Tom swift and the Captive Planetoid (11 page)

Arv Hanson cleared his throat, somewhat embarrassed by a thought crossing his mind. “Tom, I’m a pretty practical scientific guy. But—you’ve come up against weird psychic stuff before, right? The Planet X visitor seemed able to read thoughts. And there was that little girl—”

“Jennifer December,” nodded Tom, referring to the inexplicable circumstances described in
Tom Swift and His 3-D Telejector
. “She definitely had some sort of paranormal ability to contact other minds. And that raider seems to be in some sort of trance state...”

Art Wiltessa gave a sour, impatient look. “I’ll do my job, boys, but
please
don’t tell me I have to believe in psychic swamis and all that new-age folderol!”

The young inventor smiled. “You
don’t
have to, Art. But it does seem there are things like that ‘out there’ for science to learn about. I’ve thought before about how to go about building a mind-reading machine.”

“Good gosh!” exclaimed Hank. “Do you think
that’s
what we’re facing here?”

“As of now, that’s a conclusion I’m
not
willing to jump to,” replied Tom dryly.

“Yeah, and don’t forget the bees, Skipper!” half-joked Arv.

“No chance of that!”

The scrutiny of the
Fire Eagle
concluded for the moment, Tom left the hangar to return to the main building. His agile mind was weighted down, preoccupied with his enemies, their unknown objectives, and their inexplicable methods.
Outwitting these guys will be quite a test,
he thought wryly,
given that we know almost nothing about them!

Almost
nothing.

What was the Ninth Light? What was
u’umat
? Bees... Madagascar... the durathermor...

How did it tie together?

How could it be stopped?

“I’ve got to figure out some kind of strategy,” he half-murmured. To which he added the thought:
And this time I’ll be tackling it all on my own—alone!

He spent the rest of a busy, troubled morning hard at work, dividing his efforts between his office and his underground lab next to the
Sky Queen
hangar and the corpse of the
Eagle
. As lunchtime approached, he decided to stroll in the sunlight to the employee cafeteria and a quick meal. He told Chow he would be “out,” with no elaboration. For the moment Tom preferred to avoid the gravel-voiced distraction of his good friend from Texas. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts, even if only for a few minutes.

The few minutes ended. A voice hailed him, an expected one. “Hey, genius boy! What’s the body count so far this morning?”

Tom half-laughed, half-winced at Bud Barclay’s gibe. “Just one African bee, still dead. How was the overnighter?” Bud had jetted some machinery from the Swift Construction Company to a research facility in Northern Canada.

“Aaa, fine. Cold up there. Snowy. Dirty white everywhere. Startled a moose or two.”

“Welcome back. What’s that you have there?”

“What I was welcomed back
with
,” replied the young Californian. “I don’t suppose you’ve broken away from the lab to read the morning paper.” Bud unfolded the newspaper in his hand and held it up before his pal’s eyes. “Get a load of these headlines!”

Tom flushed with swift anger as he confronted the banner of bold black print:

SWIFT PLANETOID PROBE RESTS ON
FAULTY INVENTION

The youth scanned the story, by a journalist whose name Tom recognized. “Bud, this is ridiculous! They’ve got it completely wrong!”

The actual content of the story was much briefer than its word count, but the gist of it was upsetting. The writer referred to the announced Enterprises mission to the Follower planetoid, and implied that the duratherm wing system—“
the same invention which failed disastrously in its recent manned space test
”—would be crucial to the probe.

“They’re saying Enterprises is needlessly endangering lives by pushing ahead with a ‘scientific stunt’ before the wing is perfected!” Tom snarled in amazement.

“But where’d
that
come from?” exclaimed Bud. “The D-Wing has nothing to do with the trip—we won’t even be taking it along on the
Challenger
, will we?”

“Of course not,” Tom snapped back. “It’s just sensationalistic garbage.” He fought to calm himself. “But that’s not what bothers me, flyboy. The article has details that weren’t part of the public announcement of our plans. How did this writer, Duke Laflin, get advanced word? Bud, some of these details reflect things Dad and I came up with
just last night!
”

Bud’s face was grim. “It’s like the business with that Teek guy.”

“I’ll tell you what it’s ‘like’,” pronounced the young inventor. “It’s like someone somewhere is trying to use inside information to mount a media campaign against Swift Enterprises!”

“But where are they getting their info?”

“The same place the saboteurs get
their
info—and the Fearing raiders too.” Tom thumbed through the paper, noting a contact telephone number. “You can bet I’m going to get in touch with Laflin about this.”

“Absolutely!” Bud nodded but added tentatively: “But—maybe closer to quitting time, hmm?”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Why not now?”

“Yup. She predicted it. She’s getting to be a real expert.”

“Who predicted what? A psychic?”

Bud grinned. “Bashalli. She told me in the parking lot that it would’ve dropped out of your genius brain by now.”

“What’s she doing—” And then Tom groaned. “Gosh—the picnic! Am I late?”

“Sandy and Bash are a little early, Skipper. But you definitely
will
be The Late Tom Swift if you don’t grab your trunks and get going!”

“Actually, chum, I’m kidding,” said Tom with a wink. “I’m already wearing my trunks underneath. I’ve been looking forward to this outing all morning. My brain can really use a reset.”

Twenty minutes later the four friends were on their way to the public beach of Lake Carlopa in Bud’s fire-engine-red convertible, which bore the license plate TSE TSE FLY. They had gone hardly a mile down the highway from Enterprises when a buzzer bleated on the dashboard. Sandy and Bashalli exchanged anguished glances as Tom lifted the car cellphone from its cradle.

“This is Tom.”

“Tom Swift, hi there! I represent CyberNewsDirect, you know, ‘we make news by reporting it’—right? If I could trouble you for
just
a minute, I wondered if you’d comment on this morning’s—”

“Who
is
this?” demanded Tom irritably. “How did you get this number?”

“We can get into that if you like, but isn’t it more important to tell the public why—”

“Nice hanging up on you,” Tom said, clicking off. The phone rang again. He shut off the bleeper.

They continued the drive with many a grumble. As the convertible came through the gate to the beach parking area, a TV camera truck which had been parked nearby shot out from its space and pulled alongside.

“How about a quick interview, Tom?” a reporter shouted.

The rearview mirror showed a minor traffic jam developing in the lot as parking motorists slowed down to gawk at the famous young inventor and the television camera crew. Bud stepped hard on the accelerator to squeal away from the TV truck.

They could hear a loud shout from behind them, from the frustrated news reporter. “Good luck with your planetoid project!
Hope you all make it back!
”

Bud grunted irritably. “Boy, the way things are going, we’ll be lucky even to see the water today, much less do any swimming!”

“I know. It’s a pain in the neck,” Tom confessed. “But those fellows are doing their job.” He added a bit sheepishly, “Ducking publicity is one thing, but I hate to be rude.”

“‘Ducking’ is not ‘rude’, my dear Swift,” commented Bash. “They’re lucky we don’t run them over.”

“Let’s
try
to find a spot away from the Information Superhighway,” Sandy urged.

“They recognize Bud’s car,” her brother stated. “Pal, park over there at the edge of this lot. We can walk a distance, out of sight, before we settle down. I remember a good spot.”

“Right,” said Bud. “And Tom—if you want to keep us from being recognized—
lose the darn striped T-shirt!
”

Tom guided them to a relatively secluded place, a good private spot to spread a beach blanket and plant an umbrella. The sun was bright and hot as the four young people raced out across the sand into the blue waters of Lake Carlopa. For the next hour or two they enjoyed themselves, cavorting in the water, eating the picnic lunch which the girls had packed, and lolling lazily on the beach.

“Why do you keep checking your watch, Tomonomo?” asked Sandy. “Do you have a scheduled photo-op coming up?”

Tom shrugged. “I’m always a little jumpy when Enterprises has a big project in the works.” He gazed off in the distance, vaguely.

Suddenly Bud gave a groan of annoyance. “Oh, great!
Media alert!
”

A young man with a big, elaborate camera was clomping across the sand toward them. The front of his T-shirt was emblazoned “
Just ask! Variety of answers available
.”

Without identifying himself or asking permission, he swung the camera up to capture a picture of shirtless Tom Swift and friends. But Tom, edging past Bud, leapt to his feet and knocked the electronic camera from the man’s hands.

“Hey!” the man protested. “You’ll break it! All I’m—”

“Mister, I don’t care
what
you plan to use that camera for!” grated the youth. “We don’t care to be stalked!”

“Oh, I don’t really
mind
, myself,” Sandra offered unhelpfully. “But you should ask permission. Before stalking.”

She was ignored. The photographer sneered at Tom, picking up his camera. “Right, pal, another big newsmaker who’s just
too big
for the news. Guess what, I have the right—”

“Yeah? I have the right
and
the left!” muttered Bud darkly, bunching both fists.

“Oh, put those things away, Bud,” commanded Sandy. “Let’s just let him take our picture.”

“Wait!” exclaimed Tom. He grabbed the camera from the man’s hands. “Something’s fishy. I’m familiar with the latest models, but this big thing—!”

With a deep frown he held the camera out at arm’s length, aiming it down at the sand.

He pressed the button.

A fiery red needlelike beam lanced out from the camera—two beams!
One from the lens flashed down into the sand, the other straight up into the sky!

Everyone, including the photographer, exclaimed in five simultaneous gasps. Suddenly Bud Barclay was in motion. “Here’s some freedom of the press!” he barked. The young flier’s fist preceded him—square on the photographer’s jaw! The man’s eyes went glassy and he toppled back to the sand.

“Those—those were laser beams,” whispered Sandy. “W-weren’t they, Tom?”

Tom nodded grimly as he bent to pick up the camera, which he had flung away in startled reaction. “High-powered. Some of the sand has fused into glass from the heat.”

“Bud, next time Sandra tells you to restrain yourself, please don’t listen,” Bashalli said, voice shaking.

“Someone—probably me—would’ve ended up with a hole right between the eyes,” declared Tom.

“Two holes! One for me!” choked the photographer, rubbing his jaw as the lay on the sand. “That crazy thing lased in both directions!”

Bud looked ready to resume his invasion of the photographer’s face. Tom waved him back. He stooped down next to the man. “What’s your name?” Tom demanded.

“V-V-Vern Sholt,” the man stuttered. “Now look, guys—Mr. Swift—I had nothing to do with this. That camera isn’t mine! I d-don’t know anything about it!”

“Just happened to find it in your hands, huh?” gibed Bud.

“C’mon,” quavered the man. “You don’t suppose I’d have pointed that thing at you if I’d known it was going to fire both ways, do you?”

“Never mind what we suppose,” Tom retorted. “If the camera isn’t yours, where’d it come from?”

“From the guy who hired me.”

“Hired you to do what?”

“To take your picture. He claimed you were so publicity-shy—especially today, what with that story in the newspapers—that no regular press photographer could get near you. That’s why he needed an outsider for the job.”

“Are you a professional cameraman—
Vern
?” Bud put in.

Sholt shrugged uncomfortably. “Well—no. I think he just picked me at random. I was standing in the crowd next to that camera truck in the parking lot. But hey, nowadays it’s just point-and-shoot, right? You don’t have to have a Masters Degree to push a button.”

“You simple-minded chump!” Bud exploded.

Tom asked quietly, “What did the man tell you to do, Sholt?”

“It was just—he said what I told you, gave me the camera, and pointed. He waved a fifty under my nose—all mine when I get back to the lot with the picture snug in the camera. See?”

“I’m sure he specified the subject of the pic pretty clearly,” commented Tom dryly. “They call it a
head shot!
”

“H-he—he wanted to—I mean, you and me, both of us—!”

“A very efficient way to eliminate a witness,” Bash noted. “And I’ve seen enough television to know there won’t be any usable fingerprints on the camera.”

“Probably not.” Tom added to Sholt, “Could you identify this man? Maybe enough to give a police sketch artist something to work with?”

Sholt nodded vigorously. “Sure I could. Looked to be about 40, short but kind of muscular, receding hairline—oh yeah, one other thing,” he went on, “he was wearin’ something on his left wrist. I noticed it because it was a little unusual...”

“Good grief!” Bud blurted out. “A bracelet with a little charm on it?—Tom, it could be like what the raiders wore!”

But the photographer was already shaking his head. “It wasn’t like that. It was more like those unbreakable plastic bands they give hospital patients, bright blue. There was one thicker part on it, sort of oblong.”

Tom looked at his friends angrily. “An Enterprises patrolscope amulet!” Like Fearing Island, the Swift Enterprises plant was security-protected by a radar system. Moving objects of human form showed up on the radarscope unless they carried on their person the special transponder amulets that told the system to disregard the radar bounceback.