Tom Swift and His Spectromarine Selector (3 page)

"HEY!" Bud Barclay exclaimed. "Slow down! What do a gaggle of gangster types have against Tom’s exploring a bunch of waterlogged ruins?"

"Don’t forget the gold," noted Tom wryly.

But Radnor shook his head. "I’m sure that sweetens the deal for Ebber and company, but Harlan’s contacts are pretty sure a foreign government is involved." Harlan Ames, a former Secret Service agent, was head of Swift Enterprises security.

"Brungaria?"

Rad chuckled. "Nope, the
other
one—Kranjovia!"

When Tom and his team had travelled to Antarctica to drill for molten iron with his atomic earth blaster, he had been stalked by agents of the Democratic Workers Republic of Kranjovia, a splinter of dictatorship located on the Baltic Sea. The government there had proven a ruthless and persistent foe of the United States and other modern democracies. "What are Kranjovia’s interests regarding the submarine city?" the young inventor asked as they began strolling from the dock in the direction of the huddle of buildings fronting the spaceport and island airfield.

"Again, no one really knows," stated Radnor. "But they’ve been privy to the same closed-door discussions as other European nations, and I understand they’ve raised quite a few official objections to the American interpretation of various agreements and treaties—loud, strenuous, and
threatening
objections!"

"Uh huh, that’s Kranjovia all right," snarled Bud in disgust. "They never met a civilized nation they didn’t dislike."

But Tom disagreed with his pal. "The problem isn’t the country but their self-appointed dictator, Ulvo Maurig, General-Secretary of the Party. Some of his government officers are fairly sophisticated, but Maurig is supposed to be some sort of delusional egomaniac."

"And today’s mystery question is—just what sort of delusion does he have in mind?" Phil Radnor snorted.

After seeing to the berthing of the
Deepwing,
Tom and the others were jetted back to Shopton by Slim Davis while Judson remained under lock and key on Fearing Island, awaiting the Federal agents who would transport him to his fate. He had sullenly refused all further comment.

It was early evening when the scientific travellers deplaned onto the broad airfield of Swift Enterprises, whose ultramodern installation was four miles on a side. Tom and Bud joined Tom’s father in their shared office. The elder scientist had already been briefed by radio, the lightning storm having finally drifted away. Harlan Ames also joined them.

"Phil Radnor did his usual superb job, Harlan, commented Damon Swift. His voice was faint. The description of the terrifying threat to his son’s life had shaken him deeply.

"We expect nothing less of each other," Ames responded. "Are you all clear on the sequence of events? From the description provided by the real Lieutenant Cromwell, the FBI was able to identify the kidnapper as an ex-convict with known ties to Ebber and his mobsters. Judson has already served time for embezzlement, firearm violations, even second-story work. He carried out the assault on Cromwell and the Navy pilot with a pal who we think is named Gilly Murchison, a former military pilot gone bad. That’s all we know so far. No sign of Murchison or the hijacked jet."

"What about the big boss?" Bud spoke up.

"Ebber is still at large," Ames replied. "It seems he’s
always
at large—for years now. Never quite enough evidence to nab him. But he may not be for long, after the authorities start tracing his contacts with Kranjovia."

"If Judson was working for foreign agents," Mr. Swift said, "we may be in for serious trouble. Ulvo Maurig is a sort of gangster himself, and his cadre is absolutely ruthless. We know that from the Antarctica business."

"Well, I think they must be running out of ideas," noted Tom with a weak smile. "This is the second time they’ve used the drowning bit on Bud and I."

"They say the third time’s the—" Bud began.

"Don’t say it," snapped Mr. Swift sternly.

The distinguished scientist’s face was grave as he outlined the possible dangers. "Once other nations find reason to doubt America’s ability to manage and protect the site, they’ll mount a diplomatic full court press to internationalize any scientific presence there."

Tom sighed. "It would be like a horde of sightseers trampling around at a crime scene. The clues science is counting on could be compromised, or lost altogether. The gold doesn’t matter at all compared to that."

The meeting concluded, Tom left the office for one of his private labs, telling his father that he would be home for a late family dinner after downloading and checking the sonar mapping information from the trip, which he had carried to Enterprises on a computer disk.

He left the plant a few minutes later and began to head home in his two-seater sports car. Noting that there was still plenty of time before dinner, he decided to follow a winding route that led through the pleasant woodlands that rolled along at the edge of Lake Carlopa for most of the distance around the lake. Though he had tried not to show it to his father, Tom himself had been deeply affected by his horrifying experience in the airlock. He felt a need to unwind, and always found the scenery refreshing after a hard day’s work at the plant.

Man! That pine-scented air sure smells good!
he thought, breathing in deeply.

Glancing at the rearview mirror, Tom noticed headlights some distance back on the unlighted road, which was little used by locals and often completely deserted. On impulse he pulled to the side of the road and allowed the other car to catch up and pass.

"A new Tioga," he noted admiringly. "That car has a real engine for a compact job!"

Taking to the road again, Tom’s thoughts soon turned to his own problems. What was behind Judson’s actions? What orders had the Kranjovians given him? Were other plotters at work to stop him from exploring the city of gold?

Tom was still deep in thought several minutes later when, rounding a curve, he started violently as a figure came staggering out of the trees ahead and into the roadway almost directly in front of him! He slammed on the brakes and screeched to a breathless stop as the figure, a middle-aged woman, collapsed to her knees beside the pavement. Leaping from the car and running up to her, Tom was shocked to see that she was bleeding from a wide gash on her forehead.

"Please... please... we need help!" she gasped. "Our car—"

She gestured weakly. Tom noticed for the first time signs of a skid leading into crushed, flattened shrubbery. "I’ve got to get you to a hospital," he said comfortingly. "I can call an ambulance on my car phone."

"No, please," she sobbed, "I’ll be all right, but Harry—he went right into the windshield, and—and I don’t think he can pull himself free. You’ve got to..." Her voice trailed off as if she were on the verge of fainting.

"I’ll take a look," Tom assured her. "You’d better lie flat." He followed the smashed bushes and scarred tree trunks down a gentle slope for about fifty paces. Then, in a clearing, he saw a car butted up against a tree.

The Tioga!
his mind registered. But as he trotted closer, he hesitated, puzzled. The windshield was undamaged, and there was no sign of anyone inside the car.

Immersed in the problem, his keen mind blotted out the rest of the world—and then went dark as he was struck violently from behind!

IT WAS nearing dinnertime at the Swift home, only minutes from the fenced borders of Swift Enterprises. Tom’s sister Sandra was setting the dining-room table while her mother basted the roast in the oven. The appetizing odor of beef wafted through the house.

"Mm! That smells heavenly!" Sandy exclaimed, coming back to the kitchen. "You are positively the best cook in seven counties, Mother!"

Anne Swift, a slender, attractive woman, gave her daughter a hug. "You’re a flatterer, dear. But thanks!"

"I mean it—really," Sandy insisted. "Dad says you’ve spoiled us for any servant’s cooking and he’s right. It’s your own fault!"

"I like cooking for my own family—it’s a joy!" Mrs. Swift said. "That’s why I do it. It isn’t just the men who have the inventive instinct, you know."

As they proceeded with the preparations for the late-evening dinner, Mr. Swift ambled into the kitchen, a scientific journal in hand.
"Now
I’m relaxed," he joked. "By the way, where’s Tom? Not home yet?"

"No. In fact I’m getting worried," Mrs. Swift fretted. "You said he had only planned to work a while longer, but it’s been—"

Mr. Swift glanced at his watch. "Well, you know how absorbed Tom gets." The scientist smiled. "Arv Hanson finished the scale model of Tom’s new invention. He’s probably caught up in working out some kink." Arvid Hanson produced working models that usually served as preliminary test prototypes for Tom’s inventions.

Anne Swift shook her head distractedly. "No, it can’t be that. He showed me the model here at home just before he left on his underwater trip."

Sharing in the concern but feigning a nonchalant attitude, Sandy put the finishing touches to the table setting. The roast and vegetables were soon ready and the Swifts decided to eat. But after a few halfhearted bites, Mr. Swift said, "I think perhaps I’ll call the plant and jog Tom’s memory. We can keep his plate warm if we know he’ll be home soon."

From the telephone alcove in the hallway he called Swift Enterprises on their private line. The night operator rang Tom’s laboratory and then the double office in the main building. Neither call drew an answer. Next she paged the young inventor over the plant’s public-address system—again without success.

"I’m sorry, sir," the operator reported. "Your son must have left."

After trying Tom’s personal cellphone and the unit in his sports car, Mr. Swift called Bud at his apartment in town. "Sorry to disturb you, Bud," the scientist said pleasantly when the young copilot answered the phone. "Tom hasn’t come home yet and I wondered if you’d seen him."

"Why no, sir. Not since the meeting in your office," Bud replied. "Think there’s something wrong?"

Mr. Swift hesitated, seeking unalarming words. Bud sensed his uneasiness, a feeling he began to share. "Mr. Swift, let me get hold of Harlan Ames. I’ll call back as soon as possible."

"Thanks, Bud. I’m sure it’s nothing."

Mr. Swift returned to the dining room, trying to conceal his inner concern. But his wife’s eyes met those of the inventor in a worried look. "Damon, is Tom all right?" she asked anxiously. Her husband replied reassuringly, "So far I can’t reach him, but we’ll no doubt hear from him soon. I wish I had a dollar for every time Tom has been late."

All three waited worriedly in the big comfortable living room. Tense moments crept by. When the telephone rang, Mr. Swift sprang up immediately to answer it. "This is Bud," the caller said. "I talked to Ames and he thinks we’d better start a search. Would it upset Mrs. Swift if we dropped over and talked about it?"

"Come ahead, Bud!" the scientist replied. "I’m afraid she’s
already
upset."

A few minutes later Bud’s sleek convertible pulled up the graveled drive. On the way he had picked up Arv Hanson, a big blond six-footer. Ames arrived shortly afterward, bringing Slim Davis and Hank Sterling, the quiet-spoken, hard-fisted chief engineer of Enterprises, a close friend of the family.

"No news?" Mr. Swift greeted the new arrivals at the front door.

"Not yet," Ames replied, then whispered, "We’re afraid that Tom’s absence may be connected with the arrest today of Judson." The security chief walked into the living room and was greeted by Tom’s mother and sister. He asked, "Can you think of any errand that might have taken Tom out of his way?"

The Swifts shook their heads to both questions. "Then," Ames went on, "we’d better divide into search parties and cover every route Tom may have taken from the plant. If that doesn’t turn up any clues, I think we’d better call in the police."

"Shouldn’t Mother and I go along?" asked Sandy.

"Let’s stay home and wait for Tom," Mrs. Swift said. "He could arrive any minute."

After a hurried conference to settle their plan of action, Bud took off in his convertible with Arv Hanson. Ames went with Slim Davis. Mr. Swift followed in his own car, accompanied by Hank Sterling.

Fanning out through Shopton, they questioned traffic policemen, news vendors, and gas station operators—anyone who might have noticed the young inventor’s custom-built sports car, very well known throughout the town.

Remembering some previous incidents, Mr. Swift drove over the tree-shaded lane which he and Tom sometimes used when they felt like walking home from the plant. The other two cars took the main highway which led from the outskirts of Shopton past Enterprises. All reported failure when they met at the plant.

Mr. Swift was tight-lipped but calm. "Tom occasionally takes the old Mansburg road around Lake Carlopa," he recalled.

"That’s right," Bud confirmed. "He takes it when he has some thinking to do. Let’s give it a try."

To make use of all six pairs of eyes, the three cars set off together, using spotlights from Enterprises to illumine both sides of the wooded road.

Ames was in the lead. Suddenly his car swerved toward the dirt shoulder and braked to a halt.

"Hold it!" he called via cellphone. "I see something!" What looked to be an automobile windshield was gleaming among the trees. The others braked their cars to a stop and leapt out.

"It’s Tom’s car, all right!" Bud cried. "But where is he?"

"Look over here, guys!" yelled Hank Sterling. The pooled spotlights showed tire tracks and an oil stain where a car had evidently swerved off the pavement. Crushed underbrush pointed a further route among the trees.

Mr. Swift went pale. "He may have been forced off the road by a second car!" he murmured. "If they pulled a gun on him—!"

Hank Sterling gripped Mr. Swift’s arm. "Maybe you’d better stay here, Damon."

But with his son’s fate in question, nothing could stop the elder scientist. All six grabbed powerful flashlights from the cars and hurried into the darkness of the woods.