Tom Swift and His Giant Robot (13 page)

They stood this way for several minutes as the air became thick with the steamy vapor.

There was a crackling sound from behind, and—

The corridor exploded!

A fiery fury blasted past Tom and Ator. Tom could feel the robot being thrust forward against the thick door panel, which Ator was leaning against with his forearms. The force was tremendous, as if the robot had been swatted with a huge baseball bat—a home-run swing. The force was transmitted through the robot directly into the door, and the door bowed and snapped forward in its frame.

In the middle of the smog of the blast, a narrow slit had appeared at the edge of the door panel! Ator worked his hand into the space and opened-out his dual thumbs. The door creaked open a bit wider, then suddenly gave completely. Tom tumbled limply into the antechamber, into the light of day.

For a long time he knew only confusion. Then he saw familiar faces clustered around him—Chow, Bud, his father. He realized he was lying on a cot in the facility’s infirmary.

"Oh!" he groaned. "How long have I been out?"

"About an hour, son," Mr. Swift answered, patting his hand. "You’ve been in and out, but you don’t remember."

"That Doc said you’ll be good as new," Chow said, his voice thick with emotion. "But brand my yoo-ranium rabbits, don’t scare us like that!"

Tom forced a grin. "I’ll try not to." He turned to his father. "Dad, that was amazing, using Ator as a shield, and the blast as a lever! Did he make it through all right?"

Bud laughed. "Genius boy almost gets converted to loose atoms—and he’s worried about the robot!"

Mr. Swift patted his son’s shoulder. "The robot is in perfect shape, and is being decontaminated."

"Do we know what caused the original blast, Dad?"

"We do now," Damon Swift replied. "The reactor coolant pumps failed, bursting the conduits. As you know, they pass over the corridor in a group."

Tom’s brow furrowed incredulously. "It’s crazy! We’re required by federal licensing to have
three
independent backup systems for every safety feature involving the reactor. That means
four
levels of system would have had to have failed
at the same moment!"

Bud nudged him. "I can see your brain’s working all right!"

"You’re absolutely right," agreed Mr. Swift. "And we think the initial cause of the failure was—"

"A short-circuit!" Tom guessed. "The beamer device!"

"Is that what knocked out your robot man’s legs, Tom?" asked Chow.

"No," the young inventor replied.
"That
was just human error—and
I’m
the human. It looked like I hadn’t ‘seated’ one of the transponder chips properly, and it overheated."

"Which jest goes t’show," commented the cook, "yuh
are
only human!"

After some further medical tests, Tom was released from the infirmary, the presiding doctor urging him—somewhat hopelessly—to get some rest.

The sun was half below the horizon as Tom walked across the facility grounds, Bud at his side.

"That beam-machine must be pretty powerful to penetrate all that lead shielding and concrete," Bud remarked.

"Not to mention alternating layers of Tomasite," Tom added. "Furthermore, they seem to be able to focus the beam very intensely. I don’t see how that could be done over a distance of miles—much less from a space-satellite."

"Maybe it’s mounted on their helicopter," Bud suggested.

"Maybe. They obviously have a small portable unit. But Bud, the Citadel operates under federal security conditions. Even if their chopper has some kind of radar-trapping device, like the security amulets we wear, they could hardly make it invisible and inaudible. The movement-sensitive perimeter cameras would have caught it. Nothing could get close."

"All too true," nodded the dark-haired pilot. "And then there’s
those,"
Bud added, pointing to several lights roving across the sky, accompanied by a faint growl of engines. Like the Swift rocket base on Fearing Island in the Atlantic, the Swift Enterprises Nuclear Research Facility was constantly circled by miniature drone jets, pilotless craft equipped with Tom’s landing-forcer machine that would safely bring down any intruding aircraft.

"Yes," said Tom in a faraway voice. "But you know—"

"What, pal?"

Tom stopped walking, forcing Bud to backtrack. "The landing-forcers were designed at Enterprises, but our purchasing department ordered the standard components from the supplier offering the best deal. And for the last year or so, that supplier was
DKZ-Konkordat!"

Bud raised an eyebrow. "We were just talking about them, weren’t we?"

"Right," said Tom. "The German company that owns the long-distance system we use—and the satellites that we think
might
have the hologram projector on board!"

"So what’s the idea?" asked Bud, puzzled.

Tom stroked his chin. "It may be that one of our enemies has worked his way into a position at their manufacturing plant in Germany. He not only planted the projectors, but somehow inserted something in the ultra-specialized antenna units we use in the landing-forcers. He’d know they were being shipped here to the Citadel, for the drones—which would put a key component of the beamer right over our heads!"

Bud gulped. "Tom, we’ve got to have the drones grounded immediately!"

With quick resolve Tom broke away from Bud and dashed toward the nearest facility phone. He spoke first to his father about his concerns, then to the head of security at the Citadel, Genevieve Taine.

"Say the word and I’ll bring the drones in," she declared.

"No," replied Tom. "If we do that, I’m sure the enemy will guess right away that we’re on to them. I recommend keeping them in the air, but moving them out to a more distant perimeter."

"Good plan, Tom. And we can fly them lower to the ground, too, which should make for a narrower transmission window."

Tom had a light supper in his quarters with Bud, his father, and the girls, who were chagrined at all they had missed during their uneventful shopping trip. Intending to retire early, he said goodnight to the others at the finish of dessert. He was reaching for the lamp switch when the telephone rang with an outside call. It was Joseph Cloud Bear!

"Mr. Swift, I need to see you right away. Can’t wait."

"You can’t tell me over the phone?"

"Naw, better not," the man said apologetically. "But you don’t need to come t’ town. How about I meet you in the parkin’ lot at Darlita’s?"

Tom hesitated, wondering if the rendezvous was another ruse. "Mr. Cloud Bear, I’m a little skittish about putting myself in danger. I hope you—"

"Sure, sure, I understand. I don’t mind if you have people foller you. It’s just that our talkin’ needs t’be private—it’s somethin’ personal."

Tom agreed to the meeting, and the time was set. Then, after a moment’s thought, he called Sam Valdrosa and punched in the private code that forwarded the call to the agent’s mobile phone.

After Tom had outlined the situation, Valdrosa said: "Tell you what, Tom. Just go meet the old gent, and don’t worry. I’ll have a couple of my boys keep an eye on you, from a distance. Don’t worry if you don’t see them—you’re not supposed to!"

The New Mexico stars were glittering thickly across the sky when Tom pulled in to the parking lot. He saw Joseph Cloud Bear’s battered pickup truck parked at the far end of the lot. The old man was leaning against it, dressed in a clean shirt and tie, as was his grandson, Kevin. Tom approached and greeted them. Mr. Cloud Bear shook Tom’s hand, his expression unreadable; the boy looked away.

There was a long moment. Then Joseph Cloud Bear gave his grandson a gentle nudge. "I think you got somethin’ t’say, Kevin."

Kevin Cloud Bear cleared his throat. "Yeah, I—I gotta say—Mr. Swift, I got something to explain to you." He looked up at Tom, a stricken expression on his face. "Please don’t blame this on my gramps, okay?"

"I won’t blame
anybody
for the
truth,"
responded Tom in a reassuring voice.

"Thanks." The boy swallowed hard and looked away again. "Well, you remember what gramps said—about that man who came t’ the shop, with those papers?"

"Yes."

"The thing is, I—
I saw him again!"

Tom tried to keep his face expressionless. "You did? Where?"

"In town, a few days later. He knew I went t’ school, and I think he ’as waiting for me. He was sittin’ in his car."

"What did he want?"

"He told me—he’d done some checking, or somethin’, about those old papers, and
they were fakes!
All of ’em!"

Tom gasped quietly, glancing at Joseph Cloud Bear’s face. The man nodded, grimly.

Kevin continued. "The man didn’t wanna talk. He said he just wanted my grandfather to know, and he was too ashamed to face him. He said somebody had stuck th’ bogus papers in where they knew he’d find them, just to make trouble. He gave me the papers, and said he was sure sorry—and he drove away pronto."

"But you didn’t tell your grandfather." Kevin shook his head, obviously deeply ashamed. Tom tried to soften his words. "And I guess I know why, Kevin."

The boy looked up at Tom. "Ya do?"

"I think so. You knew how much all this meant to him, and you didn’t want to take that away."

Kevin’s voice cracked with feeling. "You shoulda seen th’ difference in him, Mr. Swift! All those people listen’ to him for once, respecting him…"

"But it was wrong!" muttered the grandfather.

"Still, you saw Oi-Pah—didn’t you?" Tom asked.

"I
said
I did, and I
did!"
declared Mr. Cloud Bear with great dignity. "Kevin saw him too—so did others. Go ask ’em!"

"Then your story was basically correct, sir," Tom said. "Except for a few details."

The old man brightened a bit and rested an arm on his grandson’s shoulder. "Guess ya
could
say that," he responded.

Tom confirmed a few further details, then thanked Joseph Cloud Bear and Kevin and returned to his car, amazed and thoughtful.

Maybe it’s starting to make sense after all,
he mused.
Someone’s going to a lot of trouble to keep people away from the mesa. But what about Nicky Ammo? And why did they steal the robot?

Tom unlocked the car door. Suddenly a pair of powerful headlights swept across the lot and a large car pulled up next to him, the rear window lowered.

"Evening, Swift," said a voice from within. "Mind stepping over here for a second?"

Speak of the devil—Nicky Ammo!

"SORRY IF I startled you, kid," said Nicky suavely. "Oh, I mean—
young man!"

Tom stepped nearer, his heart pounding. "You didn’t startle me, Mr. Ammo. I know I don’t need to be worried. I’ve got people looking out for my welfare."

"Sure, Hal and Burt. Two good men." He waved off into the distance, jauntily. "Surprised I know these guys? Sam’s had them on my tail for years now. That makes us buddies, you know? We’re
simplicato."

"Uh-huh." Tom gave Ammo a look that suggested calm toughness—he hoped. "So, out for a little night air?"

"Naw," responded the ex-mobster. "Don’t believe in it. To use a
farce de parfait,
a little bird told me you’d be here, and I thought I’d extend to you a personal invite to come visit me and look over those cars, the ones I saw Pins Zoltan floating up in front of. I
recommenced
that you wanted to see them."

"Have you seen him again?"

"Not lately," he replied. "But it sorta lays on my mind, see? I’m getting a
tad
jittery. And then I got the FBI asking about my old
con-pardres,
Slick Steck and Flash Ludens. This whole thing is stirring up a veritable pot of hornet’s nests, to mix metabolisms. So let’s say my place, tomorrow. Noon?"

"I’m sorry, but I told you my current project would have to be given top priority," said the young inventor. "It’ll have to be on my schedule."

"Why sure, Tom, that’s reasonable." Nicky gestured to his driver to pull away. "Take care then. Tell Sandy I said hi."

"Sandy?"
Tom could feel the blood rushing to his face, and to his muscles. "What about Sandy?"

"Oh, I saw her just this afternoon, over in Albuquerque. Shopping, wasn’t she? With that foreign girl, and another girl, and a young man. Looks like they bought out a shopping mall between ’em."

Nicky Ammo chuckled. It was all Tom could do to hold himself back. "Are you threatening me, Mr. Ammo?"

"Aw, gimme a break, pal!" he responded. "I’m not allowed to threaten anybody these days. And if I did, I sure wouldn’t go for the corny old ‘so how’s your sister’ routine. That’s as bad as askin’ if you got your health insurance paid up! Naw, I’d do something
subtle
and
tasteful."
He flicked a small card out the window, which landed at Tom’s feet. "Just in case your schedule opens up tomorrow."

The car rolled away and off down the road. Tom crouched down and retrieved the card. It appeared to be directions to Ammo’s home.

Using his car phone Tom again contacted Sam Valdrosa.

"That’s Nicky Ammo for you," Valdrosa commented after the story was told. "It’s a hard life for him, having to play nice."

"Do you think my sister’s in danger?"

"No, Tom, I don’t," responded the agent. "It’s all just bluster. Nicky’s got too much to lose to fall back on old habits. But I’ll alert my surveillance team. Meanwhile—maybe your Shopton visitors should stick with large groups when they want to go out."

Tom told of his conversation with Joseph Cloud Bear and his grandson. Then he asked, "By the way, Sam, do you happen to know if Flash Ludens had any family or other connections in Germany?"

Valdrosa snorted. "He sure did! His father emigrated to the U.S. after World War Two, and both sides of Flash’s family still have plenty of relations back there. Are you thinking this has to do with the Konkordat stuff?"

"It could," Tom replied. "Maybe Flash himself is hiding with relatives in Germany."

Valdrosa promised to alert the German authorities and signed off.