Tom Swift and His Outpost in Space (14 page)

"I don’t blame you at all," Horton said. "In your place I’d have been suspicious, too—and would be until that other guy is found."

Bud nodded with a polite half-smile. But Tom knew his pal well enough to sense that Bud was still put off by Ken Horton for some reason.

"Bud is one of the people overseeing the testing program," Tom explained.

"Well, we have all day, and I know you’re a busy man, Tom," said Horton. "I’d be glad to get started right away."

"Think you want to trust yourself in my hands—Kenny?" Bud asked with a raised eyebrow. Tom looked at Bud sharply, not sure that he was kidding!

"Lead the way, pardner. Open the chute and let ’er rip!"

While the tests were going on, Tom drove over to Swift Construction Company on the other side of Shopton, where he inspected the space station modules with Jake Aturian, an old family friend who managed the company plant. After a long lunch, Tom returned to his office.

It was after five o’clock when Kenneth Horton got back. He dropped into a chair and flashed Tom a sparkling grin.

"How’d you make out?" Tom asked him.

"Pretty well, I’d say," he replied. "Man, that zero-G chamber of yours—! I never would’ve believed such a thing was possible." He ran a hand through his hair, then said. "Say Tom, what’s the issue with Bud, anyway?"

"The
issue?
What do you mean?"

Horton sat up straight. "Nothing much. He was absolutely polite, even friendly. But something’s eating at him, having to do with me."

Tom was unsure what sort of answer would be best under the circumstances. "Ken, I think Bud’s just being kind of protective of me and Enterprises. We’re a big family around here."

He nodded. "Sure, I can see that. Well, no biggie."

But later on Ken’s instincts seemed confirmed when Bud called, begging off from joining the meal, though he had been invited. Tom asked Chow to join the table in his place. "We’ll be talking quite a bit about technical stuff later on, pard, but we’ll try to hold back on the sleep-inducing details until after dessert."

"Thanks, boss," Chow responded. "I’d shor like a time t’ ask Ken about my ole friends ’n suchlike."

Supper went smoothly, punctuated by much laughter as Horton and Chow competed to relate anecdotes about the other to Tom. Finally, over dessert, Chow gestured at a plastic model of the space outpost that Arvid Hanson had created. Tom had brought it over to illustrate some points while talking with Ken.

"Well, brand my three-toed bronc, what kind o’ doofunny you workin’ on now, Tom?"

Tom gave his friend an affectionate look and exclaimed with mock excitement, "Chow! I just got a brilliant idea!"

"Ye-ahh? Let’s hear it."

"We’ll take out a patent on that shirt you’re wearing and put it on the market as a sure cure for color blindness!"

Chow chuckled as he looked down at his loud red-yellow-and-purple Western-style shirt. Far from taking offense, he was proud of his spectacular shirt collection.

"You jest say the word, Tom, an’ I’ll wire San Antone this minute for a tailor-made duplicate in your size!"

Horton chuckled and said, "Man, it’s the same old Chow Winkler, still wearing those wild shirts!"

"Guess I’ll take that as a compliment," beamed Chow. "But what in tarnation
is
that model over there?" he added. "You goin’ in for designin’ chuck-wagon wheels?"

"Chuck-wagon wheels?" Tom laughed. "You mean I’ve never showed you Arv’s model of the space station I’m working on?"

The cook squinted suspiciously, then shoved back his ten-gallon hat and scratched his balding head.

"You pullin’ my leg, Tom?" he inquired. "You gonna have people live in that wheely-deal?"

"I’m gonna be one of those ‘people,’ Chow," remarked Ken. "You’d better hope Tom’s on the level!"

"I am," Tom replied. He rose and picked up the lightweight model, which was about a foot in diameter and was suspended from a base by a stiff wire. The station consisted of a spherical hub with fourteen tapering cylinders spreading out from it, so close together that they almost touched, which made the structure look less like a wheel than a thick disk. "This is what our space station will look like. You see, each of these spokes will actually start off as part of a rocket—basically just a great big flying fuel tank with rocket engines at the bottom. Instead of letting these rocket stages fall back to earth, we’ll make use of them by scouring out the empty tanks and converting them into living quarters, labs, workshops, and manufacturing areas for the new solar batteries. The main life support, power, and communications systems will all be located in the hub, which will be sent up separately."

"Guess you know whatcher doin’," commented the old westerner doubtfully.

Ken, who had spent some time familiarizing himself with the basics of the project, now spoke up. "Y’see, Chow, the whole thing will be hollow. Each spoke-module will be a separate compartment for one particular use."

"Like fer instance?" Chow queried.

"Well, some will be space observatories, others labs. As Tom said, some will be for manufacturing the solar batteries, and some will be leased by CBN for radio broadcasting or high-definition telecasting. Of course the crew will be able to go from one compartment to another, either through the hub or through this connecting tunnel here." Ken had Tom tilt the model, showing that the underside had a tubular corridor running all the way around just beneath the periphery of the disk.

"Whyn’t you jest put that tube around th’ outside, Tom? Like as t’ the rim of a wheel?—that’d make it really look like a wagon wheel!"

Tom nodded. "Yes, but you’re forgetting one thing—the outside rim is actually the
bottom
of each module. If you put the corridor there, you’d have to climb
down
into it, and the door would take up some valuable floorspace."

Chow scratched his chin and scowled thoughtfully. "Good grief ’n gravy, I don’t see how the ends o’ each one of those cans kin be th’ bottom. You gonna have the whole thing standin’ up on end?"

Ken Horton joined in Tom’s laughter, then squeezed Chow’s shoulder to make sure his feelings hadn’t been bruised. "Listen, Chow, there’s no gravity for things in orbit, you know," Ken explained. "So the space outpost will have to make its own gravity by whirling around like a wheel. And that means ‘up’ for each compartment will be towards the hub, and ‘down’ will always be toward the opposite end of the spoke, which is where the base, or floor, will be."

The cook nodded, but frowned. "Wa-al, you better hire a lot o’ tall, skinny workers if you want ’em to live inside somethin’ that looks like a pop bottle."

Responded Tom, "Each ‘spoke’ is pretty roomy, Chow. In fact, each one will be divided internally into three or four levels by small circular platforms. As you climb from the lowest to the highest level, which is nearest the hub, you’ll feel lighter and lighter!"

"Hmmph! Then sign me up fer the very top floor, boss! I allus wanted t’ lose weight!" As Tom and Ken chortled at Chow’s skeptical comment, the veteran cowpoke merely clumped off with the dirty dishes, shaking his head at his boss’s fool notions.

"Now there’s one cowpoke we’ll
never
get into orbit!" Tom declared.

Tom was in for a surprise, however, for early the next morning Chow showed up at the laboratory and announced that he had changed his mind.

"You mean you want to come with us when we set up our space station?" Tom asked.

"Yep. If you go, I go. Ain’t no one goin’ to say old Chow is scared to take a chance."

"That’s the spirit," Tom said. "But first you’ll have to pass some tests. And I have to tell you, old timer, they’re pretty rough."

"Listen, son, I broked a few broncos in my time," replied Chow. "An’ blame if I’ll let you get by with callin’ me a
old timer!"

"Okay, Chow," grinned the young inventor. "Don’t say we didn’t warn you!" He arranged with Bud to have Chow trained and tested—albeit with a bit more leeway than the younger candidates.

As the day wore on, Tom’s father dropped by. After they discussed Tom’s progress on the various remaining aspects of the project that had not been finalized, Damon Swift reported that a delegation of government astronomers wanted to talk with Tom about his space station observatory as soon as possible. The young inventor suggested that Trent arrange for a meeting the following afternoon at three o’clock.

Promptly at three the next day the group of scientists arrived at the Swifts’ office. Dr. Amos Harlow, head of the delegation, was a pleasant man with lively blue eyes and bushy white hair.

After outlining his plans, Tom showed them the model of his proposed outpost in space. "These two sections," he said, pointing, "will be assigned to astronomical work." He explained the overall plan of the structure.

"A brilliant job of design!" commented Dr. Harlow. "You surely have gone far beyond the government’s space-station program. Now let us show you our plans for the optical telescope."

He unrolled a sheaf of drawings. "As you can see, the optical elements will be held together by a mere spiderwork of wires. The heavy mirrors will be weightless out there in space, so this is all we’ll need to brace them rigidly."

"In fact, we expect to fabricate the mirrors and the lenses right there in your space outpost," added another astronomer, Danielle Faure. She noted the advantages of working in a contamination-free environment.

Compared to the giant telescopes used on the earth, the outpost’s telescope would be small. But all were aware that it would give a much clearer, sharper picture of the heavens because there would be none of the earth’s atmosphere to blur out the view. "Think how the skies will open to us!" Harlow said enthusiastically. "We’ll be able to study the dust clouds in the Milky Way, and those strange exploding stars called supernovae. With luck, we’ll learn about life on Mars—perhaps even solve the riddle of how the universe was formed!"

Tom’s pulse throbbed with excitement. He already felt as though he were living with one foot in the future!

After the departure of the astronomical team, Tom drove to the main laboratory. The engineers had asked to see him.

Jack Grady, the chief engineer assigned by Hank Sterling to the air-conditioning setup in the space station, greeted him with a pleased grin. "It looks as if we have the oxygen supply problem licked, Tom. Thanks to your dad!"

"By using those chlorella algae?" Tom asked, referring to the tiny green water plants.

"Right. We’ve just finished running tests on the stuff, as he suggested. In strong sunlight, five tankfuls of those plants will absorb carbon dioxide and give off enough oxygen for a crew of fifty men!"

"Fine. How big are the tanks?"

"Five feet square and filled to a depth of one inch," replied Grady. "We’re testing them in a greenhouse on the roof."

"How about the moisture problem?"

"We’re working on that." Grady pointed through a glass window to several men in a sealed test chamber that was filled with a foglike haze. "According to our estimates, a man needs about two quarts of water a day. Half of it he gives off to the atmosphere by breathing and evaporation. That much we can recover, purify, and use over again."

"The rest we’ll have to bring up, I suppose," said Tom.

"Right. About one quart per man."

Tom rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Well, we can save the weight of containers by bringing it up frozen into cakes of ice."

Grady snapped his fingers. "And as the ice melts in the space station, it’ll take part of the load off the air-conditioning system, too!"

Tom slapped Grady on the back and said with a grin, "Well, that’s my quota of help for the day!"

Heading for his lab in the underground hangar Tom stopped off at the zero-G chamber. Bud stood at the controls, a broad grin on his face. Inside the chamber, a man in one of the magnetic test suits was wallowing and flopping wildly about in mid-air as he tried to adjust his muscles to his helpless condition.

"That’s Chow in there!" Bud exclaimed. "Looks kind of like an overfed pigeon with a bum wing, doesn’t he?"

Tom chuckled. "I might have known!"

The two boys were weak with laughter by the time Chow emerged. His bowlegs wobbled as he removed his metal cap.
"That blamed gravity room is worse’n the meanest bronc I ever rid!"
the chef announced mournfully. "I’m still wonderin’ how I’m goin’ to do any cookin’ up there in the middle o’ nowhere!"

"You won’t have much cooking to do," Tom informed him. "The food will be shipped up precooked and frozen. All you’ll need to do will be heat it in an electronic oven."

Chow groaned. "Tom, that’s an insult to any self-respectin’ range cook! But I bet I kin figger out a way around it."

Just then one of the hangar workers called Tom over to a wall-phone. When he answered, the Enterprises switchboard announced that Tom had a call from Sheriff Olmenez in Florida.

"That tip from Major Horton paid off in a hurry," the officer announced. "We got a’selves the short-toed fella who left that footprint on the beach!"

THE SPEED of the police work amazed Tom. "Congratulations, Sheriff!" he exclaimed. "How did you find him?"

"I’d call it a lucky break," the officer replied. "We checked the hotel guest lists for names ending in
‘—erman,’
and nailed the right man almost immediately. A desk clerk pointed him out to one of my detectives just as he was coming back from a swim. His name, by the way, is Eli K. Rhoderman."

"How about the description?" Tom asked.

"It fits, all right. He’s thirty-one years old, dark-haired, short ’n skinny like a rat. Says he’s a business rep for the Quik Battery Corporation."

"Quik Battery!" Tom echoed.

"That name mean something to you?" asked Sheriff Olmenez.

"It sure does! Quik is working on a new product similar to one I’m developing. The president of the company already has tried to make trouble for me in court. Is Rhoderman with you now?"

"In the next office," the police captain replied. "Suppose I put him on the extension phone for a three-way talk."