Tom Swift in the Caves of Nuclear Fire (4 page)

Tom gave Bud some instructions and then said jauntily, "Swing away!"

Tom watched the gauges on the panel in front of him, which indicated the amount of strain on each cable. As Bud swung the crane from side to side with increasing vigor, the young inventor felt as if he were being rocked.

"This is smooth and working in perfect rhythm," he said to himself.

Elated, the young inventor grinned and waved to Hanson and Sterling.

"How do you like it, skipper?" Bud intercommed.

"Like a carnival ride," was Tom’s reply. But as he turned back to look at the gauges, the grin faded. One of the dials was flashing a red signal. There was too much stress on cable number three!

"Bud, hoist me back onto the cradle!" Tom yelled into the intercom.

At the same instant every light on the panel blinked red. This was followed by a loud twang as the cables parted just above the locking device. The cabin broke loose and was hurled into the air like an underhand pitch, then somersaulted to a crash landing against one wall of the hangar!

Bud dashed from the control cabin, fear gripping him.

Sterling and Hanson had already reached the sphere. Through a window they could see Tom lying unconscious against the panel board. Blood streamed from a gash in his head.

Working quickly, the men opened the hatch and carefully lifted Tom out and laid him on the floor. Bud leaned over him. When he was certain that his friend was still alive, he raced to an adjoining room for a first-aid kit and administered a restorative. A minute later the young inventor opened his eyes.

"Take it easy," Sterling cautioned him. "You had a nasty crack-up."

Tom lay still for a minute. Then, as his memory returned, he smiled ruefully. "It was my fault," he confessed. "Swinging so violently must have crystallized the cables at the connection, and they gave way." Starting to rise, he said, "I’ve got to get busy and make cables which will be less subject to metal fatigue."

"Not today," Bud told him firmly. "You’re going home to relax—
Sci-Fi."

He drove Tom to the Swift residence where Sandy and her mother took charge. Both gave sighs of relief when they learned he had escaped serious injury.

Craig, looking on, finally broke the tense atmosphere by remarking, "Welcome to the club, Tom! There’s no feeling on earth like being able to walk away from a major smack-down!"

Late that afternoon a telephone call came to Tom from Harlan Ames. Tom took it on the extension in his bedroom. After the security chief had made sure Tom was recovering nicely from his shock, he said, "The local police have just recovered a stolen car—a black Montserratti. It could be the one that almost ran you and Craig down."

"Any clue to the thief?"

"None," Ames replied. "They forced open the door of the car and disabled the security system. No fingerprints except the owner’s."

"Have you done any checking on those men Craig described—Taylor and Cameron?" Tom asked.

"I sent copies of the sketches to the FBI in Washington," Ames reported. "I’ll let you know the minute I get a report."

After the security chief had hung up, Tom sat on his bed for a moment in deep thought. If Taylor and Cameron had been the attackers in the car, what was their motive? And why would they be shadowing Craig?

Heavy footsteps pounded on the stairs and Chow rushed into Tom’s room excitedly. "Brand my cowhide boots!" he cried out. "I got it!"

Tom gazed at the cook in astonishment. "Steady there, cowpoke. Tell me slowly what you’ve got.’’

"Remember the picture you showed me o’ that feller Taylor? He’s from my own ranch country in Texas!"

"Are you sure?" Tom demanded.

"Sure as I am o’ tamin’ a mustang!" Chow insisted. "I recollect the very newspaper back home showin’ his picture. Seems he got in bad with the folks ’round there. Shady doings o’ some kind."

"Is his name really Taylor?" Tom asked.

Chow shook his head. "I don’t reckon ’tis, but I cain’t remember what he was called."

"What newspaper was his picture in?"

"The
Comanche Daily."

"Perfect!" said Tom. "We can check with their office.’’

"Don’t think you kin," the Texan murmured. "The
Daily
’s whole place burnt down ’bout a week later! They say it was set!"

"This is
not
news I can use," Tom sighed. "Any idea where Taylor might have gone?"

"Well, some folks said they knew where he lit out to.’’

"Where was that?"

"Africa!"

AT CHOW’S startling announcement Tom whistled in surprise and reached broadly to thump the Texan on the back. "Good work, Chow! This ties in with Craig’s suspicion that Taylor and Cameron had more than a passing interest in his African adventures."

"I’m sure glad I remembered ’bout that hombre," said the cook proudly. Then Chow hesitated, as if he had something more to bring up. "I did good, di’n’t I, boss?"

"Sure you did."

"Wa-al, then I have sumpin’ to ask you."

Tom nodded. "Anything, pardner."

"You may wish’t ya hadn’t said that when you hear what’s caught in my craw," the Texan said wryly. "It’s like this. You know how ya let folks name some o’ them inventions o’ your’n?"

The young inventor regarded his friend in puzzlement. "What do you mean?"

Chow shuffled his feet, embarrassed. "Aw, not much. Jest that you let Hanson name that Spacelane Brain, and buddy boy came up with
Eye-Spy camera
—other stuff, too."

Tom nodded. "Yes, but—those are just nicknames we use."

"I know, Tom, but… I’d like t’name one of ’em myself!"

So as not to injure Chow’s feelings, Tom suppressed the laugh he felt rising within. "I see. Well, which invention do you want to name?"

"Oh, I’m not too partic’lar. You can jest tag it on the next one that fits!"

"Y-you mean… you’ve made up a name in advance?"

"Sure have, boss. Got it writ down right here." He fished around in his shirt pocket. "See, I know how you go about it, makin’ up them names. You take a buncha scientific soundin’ words from Greek or Latin an’ break ’em apart, then glue ’em back tergether, so t’speak. I allus figgered you did it that way to get inspiration. Am I right?"

"Well, I—"

"Sure ’nough, thet’s the secret all right. So I come up with a couple names—but I’ll be satistated if you use jest one."

Tom sat down on his bed. "Okay, Chow. What do you have?"

Chow held two pieces of paper between his thick fingers. He read off the first one. "How d’ya like
‘thermo-emetic quasartron’
?"

Tom’s brow furrowed.
How do I get out of this?
he wondered. "I’m not… sure I can do too much with that one."

"Then it’s the other fer sure!" He handed Tom the other slip of paper. "I kinda thought it’d be this one."

Tom read it and nodded. "I’ll pin it up near my workbench. And I guarantee you, next time I invent something that could conceivably be called a, er,
‘spectralmarine selector,’
that’s what it’ll be."

Chow beamed a broad Texas-sized grin.
"That’s
what I wanna hear! Ya promise?"

Tom laughed, finally. "Promise!"

Chow began to leave, then glanced back over his shoulder. "Oh, an’ boss? It’s
spectro
-marine.
Spectral-
marine sounds a mite foolish!"

Later, when Tom and Craig were lounging in the Swifts’ guest room, Tom told the pilot of Chow’s verdict on the man Craig knew as Taylor.

"Then I was right about Taylor all the time!" Craig exclaimed.

"Can you think of some reason he may be trying to keep us from going to Africa?" Tom injected.

"No. But I believe you’re right. It may have to do with that Nigerian, Leopold Mkeesa. Why don’t we have Taylor picked up?"

"On what charge?" Tom pointed out. "We haven’t a shred of proof that he was in that automobile. In fact, we can’t even say for sure he’s here in Shopton."

"But I’m certain that I saw Cameron in Shopton, so it’s likely Taylor’s here too," the pilot protested. "Anyway, if Taylor was involved in something shady and skipped the country, he must be wanted by the authorities."

"Yes, but the name Taylor is probably an alias," observed Tom. "If it weren’t for your sketches, we wouldn’t know whom to look for. We’ll have to be patient. If Taylor and Cameron are trying to cause us trouble, they’ll show their hands sooner or later.’’

The next few days passed without any indication that their suspected enemies still were in the vicinity. Tom pushed the outfitting of the terrasphere for its use in the Africa project. He personally supervised the fabrication of new cables of great tensile strength. As a further precaution, these were X-rayed for flaws before being installed.

Early one morning Tom said to Craig, "We’ll be ready to take off in the
Sky Queen
pretty soon. Want to help me inspect her?"

"Sure thing, if there’s no charge for admission," he replied jokingly.

The two went to the underground hangar where the Flying Lab was berthed. Craig gazed in admiration at the three-decker plane. "It’s beautiful, Tom. Almost overwhelming!"

Tom led the way on the tour of inspection, which began with the laboratory section. This was on the second deck. Partitions divided the spacious enclosure into separate compartments. Each was a laboratory completely equipped for some branch of research.

"This is a world all its own," Craig remarked.

"The
Sky Queen
," commented the young inventor as they walked along, "is like an old and loyal friend. She’s carried Bud and me safely through many a tough adventure."

Craig congratulated Tom on the sleek
Kangaroo Kub,
a small delta-winged craft, powered by a single jet engine, which was berthed in the Flying Lab’s aerial hangar on the lowest deck. "We’ll be leaving the
Kub
behind to make room for the terrasphere tank," Tom explained.

"There’s sure plenty of room in the flying hangar, even
with
the mini-jet!"

"We used to carry another small craft as well, the
Skeeter
. But it was wrecked." Tom added: "I have another one on the drawing boards, though."

As the inspection ended and the three young men were about to leave the building, they were met by Mr. Swift. After greeting them, he said, "Tom, I’d like to discuss with you that series of experiments we conducted together in New Mexico, Project XA-107. We’ll get out the file and go over it."

Tom looked at his father curiously. "Do you mean the one on antiproton phenomena, Dad?"

"That’s right. I’d like to review our findings."

"Any particular reason?" asked the young scientist.

"Just a hunch, son. From what Craig has told us about that glowing gas in Africa, I was wondering—"

"If it might have something to do with the existence of antiproton matter under the mountain?" Tom finished the sentence. "I was thinking about that possibility myself."

"If such a thing exists there, our locating it would be one of the greatest discoveries of all time."

Craig, who had been listening quietly to the discussion, displayed a puzzled expression. "Is this a family secret?" he asked, smiling, "Or may I join in with a question?"

"Sorry," Tom apologized. "Ask away."

"First of all," said Craig, "what’s antiproton matter?"

"To explain that," said Mr. Swift, "you’d need a basic idea of how atoms are constructed."

"I didn’t flunk
all
my high-school science," Craig replied in joking protest. "I know that the popular concept of an atom is that it looks like a miniature solar system. In the center is a nucleus. Moving around it are particles called electrons. The whole thing is similar to our own planets moving around the sun."

"That’s basically it." Mr. Swift nodded. "An electron has a negative charge. A proton is the positive charge of the nucleus. Then we have the neutron, which is the uncharged remainder of the nucleus."

"That much I understand," said Craig.

"Now in antiproton matter," Tom took up the story, "the atoms have the same ‘solar system’ setup you mentioned, but there’s one difference. The charges on the particles are reversed. What was the negative electron is now a positive positron—an anti-electron, that is—and what was the proton is now an antiproton, which has a negative charge."

"Oh, you’re talking about antimatter," Craig said. "Bring matter and antimatter together and
Blam!"

"Definitely!" Mr. Swift broke in. "If enough antiproton matter reacted with substances here on earth, the heat produced could start a chain reaction. The world would blow itself into oblivion!"

"Wow!" exclaimed Craig. "That stuff wouldn’t be anything to play with!"

"No," Tom agreed, "but actually it could be put to good use. In fact, some radioactive isotopes emit positrons naturally, and PET scanners—the letters stand for Positron Emission Tomography—have become a standard part of medical technology."

"Antiproton matter is another story, though," declared Mr. Swift. "There’s an enormous difference in mass, and thus an enormous difference in explosive energy when proton meets antiproton. I can’t conceive, scientifically, how stable antiproton matter could manage to exist on earth."

"Want my guess, Dad? I think Craig’s gas isn’t antiproton matter as such, but some weird substance that emits free antiprotons at high velocity," speculated Tom. "If the gas itself were true antimatter, it would react explosively to air."

The animated discussion continued as the three walked along toward the main administration building. Tom declared, "I think we may be on the verge of a whole new twenty-first century physics, Dad. We seem to be running into more and more inexplicable things—veranium ore, for example, or that micro-sized black hole Bud and I encountered in space."

"Yes, son; and also those signs of higher-element fusion going on beneath the crust of the earth, which you discovered with your atomic earth blaster."

"I guess it’s kind of a whole new world out there," said Craig thoughtfully. "And that crack in the taboo mountain may be the front door!"

When the group reached the office building, Craig said goodbye and Tom followed his father inside. They went directly to their private office where the young inventor slid open a wooden panel in the wall. Behind it was a small but sturdy safe. He pressed his knuckle against a scanning device which read his recorded DNA code, and the formidable lock clicked open.