Monsters of nightmarish size were surging
forward out of the darkness

THE TOM SWIFT INVENTION ADVENTURES

TOM SWIFT
AND HIS REPELATRON
SKYWAY

BY VICTOR APPLETON II

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TOM SWIFT AND HIS
REPELATRON SKYWAY

    
    
CHAPTER 1
        
    
 

FIREFLIGHT

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“I GOTTA tell ya, Tom Swift, ol’ buddy, you’ve come up with a lot of strange-looking flying machines, but this one — !” The speaker, Bud Barclay, spoke from knowledge and experience. He was not only an expert pilot, but best friend to Shopton’s fair-haired young inventor.
    Tom laughed. “Uglier than the atomicar?”
    “Hey, I like the atomicar. And this automatic skywriter of yours isn’t exactly ugly, just — pe- culiar.”
    The two were seated side by side in Tom’s newest vehicular invention, a twin-blade helicraft  xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

of radical design. The craft sat ready for takeoff, blades a spinning blur, on a helipad at the great Swift invention factory, Swift Enter- prises.
    “It’s not just a fancy skywriter, flyboy,” Tom pointed out. “The Workchoppers will be able to do all manner of things. The line could be as popular as our Pigeon Specials when Swift Construction starts turning ’em out.”
    “Assuming they come through the test flights with the usual flying colors,” Bud noted.
    The dark-haired youth had joined his friend for the prototype Workchopper’s first venture beyond the confines of the four-mile-square grounds of Enterprises. The two sat in the cockpit dome that topped the craft’s odd, high-sided fuselage, the horizontal lift blades set at the top of narrow support columns that rose on either side of the pilots. In a way the chopper resembled a stubby metal fish poking through the middle of a huge, old-fashioned portable TV set.
    Tom, a rangy youth with an untended blond crewcut, drew back the control lever in front of him. With barely a sound, just the faintest whisper of sliced air, the Workchopper took to xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

the sky.
    Bud looked impressed. “Mighty smooth.”
    “That’s the idea, pal,” responded Tom. “The chopper isn’t just versatile but extremely agile, capable of very precise maneuvering — real thread-the-needle stuff. And because the blades are so short, they don’t extend beyond the ‘footprint’ of the fuselage. You could set her down in a small clearing — even in an alleyway between two buildings, practically.”
    “Like your cycloplane.”
    “True. But it’s designed for special tasks the cycloplane could never handle.”
    Peaking at one thousand feet, Tom guided the craft out over nearby Lake Carlopa.
    Bud asked how fast the Workchopper could travel. “Well, nothing like our jet-powered jobs,” Tom conceded. “About the speed of a con- ventional helicopter.” He added that forward motion was achieved by slightly tilting the vertical axis of the blades. “They can be tilted in any direction, which lets us make sharp turns at low speed, or rotate the fuselage by giving them opposite slants. We could even back up!”
    “Wow! My convertible can’t even manage that!”
 

    Passing over the middle of the gleaming crescent of lake, they mounted higher, settling in at one mile. Upstate New York, dotted with green hills and patches of woods, spread out before them.
    “Guess you can’t escape pollution these days wherever you go,” commented Bud, gesturing toward a low brownish-gray haze in the distance.
    Tom’s eyes narrowed. “Bud — I think I see flames on the ground.”
    “Good grief, a forest fire!”
    “Yes, and those woods curve all around Northshore Park, right up to the lake!”
    Tom gunned the copter toward the woods. An updraft of heated air buffeted the ship as it neared the smoking area.
    “This is going to be a real blaze!” Bud said.
    “And no lookout station around here, either,” Tom muttered anxiously. Tongues of orange flame could be seen through the smoke, leaping from tree to tree. Perennially short on water despite the lake, the region was especially dry at this time of year. The trees and underbrush would feed the flames like stacks of old newspapers.
 

    The fire was spreading toward the main park road. “With those arching branches, the blaze could easily jump across the road!” Tom exclaimed. “Everybody in the park will be trapped!”
    Tom’s copilot shuddered. “They don’t realize what’s happening yet — the breeze is keeping the smoke down low and the ridge is blocking their view. But it sure won’t block the fire! Think we could set this copter down on the road?”
    “No point to that now.” Tom headed the ship in a wide, circling sweep over the woodland. At a number of spots the boys glimpsed people grouped around picnic tables. Tom said grimly, “You’re right — they haven’t the faintest notion yet that a fire has started! I’ll alert the police.” Tom used the cockpit cellphone to call his friend Captain Rock of the city police force.
    “We’ve been alerted already,” the man replied brusquely, “and the fire crew is on the way. But — ”
    “But they’ll have to drive the whole circuit around the end of the lake,” Tom declared. “We’ll have to warn the people ourselves. They’ll be relatively safe if they head toward xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

the shore, but if they try to use the park access road they’ll be trapped.”
    “Hold it, Tom,” Captain Rock warned. “Don’t go in low with that copter of yours — you’ll fan the flames and make things worse.”
    “No, sir, it won’t be a problem. The Workchopper blades — I call them aeolivanes — use an electronic principle to create high- pressure air pockets underneath them as they rotate. It not only gives them super-strong lift, but there’s virtually no propwash at all.”
    “Okay. You can tell me all about it — later!”
    Tom clicked off his phone and Bud suggested: “Let’s go down as low as possible.”
    Tom elevatored down to treetop level, and Bud opened the dome hatchway next to him and leaned out to bellow at one group of picnickers seated at a table. His voice was drowned out by the loud music they were playing. The people merely laughed and waved back — obviously unaware of their danger.
    “Jetz! 1 can’t get through to them!” Bud exclaimed in despair. “Drop down, Tom, and I’ll do a Paul Revere act on foot!”
    The young inventor shook his head. “Even if we both ran around shouting, we’d be trapped xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

ourselves before half the people in the park got the word.”
    “But we must do something!” Bud insisted.
    “We’re going to,” Tom calmly replied. He took the Workchopper up to several hundred feet, where nearly all of the grassy park, which was divided by sections of woodland into several separated areas, was visible. Picking up a microphone from the board, the young inventor activated the craft’s external speakers.
    “Attention, everybody! There’s a fire spreading through the woods! Don’t try going to your cars — you’ll be safe if you head toward the lake!”
    He repeated the message several times. A few clumps of people seemed to understand and began hurrying toward the shoreline. But the youths were dismayed to see that most people seemed to be ignoring the message. “Maybe they can’t make out what you’re saying,” Bud declared worriedly. “Got another ‘something’ to try, Skipper?”
    Tom nodded. “As I told you, the Workchopper is versatile and has a lot of special uses. You’ll see one right now!”
    Heading the craft on a course high over Lake xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Carlopa, Tom began writing with an electronic stylus on a sensor panel in front of him.
    
FOREST FIRE ! NO CAUSE FOR PANIC BUT ACCESS ROAD IS BLOCKED . HEAD FOR THE LAKE SHORE IMMEDIATELY . YOU WILL BE SAFE THERE . FIRE FIGHTERS ARE ON THE WAY .
    
     As Tom wrote, enormous glowing letters began to appear in the sky in front of them, as if on a giant, floating movie screen. Bud noticed that his pal’s hasty scrawl had been automatically transformed into neat, clear lettering that stood out against a dulled background.
    Next, Tom switched the skywriter’s color selector and added a sweeping green arrow, slanting down to point toward the lakefront.
    “Man, this is the greatest thing since the invention of the fire engine!” Bud enthused. “That sky-sign can be seen for miles around!”
    Pleased and relieved, Tom gave a nod. “And I selected an option that causes the image to be visible inland, but not in the reverse direction, from the lake. It’d be safer not to have a fleet of boaters trying to pull off a rescue and getting xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

in the way.”
    “Plan to spend a long time explaining to me how all this stuff works,” Bud said wryly. “How long will the writing keep its shape before the paint or gas — or whatever it is — scatters?”
    “It won’t scatter at all, although the lines of writing may drift with the air currents.” Tom added that before the arrow was blown out of line, he himself would dissipate the image at the touch of a button. “One way or another, everyone in the park will have gotten the message in a minute or two.”
    Tom’s skywritten warning had an immediate electrifying effect on the park patrons. They grabbed their footballs, doused their fires, and hurried toward the shore, where a crowd quickly assembled. The boys were pleased to see that there were no signs of panic.
    Tom deleted his sign and guided the chopper across the fire. The two waited patiently in the air, watching the main highway on the far side of the burning woods. “Here come the fire fighters!” Bud exclaimed presently.
    Several fire trucks could be seen speeding toward the turnoff to the park. One by one they halted and began to deploy their high powered xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

hoses and special equipment.
    By this time, as feared, the fire had become a hungry inferno, glowing like a furnace under the billowing clouds of black smoke. “Looks like they’re beating it back pretty well, though,” observed Bud.
    “If this Workchopper were fully loaded, we’d be able to help them fight the fire directly. But I guess all we can do now is fly back to Enterprises. At least the people are safe.”
    “And mighty grateful, I bet!”
    They put about and angled off in the direction of the lake.
    Suddenly Tom gasped. “Bud — !”
    Below them, a crowded minibus had halted in the middle of the park’s unpaved access road, its passengers craning their necks out the side windows fearfully. The fire had leapt the road in front and behind them, and blazing tangles of branches had fallen across the way in big clumps. They were completely surrounded!
    “Good night!” Bud whispered, mouth dry. “M-Maybe we can land next to the van and get the passengers on board!”
    “All those passengers? They’d never fit!”  xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
 

Tom didn’t need to add that the crawling edge of the fire was closing in rapidly, a tightening noose. It seemed they would have less than a minute to mount a rescue.
    Tom said no more. He steered the Workchopper to a point directly over the bus, then began to descend. Tiny cameras, mounted at various points on the fuselage, including its underside, showed in clear detail what lay beneath them.
    The helicraft stopped smartly just a few feet above the roof of the minibus. Through external microphones, the two pilots could hear the frantic cries of those below — fear and panic, now tinged with hope as the shadow of the chopper fell across them.
    As Tom worked the controls, his pal’s gray eyes grew big with wonder. The monitor showed that four metallic “arms” had telescoped down from the underhull of the Workchopper. At the end of each arm was a mechanism that evidently rotated various selected implements — hands for the arms — into position for use.
    The young inventor had selected a thick, disk- shaped implement. He lowered the units to xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

four corners of the base frame of the minibus and brought them into contact with it. Then he gunned the blades.
    The Workchopper lurched into the air, the imperiled bus dangling beneath like a fish on a line!
    The linked vehicles made a smooth, high arc over the borders of the park and the woods beyond. Tom set the bus down at the side of the highway, releasing it and retracting the gripper-arms. “Have a nice day!” he called through the loudspeaker, winking at Bud.
    Out over Lake Carlopa, Bud found his voice. “Jetz! That was — I dunno what! Pal, I’d say your new chopper is a terrific success.” Bud grinned, settling himself back in the copilot’s seat. “Okay. Now that my eyes are starting to believe themselves, tell me more about it.”
    “My main reason for inventing the skywriting gear,” Tom explained, “was because I felt it might be useful in time of disaster — situations in which the usual means of communication are knocked out.”
    Bud nodded. “You sure proved that! But what is it anyway, some kind of projection? It’s xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

sure not the usual smoke-trails they use in ordinary skywriting.”
    “The chopper shoots out a fine spray of Inertite nanofilaments — the same sort of arrangement we use for the XAIP balloon-bag.”
    Inertite, a phenomenal substance composed of “non-matter matter” with extraordinary pro- perties, had first been discovered by Tom during his expedition to the caves of nuclear fire in Africa. He had subsequently found many uses for the anomalous quasi-substance, which could be fabricated in the form of stringy inter-linked particles smaller than the nucleus of an atom. Almost weightless and completely transparent in thin sheets, he had used a stable webbing of Inertite as the skin of the lift-bag of a high-altitude vehicle he had recently developed. “Do you get the idea, Bud? As I write or draw, a computer-controlled ‘scanning beam’ induces the electromagnetic resonance effect that causes the filaments to link up and mesh together, just as they do in the protective airdomes we make.”
    When Bud nodded, Tom went on: “The effect modulates the microdensities in the floating ‘cloud’ in such a way that light is refracted away, creating a dulled background. At the same xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

time, the particle-chains inside the outlines of the letters — or whatever shape we want to create — are configured to reflect selected light-frequencies.” He added that, unlike standard skywriting, the display could be made visible at night by using a searchlight beam with a diffusion lens.
    “And I suppose you just switch off that resonance deal to disperse the cloud when you’re done with it,” Bud mused sagely. “An advertiser’s dream!”
    “Exactly what George said.” George Dilling, chief of Enterprises’ publicity and “public interest” office, was always quick to point out the potential commercial application of Swift inventions.
    “And those robot arms — like the ones on your giant robots?”
    “Right, with all kinds of goodies at the end. I used miniature versions of Dad’s vacuum-lifter to grab the bus.” Tom added that the chopper itself was held in steady balance by a pair of his gravitex stabilizers, and that small repelatrons — amazing force-ray beamers tuned to specific combinations of elements — directly stabilized whatever was being hoisted.


 

    Bud laughed. “You’re in good hands with Tom Swift!”
    Tom called Captain Rock from midair and was relieved to learn that the forest fire — apparently ignited by a downed power line — was now under control. There had been no serious injuries.
    They landed at Enterprises. After reporting to his father at home, who promised to pass along the story to George Dilling for the inevitable news consumption, Tom went to the big modernistic office he shared with his father, a virtual showroom of Swift family inventions displayed as detailed models. Its most recent addition, a needle-shaped spacecraft with an arrowhead-like device on its nose, illustrated a dangerous exploit from which Tom and Bud had just returned — their confrontation in space with the asteroid pirates.
    As Bud sat himself down with a plop, Tom rounded his desk to his own chair — then jumped back with a yelp of surprise!
    “What’s wrong?” Bud exclaimed.
    “Wh-What’s wrong? Better you should ask — what is it?”
    Bud jumped to his feet and ran to his friend’s xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

side, following Tom’s gaze to the seat of the office chair next to his desk.
    Sitting on the cushion, facing them impassively, was a small, eerie object — an object that stared back at the two with wide, fierce eyes!
    

    
    
CHAPTER 2
    
    
    

THE FRIGHTFUL FACE

    
    
    
    
    
THE WEIRD object, about the size of an outstretched palm, resembled a human face, long and narrow with a sharp-pointed chin. Its huge eyes and down-twisted mouth proved, on closer inspection, to be holes carved in the wooden face. It was propped up against the back of the chair.
    “Okay, genius boy, it was your question,” Bud stated. “So what is it?”
    Tom approached it and scrutinized it carefully. “Some kind of mask, I guess, scaled down. It looks African. Munford Trent must have set it there.”
 

    “Wrong, Professor!”
    The declaration had half a giggle in it. Two pretty girls glided breezily into the office bearing big smiles.
    “Hi, Bash! Hi, Sandy!” Tom exclaimed. Bud echoed his greeting as the boys turned to their visitors.
    “We came to make sure you two fabulous flying heroes were all right,” teased Sandra Swift, Tom’s blond year-younger sister.
    “We received a call from Father Swift at the coffeehouse — news on the fly, one might say,” explained raven-haired Bashalli Prandit, who had become a close friend of the Swift family and Bud. “Naturally we were compelled to seek, firsthand, your exciting elaboration of the forest fire rescue.”
    “We saw your new copter on TV when you two were carrying that big van over the fire,” Sandy said more seriously. “It was really thrilling!”
    “Plenty hot, too,” Bud replied with a wry chuckle. “But your modest blushing brother over there is the genius who deserves all the credit.”
    Tom changed the subject by waving the two xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

around the desk and pointing to the mask. “Don’t tell me you’ve been shopping again, sis,” he joked.
    With a wink Bud put in: “Must be another of those ‘anonymous’ gifts from your almost-old-enough-to-shave admirer in town.”
    Sandy’s blue eyes twinkled above a slightly embarrassed frown. “Not this time. It’s for you, Tom. Maybe you’re the one with the admirer!”
    “We arrived a few minutes before you, and Mr. Trent showed it to us.” Bashalli’s reference was to the Swifts’ efficient secretary and receptionist. “We offered to bring it into the office. And then, typically, we hid around the corner.”
    “And all you got for your trouble was a little yelp,” said Bud.
    “Yes, Budworth. I think you two adventurers are finally beyond human excitement.”
    Tom was smiling, but his tone reflected sober curiosity. At Swift Enterprises the unexpected often concealed danger. “Where did it come from? Did Trent say?”
    “Oh yes,” Sandy answered. “Security delivered it to him this morning. And please don’t worry, Tomonomo. It’s been TeleTec’d xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

and spectroscoped and everything else they could think of. Certified bug-free and bomb- free.”
    “Yet still quite ugly,” pronounced Bash. “I would say it is a small souvenir version of an African tribal fertility mask, perhaps to be worn on a chain about the neck.”
    Tom snorted. “Fertility? Somebody must think we’re growing crops here at Enterprises!”
    Bashalli, Sandy, and Bud exchanged mock-startled glances at the young inventor’s words.
    “Anyway,” Sandy said, “here’s what it was wrapped in. It came by special parcel delivery.”
    Tom took the brown wrapping paper and noted the return address on the label. “Mm-hmm, from the Ngombian Embassy in Washington, D.C.,” he observed in surprise.
    “Ngombia? There’s the Africa connection,” Bud noted with keen interest. “Even I’ve heard of it!”
    “Yes,” Tom replied. “A country that overthrew its military dictator recently and gave itself a new name. As a matter of fact,” he added, “they’re sending an official here to Enterprises tomorrow to discuss some new project. Maybe this carving is some sort of xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

traditional gift — the ‘god of good luck’.”
    Bashalli gave a disapproving look. “Well, I would say it’s not good luck for the eyes. It may be stylish neckwear in Ngombia, but to me it looks like some kind of devil mask.”
    Bud agreed. “It’d sure make a great Halloween present.”
    Tom grinned but pointed out, “Actually, I think it’s supposed to be a desk ornament. Look down below the chin — it has a tiny body with wide feet to stand on and big hands to hold a pen instead of a spear.” He picked up a small object attached to the base, wrapped in tissue paper. “Here’s the pen that goes with it.”
    “Charming,” Sandy pronounced sarcas- tically.
    The four engaged in animated banter for a time, and Tom and Bud dramatically recounted the inside story of the air rescue. When the girls left, Tom called Munford Trent into the office. He confirmed the girls’ report. “I don’t really have anything to add. If you don’t think it goes with your office decor... well, please don’t insist that I put it on my desk.”
    As Bud laughed, Tom responded: “Don’t worry. But we’d better have it on display xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

tomorrow when our guest arrives, or he’ll put some kind of voodoo curse on us!”
    Tom and Bud stepped over to the nextdoor office to speak to Enterprises’ reliable head of security, Harlan Ames. Other than reiterating that the mask had been carefully examined after its delivery to Enterprises, he had no further information.
    As Tom and Bud wheeled back around the corner to the Swifts’ office, they were startled as Trent appeared at the office door.
    “H-Help me! I — I’m — ”
    The secretary’s hands clawed at the door frame as he tried to support himself. Bluish veins bulged out in his face, and he was gasping for breath! “Good grief! Trent! What’s wrong?” cried Tom in amazement.
    The man was unable to answer and seemed on the verge of collapse. As Bud lowered him into a chair, he whispered to Tom, “Look at his hand.” The skin of Trent’s left hand had taken on a livid purple hue, which seemed to be slowly spreading up his arm even as they watched.
    Frantic, Tom called the plant medico, Doc Simpson. “I won’t waste time by running up xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

there,” he declared calmly. “I’m sending a stretcher and emergency pack. They’ll get him stable if they can, then bring him over. I’ll ready the equipment.”
    “Any idea what it might be?”
    “Not yet. Poison, toxic gas — maybe he’s having a coronary!” Simpson gave Tom some further brisk instructions, then hung up.
    In two minutes the emergency team had arrived; in three, they were gone with their charge, who had lost consciousness.
    Bud followed Tom into the office. Both were shaken. “What could’ve happened, Tom?” asked the young pilot. “You were just joking about a voodoo curse — I mean... weren’t you?”
    “Look at this!” Tom motioned Bud over and indicated a notepad on the desk. The mask-figure had been set next to it, and a pen, apparently carved from ivory, lay next to its discarded wrapping tissue on the top sheet of paper.
    The paper bore writing in big letters. “The demon gods of Ngombia doom you to a terrible...” A ragged line trailed off the paper from the end of the uncompleted message.
 

    Bud was wide-eyed. “Good night! Somebody must have snuck in and — ”
    “It’s Trent’s handwriting,” observed Tom. “He was probably just trying out the pen after he unwrapped it.”
    “Maybe the pen has a chemical on it — or gives off some kind of gas!”
    “If so, it’s odorless. But you know, the fire sensor on the ceiling also spectro-samples the air, continuously. It’s a safety feature we’ve put in all over the plant. Of course,” he went on, “there could be some kind of contact poison on the pen that doesn’t evaporate...”
    Keeping his hand well away from the pen, the young inventor carefully tore off the sheet of note paper and held it close to his eyes. “The word ‘doom’ is slightly smudged, but other than that I don’t see — ”
    “Jetz! Drop it!”
    Bud lunged forward to knock the sheet from Tom’s hand. But his startling cry had already done the job. The paper fluttered down to the carpet. “Flyboy! What’s going on?”
    Bud clamped a hand on his pal’s arm and drew him several steps back. “It hit me — it’s not the pen, Tom, it’s the ink!”
 

    “The ink!”
    The athletic youth nodded vigorously. “For once I got the idea before you did! The effect started on Trent’s left hand — and the guy’s left handed.”
    “His writing hand!”
    “Yeah! He must’ve smeared the ink accidentally with the edge of his hand, and it started to affect him before he could get more than a few more words down.”
    “That must be it.” Tom’s words were grim, his face white from his narrow escape. “The Security inspection wouldn’t have included taking the pen apart to test a sample of the ink. But — ” The scientist-inventor’s mind was spinning furiously. “The ink probably contains a fast-acting nerve agent of some type that adheres to the surface of the skin. My gosh! — they’d formulate it so that it wouldn’t just wipe off or wash off. It may still be releasing the toxin into Trent’s bloodstream!”
    Bud completed the thought. “And it’s killing him — even as we speak!”
    “Come on!”
    Tom sprinted toward the office door, scooping up an object from a display shelf in a xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

single smooth motion.
    In minutes the two had flung open the door to the Enterprises Infirmary. Doc Simpson, bent over the prone Munford Trent, barely glanced up. The secretary’s mouth was covered by an oxygen mask and his outer clothing had been cut away. “I’ve called Shopton Memorial, but he’s sinking fast. Some kind of progressive muscle paralysis affecting his heart and lungs.”
    “This may help!” Tom exclaimed.
    The object in his hands was an intricate model of an invention called the spectromarine selector, or spectrosel. It was a working model, though crude and limited compared to the real device, which was as big as a military cannon.
    “I know you used the spectrosel to clean off that skin fungus in the underwater city,” Doc said. “But this isn’t a fungus, Tom.”
    “No, but I think there’s something on the skin, a nerve toxin, that can’t be removed by ordinary medical solvents. But the spectrosel should be able to ‘read’ it and whisk it off.”
    Doc let out a sharp breath. “Try it.”
    Tom moved the tubular mouth of the unit close to Trent’s left hand and arm. He aimed at the purple splotch and thumbed the control xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

button.
    “Looks like it’s working,” he murmured. The ugly, spreading rash had begun to lighten and retreat before their eyes.
    As Tom continued, Doc rushed close and applied his stethoscope to Trent’s bare chest. “Heartbeat a little steadier already,” he pronounced. “Without more of the toxin flowing in through the skin, I think we can turn the corner.” He injected a heart stimulant.
    The effect of Tom’s quick action soon became obvious. Trent’s color slowly returned to normal, and he no longer struggled for breath. His eyelids flickered. “Don’t try to talk,” Doc ordered gently. “You’re going to be all right, my friend.”
    The crisis over, Tom and Bud left the infirmary, and the young inventor gave an account of the incident to an astounded Harlan Ames, who promised to contact the Ngombian Embassy.
    That evening Tom called Doc Simpson from home. “Trent’s doing fine,” Tom reported to his parents and Sandy as he hung up the telephone.
    “In a way you owe him your thanks, Tom,” said Damon Swift. “Under normal circum- xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

stances — ”
    “I know, Dad. I would have been the one to use the pen.”
    “And you wouldn’t have had Tom Swift to figure out what to do!”
    “You know, they never just shoot a person,” Sandy declared thoughtfully. “You’d think they’d learn that ‘simple is best’.”
    “Well, Dear, it’s just possible they don’t want to be caught,” suggested Tom’s mother, her pretty eyes twinkling despite the gravity of the situation. “Hiring a hit man might get the job done, but those big lugs do tend to leave a trail of clues — on television, at least.”
    Tom smiled, but said: “I think we have a few clues even without a careless hit man. The penholder ‘mask’ was picked up at the Ngombian Embassy in D.C. and delivered straightaway to Enterprises — ‘now,’ as they say in their ads. That’s their story, anyhow.”
    “All right. Then what do they say at the Embassy?” Sandy asked.
    “That they’re horrified! According to Harlan they confirm that they sent us a gift of that description in honor of the meeting tomorrow, but they can’t imagine how the pen that went xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

with it could have been gimmicked like that.”
    “A gift in honor of the meeting. For good luck.” Mr. Swift stared down at the carpet for a silent moment, as if its patterns held the answer to the mystery. “Well, it’s safe to say that somebody somewhere wishes us anything but good fortune.”
    Tom gave a grim nod. “The worst kind of fortune — death!”
    

    
    
CHAPTER 3
    
    
    

A VISITOR VANISHES

    
    
    
    
    
THE NEXT morning, seated at his office desk and musing about the strange business of the mask-penholder, Tom received a call from George Dilling. “I just got word that your visitor from the Ngombian Embassy, Kwanu, has arrived at the public entrance.”
    “Really? He didn’t ask to be picked up at the airport?”
    “No — mentioned something about their customs, whatever. At any rate, I’ll go meet him in the Visitors Center and escort him to your office myself.”
    “Thanks, George. Please don’t try to sell xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

him one of the t-shirts!”
    Dilling laughed. “What a rep I’ve got! Don’t worry, boss, I can be diplomatic when I try real hard.”
    Some fifteen minutes later Tom rose and extended his hand as a tall, distinguished-looking African, in a colorful toga-like garment with long billowy sleeves, entered the office with Dilling at his side.
    After shaking hands warmly with Tom, the man nodded at Dilling in a manner that suggested a polite but firm dismissal. As Dilling left he again turned toward his youthful host. “Tom Swift — young inventor! How pleasant to meet you with my own eyes.”
    “Thank you, sir. Er — me too.” As the stranger sat down, Tom added tentatively: “You are perhaps Mr. Kwanu?”
    “That is correct. Ah! I neglected to introduce myself.”
    “Forgive me for keeping you waiting in the Visitors Center. We had assumed you would call us when your flight arrived, to permit us to drive you to Enterprises.”
    “Not at all,” the African said politely. “Um, um, um! We choose to retain our customs and xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

traditional ways, even in our new Ngombia.” He pronounced the name of his country nee-yom-byah. “One does not ask one’s host to play the role of a servant, you see. I rented a car and drove here myself — not so hard, if one has learnt to drive!” The man chuckled, and Tom smiled back.
    “I know you were expecting my father to join this meeting, sir,” said Tom. “Unfortunately, he had to rush over to our affiliate in Shopton, the Swift Construction Company, at the last minute. It couldn’t wait. But I often represent him.”
    The Ngombian official shrugged. “Then I shall reserve my apologies to him for another occasion. For I must ask his forgiveness for placing his son in danger by my little gift. In my culture, a gift is always given as a matter of respect. It must arrive prior to the first meeting, without disclosing the particular individual who has sent it. For we say, it is from all of us, all of Ngombia.”
    “It’s a wonderful custom,” Tom responded. “Forgive me for asking, but — do you think someone from your country may have been behind the plot?”
 

    Mr. Kwanu raised both hands as if holding an invisible beachball in front of his face. “Of course you are forgiven! Yes, it seems the only answer, what you say. You see, my boy-son, we have suffered much political turmoil since we gained our independence, and there are certain factions which would like to block Ngombia’s economic progress. They believe such boons will accrue only to the dominant tribe, the Ghidduas. Most of the government is Ghiddua; I myself am Ghiddua. But we Ghiddua are generous. We will share the wealth of the new Ngombia with all tribes.”
    Tom nodded. “Swift Enterprises has worked with what they call ‘emerging nations’ before — Kabulistan, for example. That was an economic development project, and I understand you have something similar in mind.”
    “Development? One may so call it. Without it, we are poor forever, I think. My friend,” Kwanu said, facing Tom with a smile, “you and your very famous family have the reputation of doing the impossible. We have, therefore, come to ask you to undertake an impossible task.”
    Tom grinned back, slightly embarrassed. “Thank you. If Dad were here I think he’d tell xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

you we can’t do the scientifically impossible, but we’re certainly interested in taking a few stabs at the improbable.”
    “Um, um, um. And I see you have done me the honor of placing a topographic map of my part of Africa in view. If I may — ” Kwanu rose and stepped across to the big map which stood near Mr. Swift’s desk on tripod legs. “Now, I shall give you a lesson. I shall beat you bloody with a gourd!”
    “Excuse me?”
    Kwanu giggled, in a dignified manner. “A witticism — a joke. We Ghiddua are known for our pleasant humorous banter. It is considered polite.” He turned to the map, gesturing with his hand. “My country, Ngombia, is divided into two provinces, inhabited by tribes that differ in customs.” Kwanu pointed out their locations. “West Ngombia, which is agricultural and settled, contains our capital, Huttangdala, called Princetown during the colonial period. East Ngombia, more primitive — they cannot help it; they are Ulsusu — is rich in minerals which are being mined by an international firm, Afro-Metals, Limited, by arrangement with our government. For of xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

course the Ulsusu cannot manage to do it.”
    “I’ve heard of Afro-Metals,” said Tom. “Dutch, aren’t they?”
    “Yes. Our colonial stepfathers have come back to us with some humility. Now unfortunately,” Kwanu went on, “the two pro- vinces are separated by a vast jungle with much swampland and many rivers. It is called The V’moda, a rift valley with mountains on either side. It extends from the northern border to the southern border, all the way, a sort of great gash, a knife-cut.”
    “Yes, I see.”
    “To weld our country together as one and develop it, a system of transportation must be built through The V’moda, most of which remains unexplored by the eyes of man. A modern highway, that is what we wish. This is an almost insurmountable task, according to skilled engineers.”
    “Has a route ever been surveyed?” asked Tom, fascinated by the scope of the project.
    “Yes, quite recently, by an American firm — the Burlow Engineering Company,” Kwanu replied. “My government had planned to give them a contract to build a highway. But they xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

encountered a problem.”
    “An unforeseen problem?”
    “Indeed. For a problem foreseen is perhaps not a problem, eh? The jungle, treacherous enough in itself, is split almost in two by a strange swamp,” Kwanu explained. “The high- way route must cross this swamp.”
    Tom was struck by his visitor’s choice of words. “You called it a strange swamp, Mr. Kwanu. Why?”
    “It is a dark place, full of evil. Over and over, a discouraging thing happens. Innocent people keep falling into its waters and are transformed into huge shambling monsters of vines, mud, and rotting leaves — a dreadful sight!” As Tom’s mouth gaped open, Kwanu added with teeth like pearls: “Another joke! No, it is simply a bad and smelly place. It must be crossed, my boy-son. But Burlow’s engineers are certain that the bog would not support a roadbed. As a result, their proposal called for a lengthy detour around the swamp and too-many years’ construction time for the highway — if it could be done at all.”
    “And I’m sure the cost — ”
    “Quite impossible.”
 

    “Then Burlow Engineering is no longer being considered?” Tom asked.
    Kwanu shrugged. “Surely not, no. I fear they were angry when we rejected their proposal, but we had no choice. We cannot afford their price, nor, frankly, can we wait years for our highway. To win the loyalty of the tribes — the Ulsusu, that is — and to make our country stable and prosperous, the two provinces must be linked quickly. We are hoping you can provide the solution.”
    Tom smiled wryly. “It’s a large order, Mr. Kwanu. And Burlow is very well-respected. If they can’t make it happen — ”
    Mr. Kwanu sat down again. “But they have not burrowed down to the center of the world for iron, nor have they been to the moon above. You, Tom Swift — you have done these things.”
    “Guess I can’t argue with history, sir,” responded the young inventor. “We do have something that we’re developing — ”
    “No doubt the very thing that I read about, which drew me to you at this time, a sort of trestle to span great chasms. I have been advised of it.”
 

    “Yes. It’s called the repelaspan. As a matter of fact, we’re about to begin preliminary testing.”
    “It is my thought,” said Kwanu, “that such a thing might be used to span the swamp. Perhaps indeed, the entirety of The V’moda!”
    Tom grinned — yet couldn’t deny that the prospect intrigued him! “That’s pretty ambitious, sir. Before anything else, I need to look over the survey reports from Burlow.”
    “I was well prepared for that hopeful eventuality,” Kwanu declared, evidently very pleased. He reached down to the leather briefcase sitting at his feet, and Tom heard him open the clasp.
    He began to mutter, twisting in the chair and bending lower. Then he pulled the briefcase up onto his lap and began to rifle through it. “What is this, what is this?”
    “Sir?”
    At an angle, his eyes met Tom’s. “This is wrong, all wrong! This is not my briefcase!”
    Tom half-stood, startled and perplexed. “Did you bring the wrong — ”
    “I am not wrong,” the man snapped irritably. “It is wrong. It! The briefcase I carried with xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

me, the one I looked through in the car before leaving the airport — stolen!”
    The young inventor rounded his desk and stood for a moment at the man’s elbow. What he was saying seemed senseless. “I don’t understand.”
    “No? The stolen briefcase contained Burlow Engineering’s proposal, based on the survey for which we paid. It included complete details on the likeliest route, terrain, soil sampling, and other information,” Kwanu continued. “Yes! — the very report I was bringing here for your use, boy-son.” He closed the briefcase and seemed to calm himself. “However, the original report is in Huttangdala, and it will be only a matter of a day or two before we can have another copy sent to you, by electronics. Modern world, eh? Um, um, um. It would have been a great help to you in assessing the problem realistically if I could have presented the papers to you now. We had hoped for an immediate answer.”
    “It would have helped,” Tom agreed. “We don’t want to give a false picture of what we might be able to do, Mr. Kwanu. This certainly sounds like an interesting and challenging job, but we’ll need time to think it over and prepare xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

some sort of proposal. My father will he back this evening, sir. Could you stay in Shopton for a further discussion tomorrow?”
    Kwanu shook his head distractedly. “I fear not. In view of the theft of the briefcase, I must return to Washington at once and make a full report to my government.”
    “I understand. But if you’re saying your property was stolen after you arrived in Shopton — ”
    “After I locked the door of my car and began to drive here!”
    “— then we have to think it might have happened here on the grounds of Enterprises, somehow. If you could meet with Mr. Ames, our security people could begin — ”
    Tom broke off as Mr. Kwanu jolted to his feet. “My apologies, but I must not delay. I am obliged to contact my country from my office at the Embassy, nowhere else. We have our own security concerns. I will leave now.”
    Reaching for his desk telephone, Tom said, “I’ll call someone to escort you back to the main gate.”
    “No, please,” frowned Kwanu. “It is only across the way. A crocodile could cross it like xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

an antelope — as we would say. I will contact you within twenty-four hours. For now, goodbye!”
    He turned and left, a human whirlwind. In a moment Tom heard the elevator door open and close.
    Good night! he thought. What are we getting into?
     Stepping next door, Tom spoke for a time to Harlan Ames, giving an account of what had happened. “Tom, you must admit this Kwanu’s story is quite a stretch to take in. He flies by commercial airline to Shopton with a valuable briefcase, rents a car, opens the briefcase inside the car and verifies that all’s well, then locks the door and drives here. Then — gone.”
    Tom nodded. “I’m sure he would have mentioned it if it weren’t in his possession at all times.”
    “So how’d the switch get made? If there was a switch!”
    “That ‘if’ crossed my mind too, Harlan,” agreed Tom. “It’s more likely that he’s lying to us than that somebody teleported his briefcase away without his knowing it!”
    “You know,” said Ames determinedly, “I can xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

get pretty forceful when I need to. If Kwanu hasn’t driven off yet, I’m going to have Security politely drag him back here. We need a few answers before this goes any further.”
    He contacted the security desk at the Visitors Center. “No? Oh really? You’re absolutely — yes, of course. Thanks a lot, Terry.” Ames looked thoughtful and troubled as he clicked off the telephone and turned back to Tom. “He hasn’t come back through the building yet. Terry says he can see Kwanu’s rental car still sitting in the lot.”
    Brow creasing, Tom ran a hand through his crewcut. “It’s been more than long enough for someone — even a crocodile! — to walk from Admin to the Visitors Center.”
    With increasing concern Harlan Ames alerted Security and initiated a search of the grounds. “Not a sign of him,” he finally reported to Tom. “Somehow or other the guy’s vanished! Now tell me, boss — how can that be?”
    Tom’s response was a quiet mutter of baf- flement. “How can it be? I can’t imagine. But it is!”

    

    
    
CHAPTER 4
    
    
        

CHOW’S SPACEWALK

    
    
    
    
    
“WE understand the seriousness of this matter, Mr. Ambassador,” said Damon Swift.
    “We have no doubt that you do,” responded the official. He was half-smiling in a polite way, but his tone bespoke diplomatic caution.
    It was the morning after Mr. Kwanu’s strange disappearance. Tom and his father had arranged to speak to the Ngombian Ambassador directly, by means of Enterprises’ private television system, the videophone network. Joined by Harlan Ames the two Swifts sat in their office while the Ambassador, Dr. Onammi, spoke to them from the Washington videophone outlet.
 

    Onammi continued. “Your FBI reports that they have no leads thus far. It is the same with your own security apparatus, is it not?”
    “That’s right,” said Ames. “We instituted, and have now completed, a very thorough search of the plant grounds. No sign of Mr. Kwanu or that briefcase of his. Or anything else.”
    “Might he not have been kidnapped and taken from the grounds over your perimeter fence?”
    Tom shook his head and answered for Ames. “That’s unlikely, and would require some special electronic equipment for everyone involved, victim and kidnappers. We have a radar-type security system here at Enterprises, which we call the Patrolscope. Unless we program-in a specific ‘ignore’ command, anything with a size, shape, and movement suggesting a person sets off a plant-wide alarm.”
    “But then your own workers — ”
    “Our regular workforce all carry special devices that tell the Patrolscope computer to not respond to the reflection-source wearing them,” Tom’s father explained. “Visitors are xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

also provided with amulets as they enter at the main gate.”
    “Yes, I see,” nodded the Ambassador thoughtfully. “Ah! Um, um, um! Surely that is why you cannot detect Kwanu — he is made unseeable by this amulet he was given.”
    “Naturally, sir, we thought of that,” declared Ames with a trace of professional indignation. “We immediately transmitted a coded signal that deactivated his personal unit. Nothing came up on the scope.”
    “If he had been attacked and rendered unconscious — they could have put him in a car, even the trunk, and driven him out.”
    “We’ve had problems along that line,” admitted Tom. “We now use special equipment to scan all vehicles automatically as they pass through any of our gates. And the access roads and parking lots are all covered by videocams day and night.”
    “Then the answer to all this is quite clear,” Onammi stated grimly. “Yes. Mr. Kwanu has been sucked by a mysterious unknown force into the fifth dimension! Ah — no, my friends — a witticism.”
    “I understand you Ngombians are well known xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

for your sense of humor,” noted Tom with a rather strained smile.
    “Yes,” he confirmed. “That is, we Ghiddua are. Our poor little brothers the Ulsusu have no such capacity.” He smiled broadly. “Now then. I have been told to ask you if you might send to us, to our Embassy, copies of your security tapes. No doubt your automatic cameras were trained upon all critical areas at the time of the incident. Hmm?”
    Ames gave a curt nod. “They show all Mr. Kwanu’s movements out in the open air, from his arrival to his return to the Visitors facility.”
    “He returned? I was told — ”
    “When we ran the tapes, we found that he had crossed the grounds back to the Visitors Center building, and we saw him enter it,” Tom said. “But he never made it to the front lobby. We’re sure he’s not anywhere in the building, either.”
    “Quite a bafflement, then. Nevertheless, our own investigatory personnel must examine the relevant tapes. There may be certain clues you would not think to notice. For I must say, my friends, in all branches of our new government — even here in our Embassy — one finds... xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

suspicions.  Not all our countrymen are pleased with us, and the ousted regime has its friends. Poor little people, to be so afraid of what is new.”
    The video confab ended with a promise that Enterprises would send copies of the digitally recorded camera output by way of the videophone system. In turn, Ambassador Onammi promised to acquire a copy of the Burlow report from the home office in Ngombia and provide it to the Swifts for their assess- ment.
    Later in the long morning, the high sun saw Tom and Bud standing on a lawn between two multistory lab buildings next to the Enterprises airfield. They were both looking skyward.
    “So that’s your ‘repelaspan’ gimmick, huh, genius boy?” commented Bud skeptically, sha- ding his eyes with his hand.
    “You sound a little querulous.”
    “If that means what I think it does, I am. I see a bunch of equipment and antennas and bracing struts on the top of Design 2, and more of the same facing it on the top of Astronautics. In between, a two-hundred-foot stretch of blue-skyed nothing!”
 

    “Bothers you, hmm?”
    “Makes me a tad curious. Where’s the bridge?”
    Tom laughed. “I thought ‘repela’ would be all the clue you’d need, flyboy! My ‘flying bridge’ isn’t made of anything solid — it works by repelatron force.” He explained that computer controlled repelatron beams, tightly focused and sweeping back and forth across the gap, would create an invisible “bridge” of repulsion energies that would be powerful enough to lift and safely propel vehicles from one side to the other. “In other words, we transform ordinary cars into temporary flying machines.”
    “Okay,” said the young Californian. “Still, I don’t really get how — ”
    “Aw now, brand my bridgework,” came a gravelly voice behind them, “even I get how them repelly-trons kin do a job like that!”
    Tom turned. “Hi, Chow! You must’ve used your Texas tracking skills to sneak up on us.”
    “Naw, jest wearin’ my sneaky boots today. Got soft stuff on th’ bottom — Doc Simpson says it’ll keep my ole feet from painin’ me.”
    Bud gave a humorous wince and said:
 

    “Speaking of pain — ”
    “Don’t bother t’say it, Buddy Boy. I know all about this here bright-eye shirt o’ mine.” Chow Winkler had always had a weakness for gaudy western-style shirts. A close friend to both, utterly devoted to his young boss, the roly-poly older man was Enterprises’ designated chef for the plant’s top executives.
    “So what do you think of ‘Tom Swift and His Invisible Flying Bridge’?” needled Bud. “Ready to saddle up and be the first across? It’s just a five story drop!”
    Tom joined the affectionate joshing. “Don’t encourage him, pal. Chow’s had some trouble before with flying around on repelatron power.”
    “Say, I remember that!”
    The weathered cook reddened. “Wish you’d jest fergit about that time, you two. Nobody told me that flyin’ donkey machine of yours’d get so dang jittery. Speakin’ o’ which — I shor coulda sworn you said those repellers couldn’t be used so close to the ground, boss.”
    The young inventor nodded. “They can’t be used to push against the ground at close range, not from anything moving, because they can’t adjust rapidly enough to the fine detail in the xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

mixed element configurations. But the repelaspan system is aimed upward at the vehicles, not down. It doesn’t interact with the ground at all.”
    Turning away from Chow and Bud, Tom now became immersed in the final preparation for this important test. Speaking on his cellphone, he had various plant employees roll several test vehicles into position near the repelaspan “onramps,” which hung out into space like mute tongues. The vehicles had been hoisted onto the rooftops earlier in the day by the Workchopper.
    The youths failed to notice Chow leaving — or the thoughtful frown on his prairie-furrowed face. “Hmmph!” he grumbled to himself. “guess I shor did make a blame sight o’ myself that other time. Thought I ’as so golly-durn smart. Butcha know, Winkler — ” A thought struck him in bow-legged mid-stride. “Mebbe it ain’t too late t’hold up Texas honor!”
    Presently the unmanned, motorless test vehicles had been rolled into position and the employees had left the roofs. They quickly joined Tom and Bud on the ground, curious to watch the outcome of the test.
 

    Sirens on each of the mechanisms blared out once, twice. “System activated!” announced the young scientist-inventor. “Now the computer will tune-in on the first of the cars, and the beam setup will start to — ”
    “Hey, look!” one of the men cried out, pointing. “Who’s that? What’s he doing up there?”
    A figure had appeared against the bright sky, standing on one of the ramps, which were stubby but fairly broad.
    “Good night!” Bud chortled in amused surprise. “Chow! Guess the old timer’s gonna be the first across after all!” He chuckled.
    But Tom cut him off with a sharp glance. “Knock it off! — he’ll kill himself!”

    

    
    
CHAPTER 5
    
    
    
        VOODOO STEW AND
        METAL BIRDS

    
    
    
“KILL HIMSELF!” repeated one of the watchers.
    Bud was shocked. “Huh? Whatta you mean?
    “I mean the repelatrons are tuned to the metal in the car frames, not to human bodies!”
    Bud Barclay understood instantly and turned white. “Oh man, he’ll fall right through!”
    The crowd began to yell frantically and wave their arms. Looking downward, Chow gave a jaunty wave back at them and began a slow walk forward toward the end of the ramp.
    “Chow, don’t!” Tom shouted at the top of his lungs. “Stop!” But all the overlapping xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

voices of the crowd buried the warning in a cacophony of sound.
   The heavyset cook reached the end of the ramp, gave a big gulp almost visible from five stories distant, and raised his foot. The watchers gasped and shrieked! — as a pair of strong arms clamped themselves to Chow’s wide beltline and yanked him backwards, forcefully pulling him off the ramp and onto the rooftop.
    The crowd cheered, no one more wildly than Bud. Tom just rubbed the cold sweat off his brow with a trembling hand.
    In moments Chow made a sheepish appearance at ground level, followed by En- terprises’ chief engineer, youthful Hank Sterling — Chow’s rescuer.
    “S-sorry, boss. Guess I — kinda — ”
    “Uh-huh.” Tom’s look was stern and nearly all frown.
    “Good thing ol’ Hank here was lookin’ out the winder and sawr — ”
    “Mm-hmm.”
    “I s’pose I mebbe oughta jest stay spang on the ground from now on.”
    “Mebbe so.”
    “Say now! Time t’start on lunch!” Chow beat xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

a hasty retreat toward his kitchen.
    Tom didn’t relent until his friend was out of sight. Then he shook Hank’s hand warmly. “No thanks necessary, boss,” stated Hank with a smile. “I mean, hey, I want lunch just as much as any man here!”
    The repelaspan test resumed. One by one, the vehicles, all of different size and shape, floated through space from one building to another as Tom monitored a telemetry feed from the twin beam devices.
    Finally he shut the system down. “Looks like it panned out fine!” Bud exclaimed, clapping his pal on the back.
    Tom nodded in agreement, but his face was thoughtful. “It works, all right, and in a disaster — a flood, an earthquake, maybe a fire in a highrise building — it could be a lifesaver, getting emergency vehicles or rescue equipment to where they’re needed when conventional aircraft would be too slow or cumbersome, or evacuating people in cars.”
    “So?”
    “So my brain’s churning on the Ngombia project. The repelaspan isn’t the answer.”
    “Why not, Tom?” challenged Hank. “I can xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

envision a series of repelatron relay stations, passing cars along from one side of that jungle to the other.”
    “The system is just too restrictive,” his young employer explained. “Too clunky, I guess you could say. Notice how slow those test cars were moving? It’s a limitation built into the technology itself, due to the constant, complex adjustments the computers have to make, and the inherent lag effect in the antenna-radiators. I don’t think a highway in the sky with a five-miles-per-hour speed limit would have much appeal to the Ngombians.”
    “Well, you know — back in San Francisco, five MPH would be considered quite an achievement during rush hour,” Bud put in. The joke made Tom chuckle, but Bud knew the problem would eat away at his friend’s active scientific mind. Tom’s gonna do a lot of dreaming tonight, he thought wryly, whether he wants to or not!
    The dreaming began early. Tom went to his design lab, and a pair of hours disappeared in the fog of concentration. He was interrupted by the clumping of cowboy boots in the corridor. Chow Winkler wheeled in a lunch tray on a xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

cart. A big covered tureen was the centerpiece.
    “Soup’s on, boss!” came his foghorn voice. It seemed to Tom that the foghorn was a bit higher in pitch than usual.
    “I’m sure ready for it, pardner.” Looking up, Tom noticed that despite the “bright-eye”  patterned shirt which Chow was sporting — it was a green day, apparently — the cook seemed anything but bright-eyed. “Anything wrong, old-timer?”
    “Jest thinkin’ about them queer Africa goin’s on around here,” Chow confided. He didn’t quite meet his young boss’s gaze.
    “Chow, if you’re worried I’m still upset about that stunt — ”
    “Oh no, naw, all over’n done with. Er, ain’t it? — But brand my skillet, Tom, I am plumb worried about sumpin’! What’s behind all them devil-masks ’n people jest disappearin’ and whatnotcha-may-callit?”
    “Wish I knew,” Tom said. “Whoever’s responsible, he’s bound to trip himself up sooner or later, and then the police or the FBI will take care of him.”
    “Sure hope you’re right.” Chow looked relieved as he went on:
 

 

    “I know you’re blame busy thinkin’, boss, but I didn’t want you sendin’ out fer cold sand- wiches. So I brought you over some real Texas-style mulligan stew fer some brain nourishment.” As he lifted the cover from the tureen and dipped in the ladle, he continued: “Jest wait’ll you — ”
    Chow’s voice suddenly trailed off in an eerie screech.
    “Chow! What’s wrong?” Tom asked, jumping up. A strange look seemed to be fighting to rise through the cook’s broad face.
    “Th-there in the pot, boss!” Chow quavered. “T-t-take a look yourself!”
    Tom peered into the stewpot and gasped. Resting in the cup of the metal ladle, in place of the expected steaming mulligan, lay a small figure! It was molded in the shape of a cowboy, with an enormous paunch and ten-gallon hat. The figure was stuck full of pins!
    “B-b-brand my grubsack, it’s me!” Chow wailed as Tom pulled out the tiny voodoo doll. “I know about this! Them p-pins mean I’m marked fer d-d-death!” The roly-poly cook was trem- bling like an aspen in a high wind.
    “Now, hold it, Chow!” Tom said calmly. xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

“Don’t come all unglued. Maybe someone’s just playing a prank on you.”
    “A prank?” said a third voice. Bud Barclay walked into the room wearing an innocent smile. “Hey, who would do such a thing to a fearless space-walking Texan like Chow?”
    The cook stared at Bud, open-mouthed for a moment, then suddenly cried out in alarm and pain! “N-no! It’s all real! Look what them voodoo pins is doin’ to me!”
    He suddenly pulled up his shirt sleeve, and Tom and Bud drew back in shock. A stream of bloody crimson was dribbling down his arm!
    Bud was aghast. “It — how in the — ”
    “We’ve got to get you to the infirmary!” urged Tom, grasping the cook’s arm. But then his expression changed. Eyes narrowed, he brought his red-stained fingertips to his nose and sniffed. “This isn’t blood.”
    “Naw. Ketchup!” Chow leaned back and broke into a thunder of laughter. “Buddy boy! You’re the varmint what done it!” he howled. “Knowed you ’as up to somethin’ when you came sneakin’ round the galley jest now, afore I left! Figgered I’d improve the joke a smidge!”
    The red was now on Bud’s face. He ducked xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

back sheepishly, half expecting Chow to hurl a plate at him. But the cook quickly recovered his good humor as the boys collapsed with laughter. “From now on, don’t jest take fer granit that I won’t know when my leg’s bein’ pulled,” he said to Bud.
    Bud took another step back and looked downward. “Say! You do have legs!”
    “Now watch out. You ever hear o’ Fat Libby-ration?”
    “You mean you’re planning to turn it loose?”
    “Aaa! ...Wa-aal, reckon we all got a right to laugh,” Chow conceded with a chuckle. “Who’d want to hoodoo a good ole honest trail cook anyhow? No evil eye fer me!”
    “Not with that eagle eye of yours, pal,” winked Bud, patting his friend’s shoulder.
    The two boys were just finishing their late lunch when Tom took a call from the attendant at the visitor reception desk. A visitor named Darcy Creel, describing himself as a “pro- fessional zoological journalist”, was asking to see Tom. “If he wants an interview on the African business, he should speak to George Dilling,” directed Tom.
    “He says that’s not why he came, Mr. Swift,” xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

was the response. “Says there’s a special matter he’d like to discuss with you in private.”
    “All right. When you’ve security-scanned him, please have him escorted up to my office.”
    Curious about the unexpected visitor, Tom and Bud left the lab building hastily, taking the moving ridewalk toward the tall administration building.
    Suddenly a tone rang out shrilly from the tiny cellphone hooked to Tom’s belt — followed by a whoop of sirens from all directions.
    “It’s the plant radar alarm!” Bud cried out. The boys’ eyes followed the pointing fingers of stare-struck workers and looked upward. The blue sky was dotted with tiny sparkling gleams, swirling and darting in all directions like drifting sparks!
    “It’s flyin’ saucers!” one panicked employ- ee yelped out. “We’re being invaded!”
    Tom snatched up the telephone and called the security office. “What’s happening, Harlan?” he inquired.
    “We don’t know yet, Skipper,” Ames replied tensely. “We’ve got ‘snow’ all over the Patrolscope monitors. Some strange metal ob- xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

jects are fluttering down over the plant!”
    “I see ’em.”
    The objects had begun to reach the ground. Bud scooped one up and brought it to Tom. Tom examined it closely. “What the dickens is it?” Bud asked, mystified.
    “Seems to be made of stiffened aluminum foil. But don’t ask me what it’s supposed to be.” The foil had been cut and folded in a strange geometric design that looked oddly birdlike. “The technique looks like origami — you know, pal, the Japanese art of paper-folding. These ‘birds’ are like little paper airplanes.”
    Bus responded with a skeptical look. “Right. What next, spitwads?”
    By this time, other employees had come running across the grounds. They scattered to pick up the pieces of foil. Mystification had been replaced by chagrined laughter.
    Ames joined the youths, bringing another batch of the queer foil shapes which had caught the bright sunlight as they floated down to the Enterprises airfield. “What do you make of them, Tom?”
    “Beats me.” Tom studied the pieces with a frown. “It’s an old trick for confusing radar, of course, but what’s the purpose?”

 

    “Were they dropped from a plane?” Bud put in.
    “No, the control tower says none passed over the plant,” Ames replied.
    “Must have been projected from outside the plant wall — maybe by someone in a car speeding along the highway,” Tom speculated.
    “But how could thin foil like this stuff be spread so high in the air?” Bud objected.
    “Easy,” Tom said. “Stack the stuff together under pressure in a tight, compact bundle with some kind of automatic release.” Tom’s eyes dropped to the palms of his hands. He added with sudden worry: “Maybe we ought to make sure this stuff really is aluminum foil!”
    They had all touched the metallic foil — just as Munford Trent had touched the poisoned ink!

    

    
    
CHAPTER 6
    
    
    

FALSE IDENTITY

    
    
    
    
    
TRYING to hold down their growing alarm, the two boys hurried back to Tom’s private laboratory, Harlan Ames following. Here the young inventor examined several pieces of the foil under X-rays and with a Swift Spec- troscope. When he finished, Tom looked at the others, much relieved but baffled.
    “Just plain aluminum foil, that’s all.”
    Bud gulped. “That’s a pretty good ‘all’, Tom!”
    Ames, equally puzzled, finally left the laboratory. He promised to launch a thorough search for clues outside the plant wall.
 

    Suddenly Bud snapped his fingers. “Hey, you forgot your visitor, Tom!” he exclaimed.
    “Oh, good gosh! I’d better call upstairs and apologize. I just hope he hasn’t left.” Then Tom added a wry coda: “Sort of.”
    He hadn’t. Darcy Creel turned out to be a blond man with a slender, wiry build, deeply tanned, casually dressed. Though he appeared to be in his forties, it seemed he favored a younger look. His loose-fitting shirt was almost as colorful as Chow Winkler’s — but as wrinkled as if he’d been sleeping in it.
    After greetings and apologies were delivered, Creel said to Tom, “Thanks a lot for seeing me, guy. Ya got quite a security setup here. Mini police-state, hmm?”
    Tom barely kept an indignant frown off his face. Bud’s was unsuppressed but unseen by the visitor.
    “I told the guard — let’s face it, that’s what he is! — that I didn’t come about your African transportation project, but that’s not entirely true,” Creel continued ruelessly.
    Tom was instantly cautious. “Just what is your occupation, Mr. Creel?”
    “I call it zoological journalism — maybe xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

environmental investigative reporting would be a little clearer. Big corporations go charging here and there around the world, fouling up the biosphere, wrecking the environment, hiding behind the magic word ‘development’ in the cause of an even more magic word, ‘profit’.”
    “Seems to me I’ve read something about that,” Tom put in dryly.
    “And now Tom Swift Enterprises heads off to Ngombia to build a highway or an airport or something in the middle of an unspoiled jungle.”
    Tom began to correct him. “It’s only a request that we’re considering — ”
    “And besides which, guy,” came a dark-lidded voice from Bud’s direction, “that nice jungle is spoiled, by a lousy swamp running through it.”
    Creel didn’t turn in his chair but kept his eyes on Tom. “Right. The human-centric point of view. You’ve got your vanishing species — endangered animals, plants — ”
    Tom cut him off impatiently. “Why exactly are you here, Mr. Creel?”
    “Bottom line? I want to go along with you.”
    “To Ngombia?”
    “As a reporter, to document your envi- xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

ronmental — choices. Could be in your best interest, you know. Nice publicity for good old TSE, noted kid inventor keeping the world safe for neat consumer stuff like breathing, eating, and drinking.”
    There was an edge to Tom’s quiet voice. “I’m not concerned about ‘nice publicity’. We always consider very carefully the long-term ramifications of our projects. If Enterprises chooses to go ahead, what we do will be valid in terms of human values as well as science.”
    “Sure. As decided by you, out of the public eye.”
    Bud started to rise from his chair. Tom waved him back down. “I think you’ve made your point, Mr. Creel. Or is this your idea of a warning? Do you and your associates plan some kind of disruption or protest if you don’t get your way?”
    Creel smiled. “Just asking for a ride, Tom. I’m a poor freelancer. Saving the world doesn’t pay very well. It’s not like I could afford to launch a jungle expedition on my own. Let me tag along. I’ll do a little writing, keep an eye on the native flora and fauna — including the humans who might not be into falling under the xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

plow of progress — that kind of thing.”
    It was Tom who stood. “We don’t take passengers along on our project expeditions. Blame our insurance company if you like. Goodbye, Mr. Creel.”
    Darcy Creel shrugged and rose to leave. “Class dismissed. But as far as warnings, Tom — ”
    “I figured you’d have one.”
    “Oh, it’s a friendly one. That jungle you’re going to is a pretty interesting place. I’ve heard rumors about huge animals of an unknown species existing in the Ngombian rain forest,” Creel said. “It’s never been properly explored — you might make an outstanding zoological find. But don’t think of your company safari as an afternoon’s pleasant amble through the palm trees. Your people could be in real danger. And not from crazed tree-huggers like me.”
    “What sort of danger?” Tom demanded.
    “Let’s just say there’s a monster in the woodpile.” With that Creel slunk out through the door.
    “You know what’s amazing, genius boy?” grumbled Bud. “Guys like that actually have mothers!”
 

    “It’s a real insult, someone thinking the Swift family would ever endanger — ”
    Bud gave Tom’s arm a playful punch. “You don’t have to convince me of anything, Tom. Let’s move on to something important.”
    Bud, who was scheduled for some face-time training in the Workchopper, headed off to the hangar. Tom remained in the office, puzzling over the aluminum “birds.”
    He had noticed that they were cut in several different patterns. Did the shapes have any significance beyond crude aerodynamics? he wondered. Could they represent some kind of religious symbols or totems that might mean something to a native African?
    “Seems pretty farfetched,” Tom concluded. But nevertheless, he thought it might be wise to show a selection of the objects to an expert in the field of African art and tradition.
    But that would have to wait.
    Feet up his desk, Tom was debating whether or not to call the Ngombian Embassy in Washington when the question was resolved for him. Trent’s temporary replacement announced an incoming call from Ambassador Onammi. xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

“Young Mr. Swift, I must tell you — there have been some developments in this matter that have left us very unsettled.”
    “Has something happened?”
    “Something quite remarkable. The recorded camera data you transmitted to us — ”
    “You received it, didn’t you, sir?” Tom asked.
    “And a shock! The man who visited you in our name — he is not War’kno Kwanu!”
    Tom was flabbergasted! “Good night! Because your embassy had told us to expect Mr. Kwanu, it never occurred to us to question his identity!” Tom asked if the man’s face was known to the Ngombian security authorities.
    “Indeed so, I am sorry to tell you,” was Onammi’s reply. “The man is Ulsusu, a known agent of political subversives who work against the new government. His name is R’na Inbimah. He is an expert in technological spying and theft.”
    “And what of the real Mr. Kwanu?”
    “We do not know. There was a bit of confusion at the time of his departure from the airport here. He was somewhat delayed — it is no doubt significant that his driver has also xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

disappeared — and the plane was held for him by our request. He was positively identified as the man who entered the plane at the terminal, the last to board. Yet — and how can one believe this? — he was not the man who exited that same plane in Shopton and who rented a car at your airport!”
    “You’re sure?”
    “Absolutely,” the man insisted. “The terminal security video tapes in Washington clearly show Kwanu, short and fat, in a business suit. In the Shopton terminal, the video shows this Inbimah scoundrel, very different, in a tribal robe. A robe! — We do not encourage this sort of image, this backwards costumery. Somewhat embarrassing.”
    The Ambassador fell silent, and Tom plunged into deep thought for several moments. “You say... Mr. Kwanu was late, perhaps by intention. So he had to hurry to board the plane, after all the other passengers had been seated...”
    “Yes, Tom.”
    “I don’t suppose you know anything about the boarding rampway at that terminal — the covered corridor they sometimes call a ‘jet- way’?”

    Dr. Onammi expressed surprise at the young inventor’s query. “When I was briefed by our investigative personnel, they provided a diagram of the terminal, which I glanced at. But what might you wish to know?”
    “Do you recall if the corridor was forked at the end — shaped like a ‘y’? Many are, allowing planes to be parked on either side. When boarding to the right, for instance, the left-hand segment is closed off.”
    “I understand. The answer is yes. This is indeed such a rampway. Boarding was to the left on this occasion. Might this be significant?”
    “I’m just running over the possibilities in my mind, sir,” replied Tom.
    “I can imagine a scene like this. Mr. Kwanu is checked through, then hustles on up the jetway. Probably no one is watching from the terminal end, and if the plane is at a somewhat acute angle to the connecting segment, and the flight attendant is a couple steps back from the hatch as they usually are, the intersection of the little branched corridor and the main part might be out of view...”
    “Perhaps so.”
    “Someone could have been hiding in the other, unused segment, the one branching off to xxxxxxxxxxxxxx