Tom Swift and His Outpost in Space

THE TOM SWIFT INVENTION ADVENTURES

TOM SWIFT

AND HIS OUTPOST

IN SPACE

BY VICTOR APPLETON II

This unauthorized tribute is based upon the original TOM SWIFT JR. characters.

As of this printing, copyright to The New TOM SWIFT Jr. Adventures is owned by SIMON & SCHUSTER

This edition privately printed by RUNABOUT © 2011
www.tomswiftlives.com

"DON’T TRY IT, Tom! We’ll blow up!" warned Bud Barclay as his friend Tom Swift sent the great silver
Sky Queen
nosing higher and higher. Bud, wild-eyed, nudged the portly figure seated next to him with his elbow. "Chow, Tom’s gone crazy! We’ll have to overpower him!"

"Relax, Bud. This ship can take it," replied the blond young scientist absent-mindedly. He kept his deep-set blue eyes focused on the instrument panel.

"Y’ cain’t fool ole Chow that easy, Buddy Boy," said Chow Winkler. "We been up a lot higher ’n this, and that was over th’ South Pole!"

Bud sighed. "Tom, people nowadays are getting mighty blasé about jetting around in the stratosphere. It’s a sad thing for a pilot. What am I gonna have to do to impress people—invent something?"

The altimeter needle showed they were at a height of 85,000 feet—more than sixteen miles up in the purplish black sky. Despite the star-blazed darkness it was only midday. Tom was flying the huge jet skyship, his famous three-decker Flying Lab, as high as he dared in order to test out his latest invention. This was a solar battery, to be charged by the unshielded radiation of the sun.

During the trip Bud had been intently watching the differential pressure gauge. The dark-haired young pilot, a passenger on this trip, knew that the pressurized plane was being subjected to a terrific bursting strain as the air outside grew thinner and thinner. He also knew that the revolutionary craft had proven time and again that it was well-equipped to meet the dangers of upper-atmospheric flight.

As the eighteen-year-old inventor kept the ship in a steady climb, Bud frowned dramatically. "Don’t say I didn’t warn you!" he muttered with feigned worry. "If this crate blows up in our faces, we won’t even—"

He broke off as the plane gave a violent lurch. There was a groan of tortured metal and the three were nearly wrenched out of their seats.

"What hit us? One o’ them meteors?" Chow gasped, gripping his armrest.

"Turbulent area," Tom replied, as the giant craft shuddered from stem to stern. Tom manipulated the controls calmly, and after a few jittery moments the ship had reached a safe region of placid air above the "ghost winds." Then he confidently flipped a switch, pouring power into the jet lifters. Instantly the plane roared upward, leaving mile after mile behind during its startling vertical ascent. As the upper limit of the stratosphere drew near, the
Queen
leveled off and seemed to hang suspended in the dark crystalline dome of the upper air, far above even the highest clouds.

Tom glanced over his shoulder as his flying companions nestled back into their contour flight chairs in silent relief. "Listen, pal, don’t scare me like that." Bud gave a grin. "It’s almost as hard on my arteries as one of Chow’s desserts!"

"You kin joke all you wanna, but I noticed you had three helpings o’ pie last night," Chow commented smugly. The former ranch hand was not only a close friend of Tom and Bud, but their personal chef. He was as used to needling as to Texas sunshine.

"Sorry, guys." Tom flashed a smile back at them. "You know we’re apt to run into those ghost winds almost anywhere up here. I figured we’d better get above the action quickly before the shaking did any damage."

"Speaking of ghosts, what’s that at ten o’clock?" Bud suddenly exclaimed.

"I
wish
you’d give up on tryin’ to spook me," said Chow languidly, his eyes following Bud’s pointing finger. Then Chow gave a snort of surprise. "Wa-al brand my contrails, what
is
that thing?"

Glancing to portside, Tom saw a large, silvery sphere floating some distance away. The sharp sunlight glinted off its surface as if off a polished mirror. "Must be a weather balloon." Tom’s eyes narrowed. "But I’m not so sure."

Bud glanced at him curiously. "What are you driving at, skipper?"

Tom raised a pair of binoculars and trained them on the balloon before replying. "That box attached to the balloon—it doesn’t look like the usual type of radiosonde for sending weather signals. Let’s get a closer look."

Feeding power into the main horizontal engines, Tom sent the ship gliding forward. Then he banked in a tight curve that brought the
Queen
close to the object. The balloon veered and fluttered in the rush of the plane’s airstream, but the young inventor finally maneuvered the Flying Lab to within twenty yards of it.

Again Tom studied the object as he held the ship steady. "How about it, pal?" asked Bud. He focused his own binoculars on the strange device, then lowered them with a puzzled expression. "It’s no weather balloon, that’s sure. But what is it?"

Tom replied thoughtfully, "Bud, that balloon may be rigged for some kind of solar-battery test."

"What!" Chow cried in an indignant tone. "Some lowdown rustler tryin’ to beat you to the punch?"

"It’s only a guess. But the reflectors on the surface of the payload capsule certainly fit with that kind of use."

Chow was disgusted. "Ramblin’ rockets, that means someone else may get the jump on Swift Enterprises before you kin bring your model t’ market!"

Tom shrugged ruefully. "There’s no law against competition."

Bud asked, "Who do you suppose sent it up?"

"Search me. I’m not aware of any companies doing active work in this area right now." Tom settled back at the controls. "Well, whoever they are, I wish them luck." He gently steered the ship away.

The giant bag was rising slowly—floating toward the upper levels of the stratosphere. Then, without warning, the balloon burst, spattering parts of the shiny fabric in all directions. Tom, Bud, and Chow craned their necks to watch the instrument package as it plummeted downward. A moment later a small parachute popped open to float it gently back to earth.

"Hey, let’s go after it!" urged Bud excitedly. "Maybe we can find out whether your hunch is right!"

Tom shook his head. "The persons making the experiment are probably tracing the balloon by its signals. They’ll be all set to retrieve the box when it lands. And after all, it’s
their
experiment—we don’t want to foul it up."

"Guess you’re right," Bud murmured in a disappointed voice.

"Too bad
their big balloon popped," sniffed Chow. But he didn’t look overly sympathetic.

Tom sent the
Sky Queen
zooming upward in a steep climb. Soon the altimeter needle showed that the ship had crossed the upper border of the stratosphere and had entered the ionosphere as it neared the edge of airless space.

"High as we go," said Tom, putting the
Queen
into hover mode.

"Time to let loose that contraption o’ yours, Tom?" asked Chow.

"Yes," he replied, "assuming everything works properly. I hope the ghost winds didn’t put anything out of whack."

Even the lower ionosphere was not high enough for Tom to adequately test his new battery, which required exposure to the full intensity of the solar rays that earth’s atmosphere prevents from reaching the ground. As the skyship could not safely attain the altitude desired, he had designed a special carrying vehicle—a low-pressure glider with automatic guidance controls—to lift the experimental battery another dozen miles spaceward. This unmanned and unpowered glidewing, as Tom called it, was to be launched from a special ceilingless compartment at the top of the
Sky Queen
’s fuselage by means of a powerful electric catapult. In effect, it would be hurled into the ionosphere like a javelin.

After a last check of the instruments, which showed nothing amiss with the glidewing or the launching catapult, Tom activated an automatic countdown and waited tensely for the signal that the small craft was on its way. But instead a cluster of red lights glared on the control panel as the countdown reached zero.

"Looks like something’s wrong, skipper," said Bud.

Tom checked the feed from a videocam mounted in the launcher bay. "The glidewing’s shifted in its cradle, and the sensors won’t release the catapult mechanism," he replied.

"Kin we fix her up here, boss?" Chow inquired.

Tom grinned. "I just have to tap it and jiggle it a little, like a bad TV antenna. I’ll go put on a pressure suit." At this extreme altitude, the low pressure and subzero temperatures would be fatal to any human being not sealed in a protective covering.

Bud and Chow kept their eyes glued to the monitor screen on the control panel. They saw Tom squeeze through the narrow airlock into the compartment that held the catapult launcher. He grabbed two of the glidewing’s main support struts and gently pulled the entire lightweight assemblage sideways several inches.

"Does the board show green yet?" Tom radioed.

"Not yet," replied Bud.

Tom’s helmet rocked in a nodding motion. "Okay, I see the problem. Watch the board."

With Chow peering anxiously over his shoulder, Bud stared fixedly at the instrument panel. Suddenly all the red lights were replaced by green.

"That’s it, Tom," Bud said into his microphone. "Come on in." There was no reply. "Tom?"

Chow’s big hand abruptly clamped down on Bud’s shoulder like a steel claw. Bud glanced up at the expression on Chow’s face, then tracked his gaze to the video monitor screen.

The launching bay was empty!

"TOM! NO!
No!"
Bud cried in horror.
"Tom Swift, can you hear me?"

Chow made a whimpering sound. "We gotta—we gotta
do
somethin’! He musta gone into orbit!"

Bud did not reply. His heart thudded. He knew that this was not a matter of going into orbit around the earth, but of falling through the atmosphere from a height of fifty miles!

An experienced pilot, Bud forced himself to think. He adjusted the radar sweep and immediately noted the characteristic reflection of the glidewing. Amazingly, it seemed to be following its prescribed arc into the ionosphere.

"No sign of—of a body," Bud choked. Tom hadn’t been caught up in the flinging motion of the catapult, then, which would have exposed him to a bone-snapping acceleration. Bud again reoriented the scan, now sweeping downward. The radar immediately signaled target acquisition!

"There he is!" Bud cried frantically, nodding at a minute blip on the screen.

Bud reset the
Sky Queen
’s supergyros, not bothering to warn Chow to hang on. The deck tilted sharply as the ship nosed down. Then Bud downthrottled the jet lifters while blasting the forward engines. The Flying Lab arrowed earthward in a roaring power dive that nearly lifted Bud and Chow from their seats!

"Fifteen thousand feet to target…eight thousand…nine hundred…" Bud reported in a whisper as the seconds ticked away.

"I kin see him!" cried Chow. A small, pressure-suited figure could now be seen through the large cabin viewport, tumbling limply over and over.

"Okay, listen!" commanded Bud. "Run up to the top deck and walk along toward the stern. Look out through every window you come to—tell me over the intercom whether I’m getting closer or farther from Tom. He’s in the radar blindspot now, and I’m trying to maneuver the
Queen
so Tom will float back into the launcher bay. You’re my eyes, Chow!"

With a gulp the heavyset Texan clattered up the metal stairway to the deck above. "Got him in my sights now," he intercommed. "He’s about a hunnert feet straight off t’ the side from the forward lounge." As Bud eased the great craft sideways, allowing gravity to accelerate it downward to keep pace with Tom’s falling form, Chow worked his way back toward the tail. "Gettin’ closer," he reported excitedly. "Now I kin see him through the porthole—he’s just above the top o’ that launcher room!"

In response Bud gave the equivalent of a tap on the accelerator pedal, opening up the lifter thrust just enough to retard the ship’s descent.
"Wahoo!"
Chow cried in triumphant relief. "Got ’im—he’s inside the bay. But Buddy Boy, he ain’t moving!"

Putting the
Sky Queen
on automatic pilot Bud rocketed out of his chair and scrambled up to the door of the glidewing launch compartment, roughly grabbing a pressure suit along the way. Through the sliding door’s porthole he could see Tom’s limp figure lying crumpled on the deck of the bay.

Had Tom Swift survived his incredible ordeal?

In his suit Bud made his way through the airlock and delicately lifted Tom’s helmet, peering desperately through the tinted visor. He could make out Tom’s face, but the deep shadows made it impossible to determine his condition.

Trying to be gentle in case Tom proved to have sustained serious internal injuries, Bud dragged his pal into the ship, where Chow frantically unsealed Tom’s helmet and pulled it off.