom’s rueful protests, Bud guided him up to the red
convertible and helped him inside. Then, taking his own place at the
wheel, Bud sped back to Swift Enterprises, contacting Simpson on his
cellphone. They passed through the main gate and pulled up outside the
plant’s infirmary.
Dr. Simpson, the young medic of Enterprises, eyed Tom with a look of
comic dismay as the two boys entered his office. “Good grief, Skipper!”
he said, seeing Tom’s visible scrapes and bruises. “You have a lab
accident?”
Bud grinned. “No. He was just doing a so- xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
mersault with his car.
Kind of late in the day to start cutting up, wouldn’t you say, Doc?”
Doc Simpson laughed. “Sure is. Anyway, I’m the one who’s supposed to
do the cutting up around here.” He reached for a medical kit.
“Well, don’t start on me.” Tom chuckled. “We don’t need exploratory
surgery to tell me I’m just a little shaken up.”
The physician examined Tom carefully and treated a few slight cuts,
but said that otherwise he found the patient uninjured. Nevertheless, he
ordered Tom to rest for an hour or two on a cot in one of the treatment
rooms.
“Listen, I can’t stay here,” Tom argued as he put on his
t-shirt. “I
have to find out what went wrong with that car.”
“It’ll wait,” Doc insisted, shepherding Tom into a treatment room.
“In the meantime, you stretch out on this cot.”
“Relax,” Bud told his pal. “I’ll go see about your car.”
When Tom tried to object, Doc Simpson added persuasively, “We’re
saving you for the last play of the fourth quarter, Tom Swift!”
“I’ll even leave you with something to chew over,” offered Bud. He
told Tom about the xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
fleeing figure he had seen
briefly in the head- lights of his car.
“I saw someone too,” responded the patient, “just before I lost
control. In fact I saw a little more than you did, chum. It was a woman,
carrying something in her hand.”
“Like a gun?”
“No, bigger and bulkier. It looked more like a camera
— but I only got
a glimpse. No way I could identify the woman.”
Tom lay down with a humorous grumble while Bud hurried off to the
big garage-and- maintenance shop which housed Enterprises’ fleet of
trucks and jeeps. Soon a wrecker was on its way with Al Roster, one of
the mechanics working the night shift, at the wheel and Bud beside him.
When they arrived at the scene of the accident, Al said, “Wow! Tom
was lucky!”
Tom’s car was hoisted out of the ditch with the tow crane. The
mechanic checked the steering system but could find nothing wrong. Other
than the broken windows the only apparent damages were some deep fender
dents and a few body scratches.
“Sure the boss didn’t black out or some- xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
thing?” the mechanic
asked.
“Get real, Al!” Bud said scornfully. “Even if Tom’s brain was only
hitting on half the cylinders, it’d still rev faster than most do at
full choke.”
Al shrugged. “I thank you, Bud, for ex- plaining that to me in
language I understand. Okay, we’ll take the car back to the shop and
tear it down. But t’tell you the truth,” he went on, “I figure there
couldn’t be anything out of kilter, the way Tom takes care of this
baby.”
Bud scowled. “Yeah. Guess you’re right, Al. We’ve been following the
wrong trail.”
Without explaining his last remark, Bud rode back to Enterprises,
hurrying off to talk to Tom after thanking the mechanic. The two boys
discussed the problem over trays of a late supper brought in by a nurse.
Tom had already bathed and changed into a fresh blue-striped t- shirt
from his office closet. “You know, Bud, I’ve been thinking,” he mused. “Some kind of ray
could have been used on my car — a ray which temporarily froze the
steering linkages or something. We’ve dealt with beam-weapons before.
And that would explain the thing the woman was carrying.”
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
“That’s the scientific
part of the mystery, pal,” Bud declared warmly, “and that’s your
specialty. You can go wild checking out the car — tomorrow!”
“I think we’d better tell Harlan,” Tom said grimly.
“Tomorrow!”
Tom chuckled at Bud’s stern expression. “Right, flyboy
— tomorrow!”
The next morning the two met at the office of the security chief,
Tom having ridden to work with his father. Ames became alarmed, in his
stoic way, upon hearing the boys’ story. Picking up the telephone, Ames
called Shopton police headquarters. Captain Rock, an old friend of the
Swifts, promised to meet them immediately at the scene of the accident.
Shortly after Tom and his two companions arrived, a police car
pulled up alongside. The officer listened to an account of what had
happened, then turned to Bud.
“What did this figure you saw running away look like?”
“I caught only an eyeblink’s worth,” Bud said. “Just somebody slight
and thin, dressed in rough clothes. She was sort of crouched over as she
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
darted off into the
brush. My impression is she’s dark-haired, a short hairdo.”
The sergeant who had accompanied Rock made a note of this. Then
Harlan Ames asked, “Can either of you point out exactly where she went?”
Tom shook his head, but Bud answered, “I think so.” He led the way
toward the spot where the stranger had disappeared into the woods. The
trees grew close together near the road, then thinned into a marshy area
of low ground. Suddenly Ames gave a cry of excitement and pointed to a
series of footprints in the soft muck.
“That’s her trail, I’ll bet!” Bud exclaimed.
Captain Rock bent to examine them and frowned. “Pretty wide shoe
prints for a wo- man,” he stated. “Then again, she might have worn
hunter’s boots over her own dainty shoes.”
“Looks to me like we have more than one set of footprints,” Ames
declared.
“I agree. Look at ’em! — as many as four people, seems to me.” The
group followed the trail for a few minutes, but as the ground sloped
upward and became more rocky, the prints xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
disappeared.
Meanwhile, Tom had hung back as he pursued a theory of his own. He
was hoping to find some scientific clues to the method used in disabling
his car. A path of trampled under-brush showed the stranger’s movements
before she had fled. “She waited here,” he muttered to himself. “But how
could she have known to expect me in the first place?”
Tom followed the trail from the edge of the woods to a single huge
oak tree standing close to the roadside. Good place to lie in wait,
he thought — and then his eyes widened in ex-citement!
The others were returning, and Tom beckoned excitedly. “Come here
and take a look at this.”
They examined what Tom had discovered — some odd, dark patches on the
bark of the tree trunk. “What is it, Tom?” asked Bud. “Scorch marks?”
“It looks a lot like charring from heat,” the young inventor
replied. “But something else can also cause that effect. Namely
intense cold!”
The sergeant gulped and Captain Rock re- peated the word
skeptically. “Cold?”
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
“What’s your theory,
Skipper?” Ames asked.
“It’s not exactly a theory yet,” responded Tom. “Let’s just call it
Swift’s Conjecture.” He explained that some features of the markings
were too sharply delimited for radiant heat effects. “And also, look at
this.” He rubbed a finger along the wood at the surface of one of the
patches. The wood seemed to disintegrate into a rain of white, ashy
powder. “I can tell it isn’t ordinary wood ash, but something more like
an instantaneous freeze-dry phenomenon. It may be our lady sniper used a
kind of elec- tromagnetic ray projector to ‘freeze’ — literally! — some
crucial part of the steering mechanism. These marks could be accidental
cold-burns from the ray beam, if that’s what we should call it.”
Harlan Ames nodded. “Just about the right height.”
“But who was the dirty ratgirl?” Bud growled. “And why is she
out to get you? Think it has something to do with the theft of your
plans?”
Tom shrugged ruefully. “Wish I could tell you, chum. My crystal ball
is a bit clouded.”
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
Both Rock and Harlan
Ames promised to check out every possible lead. Tom, meanwhile, decided
to put the whole matter from his mind and turn his thoughts to
perfecting his matter translimator. “But that invention doesn’t
really need much more basic work,” he told himself wryly as he rode back
to the plant. “I’d better come up with something new to think about
pretty quick — to keep the ol’ Swift brain on the level!”
At home that evening, the family supper was interrupted by the soft
ring of the telephone. Mr. Swift, being closest, answered. Tom, Sandy,
and Mrs. Swift saw a look of excitement flash over his face as he took
the message.
“Thank you, Colonel. We’ll be there, of course,” Damon Swift said,
just before hanging up.
“It must be something important,” com- mented Tom’s mother. “It’s not
just anyone who knows our private number.”
“Long distance?” Tom asked.
“Yes, son, from Washington. Swifts one and all, the National
Aeronautics and Space Admi- nistration has just invited Tom and myself to
attend a meeting tomorrow morning to discuss a xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
manned government space
probe to Venus!”
“Venus? My goodness!” Sandy leapt to her feet.
Tom’s eyes lit up with thrilled interest as he and his father
exchanged glances. Tom had wanted a new challenge — and here was one
bigger than he had dreamed!
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
CHAPTER 4
PILOT FOR VENUS
THE next day Tom ate a hurried breakfast, kissed his mother and
Sandy goodbye, and drove to the plant with his father. Both shared a
feeling of stifled excitement. If the Swifts were assigned the manned
space flight to Venus, it would be the most daring venture they had ever
undertaken!
“Of course, the trip itself won’t be a problem,” Tom remarked.
“We’ve
already tra- veled to the doorstep of Venus in the Challenger.”
The Challenger was Tom’s huge xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
repelatron-driven
spaceship in which he had crossed interplanetary space to the vicinity
of Earth’s cloud-shrouded neighbor, an adventure recounted in Tom
Swift and His Space Solar- tron.
“The real challenge will arise if a landing is contemplated,”
commented Mr. Swift.
“I’ll say! Heat, pressure, a sulfurous atmo- sphere
— we’ll have to
come up with an entirely new sort of lander craft, and exploration suits
that’ll be more like deep-diver suits.”
As they drove through the private executive gate, Damon Swift said,
“I wonder why Col. Jessup made a point of asking us to bring Bud along
to the meeting?”
“Probably because he’s known as my copilot and overall crony in
adventure,” speculated Tom. “Guess they’d prefer to brief us both at the
same time.”
Bud met them on the Enterprises airfield, eager for the trip ahead.
A small commuter jet, manufactured by Enterprises’ Shopton affiliate the
Swift Construction Company, stood ready for take-off on the runway.
Bud handled the controls. “Venus!” he xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
whooped in excitement.
“Man, this is going to be more fun than flying a
monkey to the moon! — which we’ve already done, anyway.”
Within half an hour they were landing in Washington. A car awaited
to take them to NASA headquarters near the national mall.
Dr. Lars Norstrom, a lean man with Viking-blond hair, greeted them
warmly. “Good to see you again Damon, Tom. Thanks for coming on such
short notice.” Dr. Norstrom, project coordinator of the national manned
space flight program, was an old friend of the Swifts.
“We’re happy you called on us,” said Mr. Swift. “This is Bud
Barclay.”
Dr. Norstrom beamed at the young flier as he shook his hand. “Of
course. Delighted to meet you, Bud. We’re particularly eager to have you
at this meeting.”
Bud and the Swifts were somewhat mystified at the man’s last remark
but made no comment. Norstrom led them to a conference room. Another
NASA official awaited them there, Col. Scott Jessup, the former NASA
astronaut now in charge of astronaut training.
Two other men were present as well — John Clarke and Arnold
Franklin, the president and xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
the chief engineer
of the Astro-Dynamics corporation, well known
from their televised testimony before various Congressional com- mittees.
Clarke flashed a friendly smile — in fact, he and his companion were
all smiles — as he and the guests from Shopton shook hands. “Always
a pleasure to see America’s greatest space pioneers again.”
This is strange, Tom thought. Why are these guys here?
Using an electronic presentation screen, Norstrom outlined the
details of the planned Venus flight. There would be no descent to the
surface after all, but rather a lengthy and extensive study of the
planet from a low orbit. “We have a distinguished team of scientists
already selected. Of course we had to limit the roster to those who were
physically able to en- dure the round trip — more than a year in space
altogether.”
“More than a year?” repeated Mr. Swift in surprise. “Our spaceship
already made the journey across in a matter of — ” He stopped as he and
Tom were suddenly hit by an unex- pected realization.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
“You see, gentlemen,” continued Norstrom, “we’ll be using an
Astrodyne-8 booster for the launch from Canaveral. We also like the
space vehicle they’ve come up with.”
Tom was thunderstruck, however much he tried not to show it on his
face. The Astrodyne was a huge rocket manufactured by Astro- Dynamics
that had been used for some years to boost satellites into space. Though
the rocket was well engineered and reliable, Tom con- sidered it inferior
in thrust and refinements to the Swifts’ rockets — and frankly outdated.
“I... I see. Then the contract’s already been awarded?” Mr. Swift
asked.
Norstrom nodded. He appeared em- barrassed. “Yes. Now I realize this
comes as something of a surprise to you, Damon. For va- rious reasons we
think Astro-Dynamics is the way to go for this particular job.”
Now Col. Jessup spoke up. His tone was witheringly sarcastic.
“That’s great diplomacy, Lars, but the Swifts deserve to know what’s
really behind the decision. Boys, it’s politics, all politics. To put it
bluntly, the Astrodyne is pretty nearly down for the count, but it just
happens that the state in which it’s manufactured has quite xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
a few electoral
votes in play in the next national
election. Also true of the state in which the manned craft, the
Highroad, is being made.”
“In other words,” pronounced Tom impul- sively, “NASA has to play
ball with key congressmen if it wants to show up well in the next budget
bill.”
“What a smart son you have, Damon,” snorted Col. Jessup.
“At any rate, the decision is made and final,” huffed John Clarke,
no longer quite so friendly. “The contracts are signed.”
Arnold Franklin spoke, trying to make peace. “You’ll appreciate the
Highroad when you get to know her. Very advanced. Nuclear
powered, with a thrust system using a bank of mega-kick lasers to drive
it along.”
Tom Swift was intrigued in spite of himself. “Lasers? I know it’s
been on the drawing board for years — direct reaction thrust from
high-energy photon emission — ”
“Perfected in secret as part of the SDI space weaponry program.”
“I’m sure Tom and I are duly impressed,” said Mr. Swift, “and I
congratulate the two of you for your accomplishment. Now please tell
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
us why we’re here.”
Dr. Norstrom nodded at Clarke. “Our pro- blem now,” said Clarke, “is
getting an experienced astronaut for mission pilot. Of course nowadays
that means someone from Swift Enterprises. Tom here would be our first
choice, but we know he’s too busy — always is. Therefore we’d like to
borrow Bud Barclay.”
Bud drew in a long breath. He was completely flabbergasted by the
offer! Tom, too, was left speechless.
Mr. Swift smiled and looked understandingly at the young flier.
“Bud, it’s up to you.”
Tom quickly mastered his own disap- pointment and said gamely, “It’s
a terrific challenge, pal! And it’s about time you had your chance to
stand in the spotlight.”
Bud gulped uncomfortably. “I — I don’t know what to say. I’d like to
think it over, sir.”
“Take as long as you need,” said Dr. Norstrom.
“Just as long as you say yes,” added Jessup sourly.
Mr. Swift glanced at his watch. “Suppose we three talk it over at
lunch,” he suggested. “Bud has the final word, of course.”
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
The others were
agreeable, and the meeting adjourned for a two-hour break. As they ate
lunch at a hotel restaurant, Bud and the Swifts discussed the situation.
“Frankly, I’d rather not take the job,” Bud bluntly declared. “I don’t
want this. Sure, it’s exciting, but I consider myself a Swift man — first,
last, and always.”
Tom grinned at him. It wasn’t easy to do. “Thanks, pal. I’m glad you
feel that way, but you can’t let it stop you. You’ll still be a
‘Swift man’ no matter what, and this would be an honor — a chance for
you to be called ‘Skipper’ on the greatest space flight so far.”
“Tom’s right,” added Mr. Swift. “You know how much we appreciate
your loyalty, but an active space program is in our nation’s interest,
and it mustn’t rest entirely on the shoulders of Swift Enterprises.”
“You’re the man of the hour, flyboy,” said Tom with a nudge.
Bud beamed excitedly. “Then — I think I’ll give my folks a call!” By
the time lunch was over, he had agreed to accept Astro-Dy- namics’ offer.
His decision brought smiles and handshakes that afternoon at NASA
head- quarters. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
“We picked you because
you’re a space flight veteran, but you’ll still need a good deal of
specialized training for this mission. We’ll expect you in Florida next
Thursday, Bud,” Clarke told him, “to begin your test work and general
indoctrination.”
Added Col. Jessup: “You can expect to sweat a lot, kid.”
“I’ve already started!”
Back aboard the jet, an uneasy, thoughtful quiet had replaced the
momentary surge of enthusiasm. Tom took the controls. The others could
see that he was still feeling the sting of Enterprises’ not having been
given a chance to compete in the Venus project. After taking off, Tom
swung in a large arc until he was ten miles up and a hundred miles from
shore.
“I think I’ll wring this crate out a bit before we land,” he
announced. “I’m feeling like a little exercise.”
Bud grinned. “I’m always up for that. Let ’er rip,
sky-Skipper!” He knew this was Tom’s way of getting the Venus project
out of his mind — as well as the prospect of spending many months without
his close friend at his side.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
“Aerobatics?” Mr. Swift inquired, as he and Bud pulled their safety
belts tighter. “Take it easy though, son — your old man can only handle so
many G’s!”
Looking grimly determined, Tom lowered the nose of the jet to gain
speed. As he eased steadily back on the control stick, the horizon
gradually dropped below the nose of the aircraft. Only blue sky could be
seen as Tom passed over the top of a perfect loop. The occupants felt
the acceleration G force mount steadily to almost three times their own
weight.
Tom did a roll, first to the right, then to the left. “Corkscrew
maneuver,” he remarked.
Diving for speed again, he pulled the stick back and to the right,
causing the plane to roll in a vertical climb. “Not bad,” Bud said
jokingly. “Not bad.”
Tom half-rolled the jetcraft upside down, arcing to pin the
occupants in their seats as sea and sky exchanged places. But as he
attempted to recover right-side-up, Tom’s face muscles tensed suddenly.
“What’s wrong?” Mr. Swift questioned.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
“The control stick! I can’t move it!”
The craft continued to zoom along upside down, in a great roller-coaster
curve — that ended in the ocean!
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
CHAPTER 5
WELCOME HOME, AND
GOODBYE!
TOM STRAINED to free the stick. It would not budge. “The boosters in
the control system must be jammed!”
“How about the booster-release lever?” asked Bud tensely.
Tom reached for a lever to his left and pulled it hard. He tried to
move the stick. “No good! The release doesn’t work, either!”
“The air speed is increasing,” Mr. Swift warned. The plane had
entered a full-on in- verted dive. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
Tom continued to
struggle with the control stick but had no success. He desperately
wor-ked a hand-operated hydraulic pump, but he could not regain pressure.
“I’ll try the trim con- trols.” He reached to his left where two dials were located. One of them
read: aileron-trim control. He turned it slowly. The plane shuddered
slightly, then started to respond.
“We’re rolling out!” Mr. Swift cried.
Tom continued to adjust the aileron-trim con-trol. But as the jet
began to shift out of its upside-down stance, the blue ocean drawing
near as it tilted sideways over their heads, Bud suddenly gripped his
friend’s forearm. “No — no more. Shift her back, about halfway. You’ve got
to turn the arc into a full loop. Go, Tom!”
The young inventor understood instantly. Again the jet was inverted,
but not completely. Tom played the trim controls against the slipstream,
knowing that any moment they could stall out and begin to plunge beyond
all hope of recovery.
The watery horizon seemed to lower in front of them as the forces
drove the blood from their heads. For the slightest terrible instant
they nosed straight down — down seemingly in front xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
of them like a wall! Then
the moment was past. The cockeyed loop was completed. They were
topside-up once again.
“Yeah!” Bud cheered. But Tom cautioned him: “We’re not out of
this yet!”
“Have you any control at all?” Mr. Swift asked his son.
“I have rudder control, but I still can’t directly raise or lower
the nose. We can make Enter-prises, but as for a landing — ! I’m going to
try to use the elevator-trim control to bring us in. It’ll be tricky,
but it’s worth a try.”
“You can do it, pal,” said Bud quietly.
Tom skillfully adjusted the trim controls. He managed to turn the
plane toward Shopton, then tuned the cockpit radio. “Swift Enterprises
to-wer, this is Tom Swift, SCC-R19. Mayday!”
The radio receiver crackled and a voice emerged from the speaker.
“Swift tower. We copy, Tom! What’s the sitch?”
“Aileron and elevator controls inoperative. I’m one hundred
fifty miles due east. Going to attempt a landing using trim controls!”
“Copy that.” There was a pause. “Tom Swift, you are
cleared for an emergency landing on east-west runway 5. Winds north- xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
west
at one-six. We have you on radar lock. We’ll have a
crash team standing by!”
Upstate New York fled beneath them, and presently Lake Carlopa
appeared ahead. Tom maneuvered the aircraft east of Enterprises’ huge
landing field. He then turned west in order to line up with the landing
runway.
They could almost hear the sirens blaring.
“Swift tower, this is Tom on final approach!”
“You are cleared to land!”
Tom reduced power slightly for a descent. “We’ll have to come in
faster than normal to keep the trim controls effective.” Tom adjusted
the elevator-trim-control dial constantly as the plane eased downward
and approached the landing end of the runway. He increased power
momen- tarily, reduced it again, then turned the trim control to nearly
full nose-up position. The plane responded slowly and flared out about
fifteen feet above the runway. “Hold on!” Tom ordered.
“We’re holding!” gulped Bud in a whisper.
A wing dipped. Tom adjusted the aileron-trim control. The plane
gradually leveled out. Then the nose began to lower again. He turned
the elevator-trim dial to full nose-up and increased
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
power slightly. The jetcraft seemed to hang
in the air for a split-second, then dropped hard and fast onto the
runway surface. The tires screeched! Tom cut power completely. The plane
skittered along the tarmac at frightful speed.
“We’re almost out of runway!” Mr. Swift murmured.
Tom applied brakes harder and harder. Just short of the boundary,
the craft finally stopped, bowed forward, and fell back.
Bud mopped his pale forehead, then pumped Tom’s hand in silent
gratitude.
Mr. Swift patted his son quietly on the back. “Well done,” he said.
“Masterful flying, Tom.”
“Tom — and Bud,” the youth retorted, as he thought: Bud
— soon to
be off in space far far away.
The three climbed out and Tom immediately started tracing the cause
of the trouble. As emergency vehicles roared up, Tom was point-ing at the
underhull of the fuselage. A dark oval discoloration stood out against
the silver white.
“More of the cold-scorching?” Bud asked, crouching down next to Tom.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
Tom nodded. “Worse,
too. The beam af- fected the fuselage coating as it penetrated. And right
here — ”
“I know,” said the youthful pilot. “Those smart-metal servoflexor
rods of yours. I’ll bet we’ll find a pile of metal flakes when we open
her up.”
Tom snorted. “Flyboy, we can open her up right now!” He poked a
finger into the dis- colored patch — and the metal shattered like a thin
piecrust.
“This couldn’t have happened more than seconds before the stick
froze up,” declared Tom, as puzzled as he was angry. “That means they
must have been in a boat down below, zapping us just as we banked over
for that last loop. Some kind of speedboat, probably — they tailed us in
parallel as best they could. They’d hardly have been able to keep pace,
but the device must work over quite a distance, miles apparently, with a
precise focused aim like a laser beam.”
Mr. Swift had broken away from directing the emergency crew long
enough to overhear Tom’s remark. “But the question remains, what tipped
them off to our trip?”
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
Tom shrugged. “For all
we know they have operatives ready for action in every big city on the
Atlantic coast!”
“Right — ‘evil operators are standing by’!” Bud snorted.
That evening Sandy was thrilled when she learned that Bud was going
on the Venus probe project. “This calls for a farewell celebration!” she
decided implacably.
“Dear, if I might make a suggestion,” said Mrs. Swift, “why not
combine your farewell party with the welcome home party for the
Sterlings?”
Hank Sterling, Enterprises’ young chief engi- neer and a close friend
of the Swifts and Bud Barclay, had just flown back to Shopton from a
long vacation trip to South America with his wife and children. With
their usual aplomb, Sandy and Bashalli had already taken charge of
planning a celebratory gala at Range View Inn in the hills on the far
side of Lake Carlopa. “Mother, what a wonderful idea!” Sandy
bub- bled. “Tomonomo, why don’t you come up with ideas like this?”
Tom grinned. “Sorry, San. Guess I’m just not the imaginative type.”
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
The event had been
scheduled for the day before Bud was to report to Cape Canaveral. Range
View Inn, isolated among the pines, catered to hikers and flying
enthusiasts. The inn maintained its own small flying field on level
ground nearby.
The appointed day arrived. Mr. and Mrs. Sterling, Tom’s parents, and
the many other guests decided to take the drive up to enjoy the scenery.
Bud Barclay’s parents, and his much-older sister and brother, had flown
in from San Francisco and would be driving up by rented car.
Tom, Bud, Bashalli, and Sandy decided to fly. They whooshed off from
the Enterprises airfield in a small jet-assisted helicopter called the
Skeeter Two. In a handful of minutes the jetrocopter had crossed
Lake Carlopa with Sandy, a trained and certified pilot, at the con- trols.
“Is it my imagination, Sandra, or are you taking us on a rather
circuitous route?” inquired Bashalli. “Surely the point of air travel is
to proceed along a straight line?”
Sandy answered, “This is what Big Brother asked me to do. For
safety.”
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
“The ray-gunners seem
to know right away where we’re going and what we’re doing,” Tom pointed
out. “But unless they can read minds, they can’t anticipate a random
flightpath.”
Bud leaned forward. “Of course, they could go for the bottom line
and just blow up the Inn.”
“Troublesome passengers will be ejected, Budworth,” sniffed Bash
daintily. “We might have flown more stylishly in your Silent Streak
atomicar, Thomas. But it is only built for two.”
“We’re planning a four-seat model.”
“Alas for intimacy.”
“And besides, Bashi, that big dome doesn’t give much privacy anyway,
down on lover’s lane,” teased Sandy.
“So true. Alas for romance as well.”
Tom chuckled. “I guess it looks like science and technology are
going to cause the death of romance.”
“Believe me, Thomas,” said the pretty dark- haired Pakistani, “I have
found that these days, romance can not even get started.”
The jetrocopter landed at the Inn, stately and quaint next to a
small tumbling stream whose banks were strewn with wild flowers.
“Parking xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
lot’s packed. Never knew I
was so popular,” Bud observed with a wink. “Well — I guess Hank has
a few friends, too.”
Inside Bud was greeted with warm applause, as were Hank and Lauren
Sterling. And soon the various relatives arrived, to handshakes, hugs,
and kisses.
“Now tell me, Sandra,” said Bud’s mother with a mischievous smile,
“Aren’t you just a little worried about Bud’s making a play for Venus?”
“Why should I be, Mrs. Barclay?” Sandy replied impishly.
“With all that time on my hands I’ll find myself a new steady with a
classic pro- file, like Mars.”
Bud pretended to be shocked. “What, suddenly I’m your steady? I
thought we were just a couple of pals who danced together!”
“Don’t be too sure of him, sis,” Tom joked. “His heart belongs to a
rocket ship.”
“Not the Astrodyne-8, or that flashlight- powered sky buggy they’ve
planned for me,” Bud said disgustedly. “Lemme tell ya, folks, the
Swifts’ Challenger can fly rings around both of ’em!”
Dinner was still an hour away, and the clock xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
on the wall said:
Mingle. Tom found himself talking to Hank Sterling about his recent
ad-ventures in Kabulistan with the triphibian atomi- car.
“And now this freeze-ray stuff,” clucked Tom’s chief engineer
sympathetically. “Skipper, you’re the one who needs a vacation!”
“Maybe so,” responded the young scientist- inventor. Then his voice
took on a thoughtful, dreamy tone that all his friends knew very well.
“But the usual drama has accomplished one thing, Hank — an idea for a new
invention. If my approach pans out, it’ll protect us from having our
communications tapped into by lady ray-gun wielders, or anyone else.”
Sterling whistled jokingly. “I can see you’re going to put me right
back to work! So what is it, some kind of new signal-coder?”
Tom shook his head. “Nope. Try this on for size
— a communications
device that no one in the world can possibly listen in on
— ever!”
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
CHAPTER 6
ENTANGLEMENT
HANK STERLING nodded, and his expression revealed that he
was intrigued — and startled! “That’s quite a statement, Tom. Of
course we’re always coming up with new methods to keep disreputable
types from listening in on us. But for each step we take, they take
another. And they have bigger feet!”
Tom joined his friend in laughter. “If you want a thumbnail
explanation, Hank, here it is. I have a wild sort of idea to use the
principle of quan-tum entanglement to link together a pair of
communications devices in a way that, in a certain sense, annihilates
the distance between them! In effect, it’ll be like speaking right into
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
the other person’s ear — and I
think you’ll agree that in a case like that,
there’s just no room to insert any kind of bug or surveillance
device.”
“Sounds good to me!” grinned the young engineer. “I’ve read a little
about what they call ‘quantum cryptography’. But look, Tom, I’ve always
understood that using the quantum principle for basic communications was
just plain impossible. Someone give you permission to break the laws of
physics?”
“Not break them. But just maybe there’s a way to outsmart them!”
Before Tom could elaborate, a big gravelly bellow filled the room
with: “Food’s up an’ waitin’, folks! First course on the table!”
The bellower, Chow Winkler, master of the dinner, was an old and
colorful friend of the Swifts. As executive chef, he was a fixture at
Swift Enterprises. In his simple and straight- forward way the former
chuck wagon cook from Texas had saved the day — and the bacon — more than
once while traveling with his be- loved young “pardners” Tom and Bud.
The Swifts, Barclays, and Sterlings, joined by Bashalli Prandit and
her brother and sister-in- xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
law, sat at the head table
of honor. There was a place there for Chow as well, but the excitable cook spent most of his
time up on his pudgy bow-legs dealing with dinner, and keeping a wary
eye on his assistant Boris. “Cain’t trust that fancy-pants Russian t’do
things right proper,” he grumbled to Tom.
During the dinner Hank showed a video of the sights he and his
family had seen, and Tom took the microphone to briefly describe Bud’s
planned voyage and the scientific accomplishments it aimed at. When he
mentioned the Highroad spacecraft and its builder, there was a
low muttering throughout the room.
There was a break between the end of the main course and Chow’s
elaborate dessert. Dancing filled the time. The younger crowd danced to
a vibrant altmuze group Tom had brought in from the local high school. The older guests were more
strongly motivated by a rock band, the antique sounds of a quarter
century past.
“Listen to that noise!” Sandy murmured to Bashalli. “What
is it with that generation?”
“All a matter of when one grows up, Sandra,” Bash commented. “But it
is surely hard to take, having to watch all that jerking and wiggling by
our
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
elders — it seems to me rather indecent.”
Chow, standing nearby, overheard. “Wa-aal now, that there bangin’
and strummin’ ain’t so bad, and it sure gives your folks some exercise.
But I sure couldn’t jump around like that.”
“What ever happened to the foxtrot?” asked Bud.
After dessert, applause for Chow and Boris, and more dancing, the
four friends were about to leave when the Inn’s visitor’s concierge
handed Tom a folded note with his name scribbled on the outside. He
opened it and read:
Your helicopter will crash on return flight!
The warning note was unsigned. Without be- traying his reaction,
Tom folded the paper again, stuffed it into his pocket, and turned to
Bud. “Let’s go wash up, flyboy, before we start home. Excuse us, girls?”
“Yes,” Sandy answered. “We young ladies prefer associating with
washed-up men.”
Bud had guessed instantly that something was up. In the washroom Tom
took out the note and showed it to him. Bud’s face flamed with anger as
he read the message. “Those jerk-faces!” he cried. “They must have hid
somewhere in the woods watching the Inn and seen us come down
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
on the
field.”
Tom gave a grim nod.
“I doubt they tried to defeat the alarm system and plant a bomb aboard.
More than likely they’re in position to use the freeze-beam on the
chopper as we take off.”
“The hand-held one, you suppose?”
“Maybe. But they could have the long-range model, the one they used
on the jet, positioned somewhere on higher ground.”
“Yeah, to zap us as we gain altitude. Skipper, I don’t know who sent
this, but after what hap- pened to your car I wouldn’t take a chance!”
Tom did not underrate the danger, but pointed out, “It doesn’t make
any sense to plan on downing us — but warn us beforehand. This note may
have been written by some crank and might have no connection with that
road ambush or the attack on the jet.”
“Could be,” conceded Bud. “Tell you one thing, though. I’m looking
forward to visiting Venus. But I’d really prefer doing it alive!”
The two scouted up Harlan Ames, who had attended the event with his
daughter Dodie. “What does the event manager say? The fellow who brought
you the note?”
“He said he found the note on the front xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
counter by the entrance
after he’d stepped away for a few minutes,” explained Tom. “As you see,
it had my name on it. No one saw who put it there.”
“It could have been one of the employees of the Inn,” the security
chief speculated, “possibly someone planted in the work staff to spy on
you during the event. I’ll investigate, run fingerprints and so on.
“But
meanwhile, boss, what do you plan to do? Hitch a ride back?”
Tom smiled with determination. “Why not try to draw them out? Don’t
worry, Harlan. Bud and I have dreamed up one of our daring plans!”
Presently Tom and Bud strolled over to the Inn’s airfield with Mrs.
and Mrs. Barclay and Bud’s sister and brother. Tom appeared — to any
watcher — to be showing them the Skeeter, walking completely around
it very slowly, trying to glance casually at the underside of the
fuselage, as Bud hung back at the co- pilot’s hatch.
“Okay,” said Tom in tones that were just loud enough, “no
burn marks. Hop in, flyboy.”
As the Barclay family backed away, Tom and Bud vaulted into their
seats. It took all of three xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
seconds to start the
overhead blades whirling, a few more to catapult the Skeeter
upward and forward with a quick burst of jet power. In a split instant
they had hurtled across the airstrip and into the groove of the Inn’s
access road, keeping low beneath the treetops as they paralleled the
road from an altitude of a mere two yards.
“Looks like we’ve got it wired, genius boy!” exulted Bud. “They
can’t see the chopper for the trees!”
“It was a risk,” Tom admitted, “but a cal- culated one. If they’d
planned to use their big beamer — it would almost have to be fairly
big, I’d think, to have hit our jet miles high — they’d position it on
higher elevation a mile or two off. And at that angle the pines will
block it until we get close to the lake.”
“Okay. But why couldn’t they just pick us off over the lake?”
“They could — but they didn’t when we flew over on the
way. There could be some sort of clue in the fact that they haven’t used
the long- range model in, or near, Shopton. Maybe the device produces
some sort of signal burst as it discharges, something that bright boys
like us xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
could detect.”
“Maybe,” agreed Bud. “But there’s a good way for them to eliminate
that problem — dump the bright boys in Lake Carlopa!”
After a brief but tense air-hop the Skeeter landed back at
Enterprises without incident, and Tom called the cell number of Markham
Wesberg, a plant employee. He had agreed to drive Sandy and Bashalli
back to the Swift residence in his van, which the girls had entered in a
concealed way. “Everybody safe at home,” he reported. “Wow, chief — thanks
for making me a part of your adventure!”
Bud sat in Tom’s lab, regarding his chum with a grave expression as
the young scientist- inventor clicked the telephone off “What have you
gotten yourself tangled up in this time, Tom? Not that I’m worried that
you won’t be able to handle it, but — you know.”
“I know,” said Tom, giving Bud’s shoulder a squeeze, thinking:
But — you wish you were going to be here to see how I do it.
Bud spent the night at the Swifts’, rising at dawn to meet his
chartered jet at the Shopton Airport. Though excited at the prospect
ahead, the young pilot seemed subdued at parting from xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
Tom and the familiar
surroundings of Swift Enterprises. Tom, too, was keenly aware of a pang
of sadness. After sharing so many ad- ventures on their daring space
voyages, he would not be with his pal on this new cruise into the
unknown.
“Let me know what you find under that cloud cover up on Venus,
rocket boy,” Tom said, trying to sound cheerful — and not choke up.
“Oh, I will. Telling the whole story’ll give me something to look
forward to. And as a matter of fact — ” Bud’s face brightened. “By the
time I’m done with training, I’ll bet you’ll have that new radio gizmo
up and running! Give me one of the units and we can talk from one end of
space to the other!”
“I promise, Bud. When you lift off, you’ll have one of my
parallelophones in your space locker.”
Bud winced comically. “What-o-phone? Man, let’s just call it
a Private-Ear Radio, okay?”
“Okay.” The word hurt Tom as he said it.
Bud glanced at his wristwatch, a gift from his best pal. “Time to
get goin’.” He paused at the door, then said quietly: “It won’t be half
so xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
much fun without you
along, Skipper... genius boy.” Giving Tom a playful, half-hearted poke
in the ribs, Bud strode off abruptly.
Deep in thought, Tom breakfasted quietly, then hopped into his car,
newly repaired, and drove to his private laboratory at Enterprises. He
was baffled and angry at the attempts to injure him. Who was behind the
bizarre high-tech attacks? And why?
The Swifts and their revolutionary scientific inventions had often
been targets for scheming criminals and subversive agents. Recently,
with Bud at his side, Tom had fought for his life against deadly enemies
while on a difficult engineering mission in the Middle East. In outer
space and under the sea, and everyplace in between, the young
scientist-inventor had faced heavy odds in his restless urge for new
achieve- ments. And the dangers were never to him alone.
Heaving a sigh, Tom gave up trying to solve the puzzle for the
present and strode into his lab. “Too much to do to spend time
worrying,” he muttered restlessly, settling down at his workbench in
front of his design computer and circuitry emulator. “If we’re to have
any rest from these guys, it may depend on getting the xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
communicator done — the ‘Private-Ear Radio’.”
Tom was hours-deep in work when he was interrupted by a call from
George Dilling, the plant’s chief of communications. “I just took a call
from Congressman Van Arkyn, Tom.”
“Right, the head of the subcommittee that deals with Enterprises.
What did he want?”
“He asks you to go down to the tele- conference room
— something big.”
Dilling added: “Just you, no one else in the room. He made that very
clear. He’ll link through from D.C. in about fifteen.”
Mystified, Tom hurried to the company’s ad- vanced communications
setup, which projected video images of the conferees as if they were all
seated together around a table.
An image swam into focus in the darkness across from the young
prodigy. “Hello, Tom,” said Van Arkyn, an avuncular type in his later
60’s.
Tom nodded politely. “Hello, Congressman.” He turned his gaze to the
second figure in the circle of light, seated next to the congressman — and
his eyebrows flew up in astonishment!
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
CHAPTER 7
STEALTH AT LARGE
“ASA PIKE!” Tom exclaimed. “You’re the last person I
expected to see!”
When Tom had been preparing for his first trip into space, an
unknown enemy had endangered his plans. Following a lead, he and Bud had
traveled to a coastal town where they recruited a local man, Asa Pike,
to assist them. Yet later events suggested that Pike was much more than
what he seemed, and in the end he had vanished without a trace — leaving a
broad hint that he was an agent of a deep-cover U.S. security agency
which called itself
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
“Collections”.
The sun-craggy older man returned a smile. “What’s that, son? Asa
Pike? Never heard of th’ feller. Friend o’ yours?”
Tom grinned. “He turned out to be a very good friend!”
“Well then, good f’ him.”
Tom used the signature phrase of the Collec- tions group. “Are our
tax dollars still at work?”
Pike’s eyes twinkled. “Always are, don’t ye think?”
“Let’s not worry about introductions,” stated Congressman Van Arkyn.
“Something of grave import has come up, Tom, and this gentleman is in
the best position to tell you about it.”
Tom nodded, waiting. “Say there, young man, I hear you’ve been
havin’ a speck of trouble lately,” said the man Tom persisted in calling
Asa Pike. “Problems with your car? Jet plane, too?”
“I’m not surprised that you folks know about it,” was Tom’s reply.
“Can you tell me who’s be- hind it?”
“Who? Enemies, I’d say. A gang o’ scrow- lywogs who have a
nice business stealing blue- prints and th’ like, and puttin’ them up
t’auction, xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
so t’ speak.”
“Such as my translimator plans?”
“Plucked ’em right out of your laser beam.”
“But how could they manage such a thing?” Tom demanded
incredulously.
“Same way they been keepin’ an eye on you, Tom,” Pike replied. “And
that happens t’be why we’re speakin’ here right now.”
“They stole a completed prototype from the Defense Department,”
interjected Van Arkyn. “It’s something vital to national security, and
at large in the world it’s extremely dangerous.”
“A weapon of some kind?” Tom asked, thinking of the ray device.
But Asa Pike should his head. “Nope, young feller. Not in the way
you’re a-thinkin’. It’s a flying remote-control spy drone, t’ put it
plain. They call it — your gov’mint likes nicknames too, y’know! — the
Eyeballer.” He held up a piece of paper before the camera lens. “Here’s
a rough sketch, fer you and anybody else who might be cuttin’ in on us.”
The object in the picture was shaped something like a starfish, with
a disklike center. “This sketch shows it top view. Can’t show you xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
the side, because they ain’t no side, Tom. It’s about as thin as a playin’
card! Stealth sort o’ thing, they call it. Hard to pick up on radar.”
“I understand,” Tom said. “Like the stealth bomber. How big is it?”
Pike grinned. “Oh, let’s see now. About this big, I’d say.” He held
up a hand, fingers spread.
“Good grief!” gasped the young inventor. “The miniaturization must
be — ”
“You can see why the Pentagon is most anxious to have it back in our
possession,” declared the congressman. “The prototype itself, the plans
and any copies of them, and the perpetrators.”
“Of course!” said Tom. “Who are the suspects?”
“Not so sure,” said Pike. “Not so sure as we’d care to tell you what
we’re thinking, that is.”
“Are you saying this device has something to do with the attacks on
me?”
“Purt sure on that one,” Asa Pike confirmed. “See now, one thing
about the Eyeballer is how fast she moves — about Mach Four! Gets there
from cruise speed in jest a handful of seconds. So one day, let’s say,
they have it flying up over
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
Swift Enterprises,
watching who’s coming and going, eyeing — fer
example — Tom Swift’s little bronze car as it goes a-toolin’ down the
road. Mighty nice if you want t’ set up an ambush.
“Or mebbe you keep an eye on the com- munication antennas and that
laser do-jiggy up on the roof, waitin’ to see when she fires up. Always
have t’ send out a few test pulses before y’start in with the message,
am I right? Which gives the Eyeballer plenty o’ time to zip on into
line, catch the ray, then send it on agin almost b’fore you know it.”
“The perfect spy machine,” pronounced Tom. “They must have had it
trail the jet the other day, all the way to Washington.”
“Say! — must have at that. So, they do what they can t’spy on where
you go for your meeting, and then when you leave they fly it out
underneath you and shoot that freezer thingy o’ theirs — stolen from th’
Germans, if you want t’know — right up your belly.”
“Then they don’t have a tight-focus long range model after all,” Tom
muttered. “They just get up close with a miniature model, hand held or
mounted on the Eyeballer. But why
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
xxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
wouldn’t they have used the drone
yesterday to attack the jetrocopter?
The trees wouldn’t have blocked something like that.”
Pike winked conspiratorially. “Now that, son, is what I’d
call a very good question. Almost makes ye wonder if somethin’ else was
a-goin’ on with that note you got.”
“Do you know the answer?”
“Nope. Lots else, as you kin see. Not that’n, though.”
Van Arkyn said, “The Eyeballer is coated with that antidetection
sheathing you Swifts came up with, and has holographic emulators — like
little TV screens, they say — all over its surface, causing it to blend in
with the back-ground like a chameleon. We built it, but haven’t a clue as
to how to detect it out in the field. We’re hoping you can solve it,
Tom.”
Thinking of the size and importance of the challenge, Tom let out a
deep breath. “I’ll try, but I’ll need to know more of the details — how
it’s propelled, its power source, and so on.”
“When you return to your office, you’ll find that a special courier
has deposited blueprints in your safe,” the congressman stated.
“Stand t’reason these gabbers have listened
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
|
t’everything we’ve jest
said,” noted Pike calmly. “No matter — they’d be plain
idjits not to guess from the get-go that we’d come to Tom Swift with
this. Good chance they’ll pull the Eyeballer away from your factory now,
fer safety. But I’m a-guessin’ that won’t stop ye, not likely. Hmm?”
  |