Tom Swift in the Caves of Nuclear Fire (7 page)

The futuristic tank zoomed along over the rough terrain at fifty miles an hour. Bud, instead of braking it, decided to let the vehicle coast on low idle the last ten feet. A few feet from the pond it was on the verge of stopping, when, without warning, the terrasphere tank picked up speed and raced forward. Quickly Bud jammed on the brake but he was too late.

As Tom gave a shout of alarm, the tank lurched into the pond, sliding down to its soft, muddy bottom until only the crane turret and control dome were left above water.

Bud shoved back the dome access hatch and leaned out as Tom came racing up, breathlessly.

"Bud! Are you—"

"Oh, don’t ask!" Bud yelled back, shamefaced. "I guess I can’t blame
this
on sabotage."

Tom called out a crew from the plant, who arrived in minutes with a winch to pull the tank from the muddy water. "Golly, I’m sorry, Tom," Bud said to his friend. "I can’t understand what went wrong. She accelerated by herself and wouldn’t brake." Despair entered his voice. "Oh
man—
Terry’s probably ruined and our trip will be delayed."

Tom threw an arm around Bud’s shoulder. Smiling, he said, "Are you kidding? This is exactly why I had you test her out—to find these flaws in Terry’s design. I can already guess the weak point in the mechanism. I’ll have her fixed up in no time."

"Nevertheless, when we’re tearin’ around in the jungle, I think I’ll leave the driving to you," Bud retorted.

It was late in the afternoon when Tom, Bud, and Craig—newly cleared by Doc Simpson—gathered in Tom’s office to talk over plans for leaving.

"How soon will it be?" Craig asked.

"In a couple of days," Tom replied. "We have to wait for proper clearances for Sterling, Hanson, and Mandy and Ry."

"Who are they?" Craig inquired. "Mandy and Ry?"

"The rest of our crew," Tom answered. "Mandelia Akwabo was born in Kenya and is a specialist in the geography of Central Africa. She also speaks the local dialects fluently. And Ryerson Cully is one of this country’s top geophysicists."

"Specializes in mountains that blow their tops," Bud commented.

Tom’s office phone buzzed. He picked up the receiver and after a moment said, "Bring it in, please, Trent."

The secretary opened the door and handed him a faxed cablegram. As Tom quickly scanned the message, his face turned pale.

Bud noticed his friend’s worried expression. "What is it?" he asked.

"This cable," murmured Tom, "is from the authorities of the principal nation claiming ownership of the Borukundi region."

"Bad news?" Craig asked quickly.

Tom gave a sigh of puzzled despair. "We’re being refused the right to enter Borukundi!"

Tom and his companions were stunned by the message in the cablegram. The planning, the effort, the time—all seemed hopelessly lost.

"Why didn’t those people in Africa tell us this before?" growled Bud. "It can’t be!"

But Craig Benson shook his head. "I’m afraid it’s all too predictable. Three countries border Borukundi. One is recognized by the United States and most international organizations as having a legitimate historical claim to the area. But Europe recognizes another, and most of Africa prefers the third. So they compete in undercutting one another and react with paranoia when anyone wants to go in officially." He added that most scientific expeditions into Borukundi now went without having acquired the legal right to do so. "That way the various governments can disclaim all knowledge, and denounce any findings that contradict their propaganda machines."

"It’s crazy!" cried Bud.

Tom continued to stare at the cablegram. Presently he said, "I’m beginning to wonder if perhaps there isn’t something fishy about this deal. It seems to me that such a message would have been sent to our government first and relayed to me."

"That makes sense," said Craig. "On the other hand, the nation in question has been known to do things in odd, erratic ways."

Frowning, Bud pointedly ignored Craig’s comment. "Then you mean," Bud put in, speaking to Tom, "that maybe Hoplin or Cameron or the
mystery third person
are in cahoots with some official over there and sold him the idea of sending this cable?"

"Could be," Tom replied. "In any case, I want to talk to Dad about this before I make another move."

The upshot of the conference between father and son was that Mr. Swift agreed the cable should be investigated and set the wheels in motion to do this. Hours later he summoned his son to their private office.

"Tom," he said, "you can proceed with your trip as planned. That cablegram was a fraud. The officials know of no order, such as you received, being issued by their government."

"What a relief!" said Tom, grinning with anticipation of carrying out his plans for the African expedition.

"In fact," Mr. Swift continued,
"that
government, at least, says they’re eager to have you come. However, they sent a warning about General Boondah and his followers causing trouble in the area where the Maba tribe is." After a moment he added: "I have the impression that they don’t mind allowing you to put yourself in harm’s way, as you may be able to give them information they can use—
if
you manage to make it back."

Tom smiled. "With luck and a little diplomacy, our group ought to be able to make friends with the natives."

"You’re right in that regard," said Tom’s father, "but don’t underestimate the ‘luck’ element. Sometimes it’s difficult to win the friendship of people in the world’s traditional cultures. They instinctively distrust strangers, and often connect them to colonialists and exploiters. Be certain to use every precaution. Supply yourself and your crew with adequate protection against possible attacks."

"I will," Tom promised.

He immediately sent word to the other members of the expedition. There was a sigh of relief from all of them and a whoop of excitement from Bud. "I’ve got jungle jitters already," he joked.

With this unexpected obstacle cleared away, last-minute preparations went forward at a feverish pace and finally the day arrived when the explorers were ready to depart. "We leave at five tomorrow morning," Tom announced to his friends.

That evening, at The Glass Cat coffee house where Bashalli Prandit worked, Sandy and Bashalli gave a surprise farewell party for Tom, Bud, and the other expeditioners—though in truth it was hardly a surprise.

"This is a most arresting custom," Bashalli commented to Tom with a teasing smile. "You seem to have one of these going-away parties every few weeks. You have had so many going-away parties I’m surprised you haven’t gone away for good!"

"It’s a living, Bash," Tom joked. "Join Swift Enterprises and see the world."

"Or outer space, or the bottom of the sea. Do you not ever feel the desire to settle down, Tom Swift?"

"Not at the moment," replied the young inventor carefully. "I’m only eighteen, you know."

Bashalli rolled her eyes. "Yes, and as time is counted by the Swifts, no doubt you will be eighteen for
many
more years to come. I trust that some day, Tom, the hands of the clock will turn even for you."

Tom gave a wink and said, "When that happens, Bash, I’ll make sure to let you know."

Twenty young people were there and the main room of the coffee house was alive with excited chatter.

"That’s quite a place you’re going to," said a youth named Will Brown. "I hear one of the tribal kings weighs two hundred and fifty pounds and has as many wives!"

"Stay away from him, Tom," ordered blond Jane Denton. "He may try to give you one of them!"

"There’s an old chief in that country who has nothing the matter with him," said Will, "but he’s too sacred to touch the dirty old ground, so he’s carried everywhere he goes—from bed to bath to table."

"Wow! What a life!" Bud exclaimed. "I think I’ll hunt up the guy and offer to pinch-hit for a while."

At the height of the gaiety supper was announced by Sandy and the guests began to file past the tables where refreshments, set out buffet style, were awaiting them. As the young people heaped their plates with food, Bud remarked to Tom with a grin: "This is swell! We ought to go to Africa every day!"

Suddenly there was a shriek from one of the girls, and the sound of a plate dropping from someone’s startled grasp.

"Tom!" Sandy cried. "Who—
what
—is it?"

TOM WHIRLED and his expression turned to one of complete astonishment. Then he broke out laughing. Pointing to the swinging doorway to the kitchen, he jokingly exclaimed, "Ugh! Who let
that
in?"

Standing there was a grotesque figure. Upon second glance everyone recognized him as Chow, who had been asked by Bashalli and her brother Moshan to help with refreshments. Now he was attired in what appeared to be his idea of what a well-dressed African native would wear. He had daubed his forehead with streaks of red make-up. The headdress he wore was adorned with long feathers that drooped in his face like banana peelings. A short, red, sarong-type garment reached almost to his knees. His pudgy bow-legs looked like two pale and battered lawn-sprinkler pipes.

Though howls of laughter issued from the young people, Chow stood tall with a noble and dignified demeanor. He had not meant his entrance to be at all humorous. Muffled grumbling could be heard from behind the cluster of feathers.

Quickly seeking to spare his feelings, Tom rushed up and gave his rotund friend a hug, then led the room in a round of warm applause.

"I congratulate you, Chow Winkler," said Mandy Akwabo, who was radiant in her traditional African
daishiki.
"Your costume is perfectly authentic for the Maba culture, including the red scar-marks."

"I’m glad of that," said Tom. "We don’t want to seem to be making fun of African traditions."

Mandy laughed. "And what is wrong with making fun? Many traditions have earned the right to be made fun of—African, and
perhaps
some of yours as well." Her eyes twinkled in ironic good humor.

Commented Bashalli, "Now
this
is someone I could get to like!"

Though Chow appreciated the applause, he was obviously somewhat embarrassed. "It was
her
idea, Tom," he whispered, nodding in Mandy’s direction.
"Made
me do it, if’n I wanted to get any of her authentic recipes."

"I see," said Tom. "Er—did you say
recipes?"

As the Texan turned grandly and retired to the kitchen, Bud sidled up and remarked, "Tom, if we start running now, we could reach the street before he comes back." Tom smiled wanly.

Chow returned in a few minutes with a huge tray, on which was a steaming mass of green plants.

"What’s that?" Tom asked. He added quickly, "Looks delicious!"

"I bought these here at one o’ them tropical fish an’ plant places," the cook replied. "An’ brand my burnin’ sagebrush, it’s good!" The expression on his face showed that anyone who dared disagree would get an argument in reply!

To avoid hurting Chow’s feelings again, everyone took a portion of his tropical concoction. Bud was first to put his fork in the greens and swallow a small mouthful. From his pained expression one would have thought that he had swallowed the fork instead!

"Are you sure it wasn’t the wrappings you cooked," Bud blurted out, "instead of what came in them?—mm, just kiddin’ ya, cowboy!"

Tom took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and placed some of the unusual food in his mouth. "It tastes like decayed spinach with horse-radish sauce," he murmured to Bud.

"How do you like it?" Chow asked, grinning broadly. Then, without waiting for an answer, he added, "Miss Akwa-bobo over there says it’s a big favorite where she comes from—bigger’n pizza with th’ teenagers."

"I provided our chef here with many such recipes," Mandy said proudly.

Tom made no response to this comment, deciding to deal with the threat when the time came!

The party broke up at midnight in order to give the expeditioners some chance at a night’s sleep. But they all were on hand at the Enterprises’ airstrip for the early-morning take-off, along with the families of Tom and Hank Sterling, and Bashalli.

"Please do be careful, Tom," Bashalli begged as the giant Flying Lab rose on its elevator from its underground hangar. Her bravado was gone for the moment.

Tom put his arm around her shoulder. "I’ll be back soon," he assured her. "And not a day older!"

"No, and not glowing in the dark either, I should hope."

Sandy and Bud, meanwhile, exchanged farewells. Tom kissed his mother and Sandy, and gave his father a firm handshake. Then he climbed into the mammoth plane and went to the pilot’s seat. Bud, as copilot, sat next to him, and Craig just behind.

Checkoffs were made with military precision and soon the giant plane was ready to take off. Tom had been pleased that eleventh-hour clearances had made it possible for Doc Simpson to accompany the expedition. Besides acting as ship’s doctor, the youthful physician also wanted to do some research on cures accomplished by African village shamans—"medicine men," as they were sometimes called.

As Tom checked his instruments, his thoughts turned to Hoplin and Cameron. There had been no sign of them since the night of the chase in the woods, and Hal Brenner had found no further trace of them in Shopton. It seemed they had been secretly making use of the vacation cabin without permission from the owner, who lived many miles away in Albany. Where were they now? If they had been somehow responsible for the cable which had failed to keep Tom home, were they preparing a trap in Africa?

Putting these thoughts aside, Tom touched a switch and the smooth, thundering drone of the jet lifters responded. Amid waves of farewell from the members of the expedition and the group on the runway, the giant craft rose straight into the air like a freed carnival balloon, slowly at first, then rapidly picking up speed.

Altitude attained, Tom applied forward thrust and pulled back on the yoke. The
Sky Queen
shot ahead and zoomed off into the blue.

"This is a remarkable ship!" Craig said, still marveling at the facile operation of Tom’s Flying Lab as Chow brought in breakfast.