Tom Swift and His Megascope Space Prober (2 page)

STARTLED into silence, Bud and Mr. Swift waited for Tom to continue. The youth ran a nervous hand through his spiky crewcut. "When I tested my original design," Tom explained, "a few bugs showed up, pretty serious ones. Dad, you remember how I had to redesign the register."

"Yes. You said the carbon bonds were flash-vaporizing."

"Right, producing unmanageable backpressure in the chamber."

"So?" Bud put in with a puzzled look.

"I redesigned that feature of my machine and had Arv Hanson work up a second prototype, the one you saw the other day, Bud," Tom replied. "But Galaspain may not know that." The youthful inventor added excitedly, "Unless he perfected the register himself, the machine may blow up!"

Bud gave a low whistle. Mr. Swift’s expression was grave and thoughtful.

"But what’s this bit about you having leaked the plans to Galaspain?" asked Bud.

"I completely forgot. When I was trying to solve the problem, I asked Dr. Roggarson to look over the specs and blueprints."

"Irv Roggarson?" repeated Tom’s father. "But he’s― "

"Up at the space outpost," Tom concluded, referring to Swift Enterprises’ space station orbiting 22,300 miles above the equator. "I transmitted the materials up to him over the high-baud lasercom!"

Damon Swift shook his head. "Let’s take a breather for a second. Irv Roggarson himself is surely above suspicion. Are you suggesting that someone tapped into the laser communications beam? Tell me how that’s possible, Tom. You have a tight beam a few inches in diameter linking Enterprises and the outpost for no more than a few seconds. A spy would have had to position himself precisely in the way—
invisibly
, as he went undetected—then intercept the beam, record the signal content, and
then
retransmit it along its way. All in a matter of moments!"

"I’m not saying I know how it was done," admitted Tom. "But
there’s
the weak link we’ve been looking for. The question right now is, should I warn Galaspain, Dad? Maybe try to stop the demonstration?"

The elder scientist again shook his head. "Frankly, I’m afraid there’s nothing you can do. If you tried to stop Galaspain, he and the authorities might construe it to mean you’re calling him a thief."

"Which would be true," Bud noted wryly.

The young inventor looked resigned. "But Dad’s right, Bud. It would complicate getting him to act on the warning, because he would be afraid that acting on it would come across as admitting the accusation," said Tom. "And yet we
have
to do something. We can’t just let the man blow himself up!"

Bud shrugged with a look that told Tom he understood—but didn’t entirely agree.

After some thought Tom called Harlan Ames and asked him to use some of his contacts in government to allow Tom to pass along a message that would appear to have a degree of official sanction behind it. He worded the message carefully, politely mentioning his own work in a "similar area of research," and noting the problem that had cropped up.

All of Sunday passed by. There was no response back from France. "He’s a well-known engineer," pronounced Mr. Swift. "He may have been able to correct the problem using your input, though he doesn’t choose to acknowledge it."

Tom said with worry in his voice, "Let’s hope he knows what he’s doing."

The demonstration in Paris was scheduled for six o’clock Monday morning, which would be one A.M. in Shopton, New York. Bud and the Swift family planned to watch the proceedings on television. Despite the shadow over the event, Sandy was delighted when she heard of the late night gathering. "A TV party! Wonderful!" she announced with a giggle. "I’ll ask Bashi over to share the popcorn."

Sunday evening Bud brought Bashalli over to the Swifts’ home in his convertible. Mrs. Swift, a slim and pretty woman, welcomed the guests warmly. After one of her delicious chicken dinners and dessert provided by Bashalli, the young people played music and videos, danced, and chatted until the time for the demonstration approached.

"Will we be receiving the picture direct from France?" asked Bashalli as Tom switched on the living room’s big, elaborate TV screen.

Tom nodded. "That’s right, Bash. Via our outpost in space." The space station not only engaged in research and in manufacturing work, but was also used for relaying high-definition television signals from point to point around the world. "We’ll be getting a simultaneous audio stream from news sources on the Net, too. The Paris broadcasts wouldn’t be in English, of course."

"Inconsiderate of them," stated Bashalli, a native of Pakistan, with a smile.

The Paris network—evidently a channel devoted to science and technology—came into focus on the screen. From the audio setup came: "We bring you now on-the-spot web coverage of an important news event, direct from Galaspain Laboratories in Paris." As the commentator talked about the machine and its potential industrial significance, the TV camera panned across the device itself. The picture briefly zoomed in on Galaspain, a hawkfaced man with spectacles and a ragged, dark moustache. The engineer made a brief speech in French, pointing out the features of his invention.

"That phony!" Bud gritted. "His machine looks
just
like yours, Tom!"

His friend was too absorbed to comment. The whole group, now including Mr. and Mrs. Swift, watched the screen closely as the engineer threw a switch to start his machine in operation.

The audio announcer spoke softly, as if narrating a crucial golf match. "We’re informed the machine has performed well in small-scale testing, but today we’re promised something dramatic that hasn’t been tried before. We’ll see the result any minute now."

Galaspain watched smugly, strutting about the room and occasionally checking a valve or dial. There were murmurs of appreciation from his onscreen audience—men and women in white scientific coats, business persons, media techs.

Suddenly there came a loud explosion! As the picture quivered on the screen, Tom shot his father an anguished look. When the image settled into focus again, the demonstration hall was in turmoil, filling with a haze of white smoke and echoing with the shouts and groans of the injured. The horrified viewers in the Swift living room saw that the matter-control machine had blown apart. Some parts of the wreckage flickered with sparks or flames. Debris was scattered about and a number of people, including Galaspain, had been knocked off their feet.

The reporting announcer was beside himself with the thrill of fresh catastrophe. "You heard it, folks! Something has gone tragically wrong!" he shouted above the screams of the audience. "That blast you heard was the machine blowing up! And
what
a blast it was."

"You tried, Tom," said Mrs. Swift comfortingly. "This wasn’t your fault." Her son could only nod, with a shrug of regret and lingering shock. Bud put a hand on his shoulder.

Later in the day the media were reporting the grim effects of the explosive malfunction. Several members of the audience had been rushed to the nearest hospital in serious condition. And there was one fatality. Standing closest to the machine, Roland Galaspain had borne the full force of the blast.

"I wonder if this is the end of it," Tom murmured.

"It
never
is," Bud declared. "Someone was behind it, Skipper, and we’re sure to hear from him again."

Tom spent the afternoon making triply sure he had solved the destructive problem in the translimator. At eight o’clock he and Bud left the plant to catch a late snack together before going their separate ways.

He still feels like it’s his fault,
Bud thought, looking on with concern at the bronze-hued two-seater in front of him.

The narrow highway into the main part of town ducked through the lightly wooded area that skirted Shopton. Suddenly Bud’s musings on his chum and the mystery were interrupted as he saw Tom’s car veer wildly into the opposite lane, tires screeching.

"Hey! Watch it, pal!" Bud gasped.
Had Tom fallen asleep at the wheel—or blacked out?

For a moment it looked as though Tom had brought his car under control, and Bud breathed a sigh of relief. But the next instant Tom’s car shot off toward the shoulder of the road, teetered on the edge of the ditch that ran alongside, spraying gravel—and then turned over!

HAD Tom been hurt, perhaps seriously?

Bud, thoroughly alarmed, slammed on the brakes of his own car and swerved the convertible toward the side of the road. As the wheels screeched to a skidding stop, and he leapt right over the door like a pole-vaulter, Bud caught a momentary glimpse of a figure darting off among the trees and underbrush. Could he have had anything to do with Tom’s accident?

Can’t waste time on him
, Bud thought.

Bud turned toward the ditch and scrambled down the sloping shoulder. Tom’s sportscar rested propped up on its side, wheels still spinning, headlights still beaming. A hopeful sign!
But how the heck can I get him free?
the young flyer worried. The passenger side of the car was pressed against the ground, and the other was level with the top of Bud’s head, the door handle well out of reach!

"Okay now—this is a thinking challenge," he muttered to himself frantically. "What would Tom do?"

As a thought struck him, he ran to one of the roadside trees. Using all his strength, the ex-footballer ripped down a thick, sturdy bough and dragged it back to Tom’s car, propping it up at a sharp angle between ground and underside.

Bud began to rock the car, and it began to slip and tilt. Abruptly it overbalanced and fell against the bough full force, just as Bud had hoped. The bough bent, splintered, and gave way—but it had managed to cushion the car’s fall, preventing a jolt that might have caused Tom further injury.

Bud managed to lunge through the shattered driver’s window to kill the power, then knelt beside it in a frenzy of fear. The young inventor was slumped inside, not moving.

"Tom! Tom!" Bud cried out, testing the door handle.

To Bud’s immense relief, his pal moved and opened his eyes. "Ohh!" Tom said and rubbed his forehead dazedly.

"You’ll be all right," Bud said hopefully.

"Yes, I’m all right—I guess," Tom murmured. "Just shaken up. The anticrash system kept me in my seat at first, until it cut out." The youth was referring to an automatic protective mechanism he had first developed for his most recent invention, his triphibian atomicar. The setup used his force-ray repelatron in place of the usual safety straps. "Guess the impact jarred something loose... You know, I really should embed the control circuitry in― "

"Yep, you really
are
all right, genius boy!" Bud commented with a relieved grin. He made sure his friend had suffered no broken bones or other serious injury, then helped Tom to his feet. The young inventor’s face was only slightly bruised, and his blue-striped T-shirt had come through the ordeal unscathed. "It was just the sudden stop that acted as my knockout punch," said Tom.

"What happened to your car?" Bud asked with a puzzled frown. "I mean, before it kissed the ground!"

"Search me. The car went out of control all of a sudden," Tom said. "Wouldn’t seem to answer the wheel. Weird. I’ll check right now."

"I
don’t
think so," Bud retorted as Tom started toward the dented sports car. "What
I
think is, you’re going straight to sickbay and let Doc Simpson do the checking up. He said he’d be working late."

Overriding Tom’s rueful protests, Bud guided him up to the red convertible and helped him inside. Then, taking his own place at the wheel, Bud sped back to Swift Enterprises, contacting Simpson on his cellphone. They passed through the main gate and pulled up outside the plant’s infirmary.

Dr. Simpson, the young medic of Enterprises, eyed Tom with a look of comic dismay as the two boys entered his office. "Good grief, Skipper!" he said, seeing Tom’s visible scrapes and bruises. "You have a lab accident?"

Bud grinned. "Naw. Genius boy was just doing a somersault with his car. Kind of late in the day to start cutting up, wouldn’t you say, Doc?"

Doc Simpson laughed. "Sure is. Anyway, I’m the one who’s supposed to do the cutting up around here." He reached for a medical kit.

"Well, don’t start on me." Tom chuckled. "We don’t need exploratory surgery to tell me I’m just a little shaken up."

The physician examined Tom carefully and treated a few slight cuts, but said that otherwise he found the patient uninjured. Nevertheless, he ordered Tom to rest for an hour or two on a cot in one of the treatment rooms.

"Listen, I can’t stay here," Tom argued as he put on his T-shirt. "I have to find out what went wrong with that car."

"It’ll wait," Doc insisted, shepherding Tom into a treatment room. "In the meantime, you stretch out on this cot."

"Relax," Bud told his pal. "I’ll go see about your car."

When Tom tried to object, Doc Simpson added persuasively, "We’re saving you for the last play of the fourth quarter, Tom Swift!"

"I’ll even leave you with something to chew over," offered Bud. He told Tom about the fleeing figure he had seen briefly in the headlights of his car.

"I saw someone too," responded the patient, "just before I lost control. In fact I saw a little more than you did, chum. It was a woman, carrying something in her hand."

"Like a gun?"

"No, bigger and bulkier. It looked more like a camera—but I only got a glimpse. No way I could identify the woman."

Tom lay down with a humorous grumble while Bud hurried off to the big garage-and-maintenance shop which housed Enterprises’ fleet of trucks and jeeps. Soon a wrecker was on its way with Al Roster, one of the mechanics working the night shift, at the wheel and Bud beside him.

When they arrived at the scene of the accident, Al said, "Wow! Tom was lucky!"

Tom’s car was hoisted out of the ditch with the tow crane. The mechanic checked the steering system but could find nothing wrong. Other than the broken windows the only apparent damages were some deep fender dents and a few body scratches.