Tom Swift in the Caves of Nuclear Fire (5 page)

Tom reached inside and withdrew a stack of leather-bound manuscripts. After going completely through the pile, he stared at the stack curiously.

Mr. Swift sensed that something was wrong. "What’s the matter, son?"

"It’s gone!" Tom cried out. "The file on antiprotons is gone!"

"Great Scott!" exclaimed the elder inventor, stunned. "This is terribly serious. The weapons potential of antiproton applications is cataclysmic!"

"I can’t imagine how it disappeared," Tom mused. "The only other person who has access to this safe is Alvy Tompkin."

"Tompkin wouldn’t be interested in our treatise," said Mr. Swift. "He’s as trustworthy as you or I, Tom. He’s been with us Swifts since the day Enterprises was formed!" Tompkin had been transferred from the Swift Construction Company and made special guardian of the office a few months before.

"Just the same," said Tom, "it won’t do any harm to ask him if he knows anything about the manuscript."

Tom summoned Alvy Tompkin to the office over the intercommunication system. A few minutes later a thin, elderly man came in. His strong face and direct gaze reflected his integrity.

"Tom and I are hunting for something we can’t find," Mr. Swift said. "We thought we left an important file, Project XA-107, in the safe. Do you remember seeing it there?"

"Yes, of course I do," replied Tompkin, but with a puzzled look. "It was only yesterday, Tom, that I took it from the safe. I was only following your orders."

"Orders!" Tom exclaimed. "What orders?"

"Your note, from the office digi-fax." From a pocket Tompkin produced a typed note bearing Tom’s signature.

TOMPKIN:

PLEASE REMOVE THE BOUND FILE FOR PROJECT XA-107 FROM THE OFFICE SAFE AND PERSONALLY HAND IT TO JOHN MUELLER, WHO WILL BE AT THE NORTH GATE AT 6:30 PM THIS EVENING. AS YOU DO NOT KNOW HIM BY SIGHT, HE WILL SHOW YOU HIS SWIFT ENTERPRISES I.D. CARD. I WILL RETURN THE FILE TO THE SAFE MYSELF. THANKS AS ALWAYS.

"You say you received this over the office digi-fax?" Tom asked. "I never wrote it."

Tompkin turned ash white. "But Tom—Mr. Swift—I recognized your signature!"

"I’m not blaming you, Mr. Tompkin," said Tom in a comforting tone. "You had no reason to suspect that the signature might have been forged."

"I—I suppose I should have telephoned you for confirmation," moaned Tompkin in despair.

Tom asked for a description of the man who received the file.

Tompkin thought for a moment, then said, "He was about six feet tall, had black hair, a thin face, and very dark eyes. He was driving a light-blue sports car. I’m afraid I didn’t pay attention to the make."

Tom showed the elderly employee copies of the two sketches Craig Benson had made. "Was he either of these two men?" he asked.

Tompkin studied the drawings, then pointed. "Yes," he muttered, "it was this man. He wore dark glasses, but I’m quite sure of it."

Tom glanced at his father.

"Cameron!" Mr. Swift cried out.

DISMISSING the remorseful Tompkin, Tom and his father contacted Harlan Ames at once and the security chief came to the office immediately. He sat down and Tom briefed him on what had happened, then showed Ames the fake note. After the former Secret Service agent had scrutinized the signature closely, he commented, "The forgery of the signature has the earmarks of a real pro." Ames pointed out several ways in which the forger had avoided common errors. "At least we know a little more about Taylor and Cameron. Probably one of them is an expert forger."

"It didn’t take any fancy electronics to get under our skin this time," Tom said angrily, "But it worked."

"We can’t be prepared for every contingency," Ames commented. "I think I’ll contact that FBI man we worked with on the Verano matter, Hal Brenner." He arose. "See you all later."

That evening little was said at the Swifts’ dinner table. Though Bud, usually a fount of vivid verbiage, had joined the table, everyone was unusually quiet. As Tom sat pondering the loss of the important manuscript, Sandy looked at her brother. "How valuable are those papers?" she asked.

"In the wrong hands," he replied, "the information could affect the welfare of the entire world. Dad’s and my experiments were not complete by any means, but the file summarized some of the latest theorizing, and now that I think of it, it also speculated about possible methods of shielding against antiproton matter. I’d guess Cameron suspects that there is an antiproton gas in Africa."

Craig spoke up. "I think I can figure out the chain of events. Leopold Mkeesa learned about the taboo mountain phenomenon from me, then hired the two men from the underworld contacts he must have made over the years."

"You mean you told Mkeesa all about the taboo mountain?" Bud asked.

"I didn’t think I had," replied the pilot. "But when I first arrived at the hospital, I was in pretty bad shape from fever and infection. I don’t think I can remember everything I did and said. And I don’t imagine ‘John Mueller’ is Cameron’s real name, any more than ‘Cameron’ is."

"There’s one thing we mustn’t forget," cautioned Tom’s mother, with a searching look at her husband and son. "You’ll be going to a part of the world claimed by a violent, ruthless dictator. He may already know of the mountain, and will be trying to do whatever it takes to keep it under his control."

"That’s true, Mom," Tom conceded. "General Boondah might be behind these events in some way."

At that moment the telephone began to ring. Tom excused himself and answered it.

Chow’s voice came booming out of the receiver.
"Tom Swift!"
he shouted. "That you?"

"What’s up, Chow?"

"Stay put!" commanded the cook. "I’ll be over as fast as my gas buggy’ll fetch me there."

Before Tom could reply, Chow had hung up.

Several minutes later a small, rust-laden pickup truck came bounding up the Swifts’ driveway and skidded to an abrupt halt. Chow leapt out and rushed up the front steps.

"Tom!" he boomed, as he came into the living room where the others had assembled, "Tompkin told me ’bout that forgery, so I reckoned it was time fer action!"

"Yes?"

"I called an old amigo o’ mine from the ranch, a feller with a mem’ry like a steel girdle. He remembered that newspaper story, and what folks had been sayin’ back then about that dude—the one who calls hisself Taylor. Only his brand ain’t Taylor. It’s Harry Hoplin!"

"You mean it?"

"Brand my prairie dog, I sure never was more certain! Listen, folks. That sneakin’ critter was wanted back in Texas fer forgery!"

"That’s
the magic word, all right!" Bud exclaimed.

"An’ brand my bakin’ powder, that ain’t the half of it neither. After he hightailed it out o’ Texas, word got around that he ’as wanted fer other things, too—like murder! Boss, that cayuse is a bad one all round!"

Without a moment’s hesitation Tom went to telephone Harlan Ames. The security chief should be apprised of the fact that Taylor’s real name was possibly Hoplin and that he was a wanted forger! But Ames’s daughter told Tom that he was not at home—he was out seeking leads on finding the suspect.

Tom sat thinking for several moments. As soon as the thief realized that the local police were looking for him, he probably would skip out. "If he could only be located before he learns the authorities are after him—" Tom reflected.

Jumping up suddenly from the telephone chair, he rushed back to the living room and told the others his thoughts. "I believe that the more people who join the search, the better," he concluded. "Come on, Bud. Let’s go on a hunt for Hoplin ourselves!"

"I’ll go too," Mr. Swift decided, and went for his car keys.

Chow loyally offered his services, and Sandy declared that she would pick up her friend Bashalli and join the hunt as well.

Mrs. Swift began a motherly protest: "Now Sandra, dear, there’s no point in—"

"Mother, it’s not dangerous—we’re just going to drive around and see if we catch sight of him somewhere," Sandy interrupted. "And besides—I’m a Swift!"

"You sure are!" nodded Sandy’s mother. "And
so am I—
which is why I’ll be joining you and Bashi in the car."

"You can’t leave me out of this hunt," said Craig, starting after the others.

"Wait!" Tom protested. "You’d better stay here, Craig."

"Why?" asked the flier. "Doc Simpson told me I was all right."

"I realize that," he replied, "but he also advised you not to exert yourself for another week. Do it as a favor, okay?"

Craig, disappointed, watched the mob hurry from the house. It was decided that Mr. Swift would take the large family sedan, Bud and Tom would take Bud’s convertible, the women would use Tom’s own sports car, leaving Chow with his pickup truck.

"And let’s maintain ‘radio silence’ on our cellphones, unless there’s a real emergency," Tom urged. "Hoplin probably has people listening in, and we don’t want to alert him." The several cars then worked out which areas of Shopton they would each cover.

As Tom took the wheel of the scarlet convertible, Bud said, "Where do we start?"

Tom surmised that all the surrounding areas, except the locale of the Swift home, which sat at the edge of a large suburban wooded area, would be avoided by Hoplin in order to stay clear of the Shopton police and out of the public eye. "We’ll let the others cover those places. Our best bet," he said, "would be to search right here, close to home."

"Sure," Bud nodded. "I have an idea those men are watching every move we make. Let’s smoke ’em out!"

They cruised around the tree-arched roads near the house, which of course were also in close proximity to Swift Enterprises. As the family had eaten an early supper it was still a bright twilight, and easy to see. Nothing suspicious was revealed. Minutes stretched into an hour, and the shadows lengthened. Soon the youths found themselves back in the vicinity of the house.

"One more road," said Tom as he turned the car into a little-used rural lane. "We’ll drive through here," he announced. "If we don’t find anybody, I suggest we go back to the house and check to see if there’s any report from the police."

"Getting dark now," Bud complained. "We could use night-vision goggles." Having strained his eyes, Bud slumped back for a moment to rest. Then, suddenly, he sat upright. "Tom!" he called. "Swing our lights around to nine o’clock low!"

Tom spun the nose of the convertible to the left side of the lane and angled the narrow shafts of light in the direction indicated. The glare revealed a man loping across a small clearing. No longer hidden by the deepening night, he bolted toward a heavy cluster of trees and brush.

"He looks like Hoplin!" Tom cried out.

Killing the ignition, he leapt from the car, with Bud following. They lost sight of the suspect when he got out of range of the lights, but they could hear him crashing through the thickets just ahead.

The boys whipped out flashlights and raced after the man. The woods became more dense the farther they went.

"Whoop!"
Bud tripped and tumbled down a shallow ravine. Stunned but unhurt, he scrambled to his feet. Tom stopped to make sure that his friend was all right.

"Never mind me!" Bud shouted. "Keep after that guy!"

But the slight delay had been costly. Now the flashlights no longer picked up the fugitive. The boys forged ahead for some distance, but Hoplin had disappeared.

"It’s no use looking any more," Tom admitted in disgust. "I’m afraid that we lost this round, Bud. But it proves one thing. Hoplin is still in the neighborhood."

Fatigued by the wild chase, he and Bud trudged out of the woods and back toward the car. But before they reached it, Tom grabbed his pal’s arm and whispered, "Look over there—through those trees!"

As they approached the break in the trees, Bud could see what Tom had caught sight of—fresh-looking footprints in the soft earth and pine needles!

"This must be where our boy came through just before we saw him," Bud said softly. "We can backtrack him."

Caught up in the excitement of the chase, Bud began sweeping the ground with his flashlight. "I see more footprints!"

Tom examined them. "There was a meeting here involving three men!" he said excitedly. "Hoplin, the one who calls himself Cameron, probably, and somebody else as well."

The boys followed the footprints for a short distance around a bend. Then the three sets of tracks became only two.

"One of them must have climbed down from the road, across those rocks ," Bud suggested. "But where did the other two start from?"

Tom led the way, his eyes straining for signs of a camp or cabin. A few minutes later he halted abruptly. Just ahead, nestled in a cluster of pine trees, was a small vacation cabin made of prefabricated logs. This could be the spot they sought! Tom gestured to his companion to crouch down.

"That building," he said, pointing, "must be where Hoplin and one of his cronies have been living. Let’s get as close to it as we can without making any noise."

The young scientist crawled, Indian fashion, in the direction of the cabin. Bud followed. The two pushed their way quietly to the edge of a clearing which fronted the log structure, and listened. Everything was still and dark.

"Shall we rush the place?" Bud whispered. Then, answering his own question: "We’d get caught if there are guards watching from the woods."

"Right," Tom agreed. "Let’s try smoking out anybody who’s watching for us.

"How?" the dark-haired flier asked.

Tom suggested that they each find a small rock and heave it, Bud to the right and Tom straight at the cabin. After locating round, good-sized stones and tossing them, the trio waited alertly, but there was no response to their strategy.

"Guess there’s no one inside," said Bud. "If there were anyone else, he’d have come out—or at least ruffled those window curtains. Let’s investigate!"

Tom cautiously led the way to the cabin and peered through a window, trying to see through the curtains. But the utter darkness inside defeated him.

"I can’t see a thing," he muttered to Bud. "But I’m sure no one’s home. Let’s try the door."