Tom Swift and the Cosmic Astronauts (6 page)

Bud sprinted back into the house. Knowing that Tom’s parents had gone out for the evening, he grabbed a first-aid kit and yelled for Sandy to join him.

But by the time the two frantic young people had returned to the workshop, Tom was sitting up woozily, rubbing his head. To Bud’s and Sandy’s immense relief, there was no sign of injury, not even a bruise from falling to the floor. "I’m okay," Tom said faintly. "Guess I scared you. Sorry."

"Don’t be sorry, Tomonomo, just stop doing it!" reprimanded Sandy. "Someday—"

Her brother gave a twitch of a wry smile. "San, let’s not talk about ‘someday,’ huh?"

"Hey! You really had us frantic, pal!" Bud said. "What were you doing? And what’s that rig on your workbench, anyway?"

Tom stared blankly for a moment, then grinned as memory returned. "Oh, you mean my new gravitex stabilizer." Briefly, he explained its function, and Bud and Sandy silently decided it would be best to let him talk.

When he was through Sandy smiled and nodded at Bud. "I don’t know if any of that made sense, but at least he can talk."

Tom assumed a pitiful look. "I guess my invention knocked me out."

"Oh boy," moaned Bud. "They not only shoot at you, they knock you out!"

"The gravity concentrator apparently acted as a convex magnifying lens does when you focus a beam of sunlight with it."

"I don’t understand," Sandy put in.

"Well, have you ever noticed how the lens creates a ring of shadow around the focused spot of light?" When she and Bud both nodded, Tom went on, "The gravity concentrator did the same thing—that is, it created a ‘gravity shadow’ around the test stand. I was working within that shadow, which meant that my gravity, or earth weight, was lessened, as it would if I had been floating in outer space. My inner ear couldn’t handle it—made me so giddy that I blacked out."

Bud scratched his head, then chuckled. "It’s still a puzzle to me, but I guess it’s a good thing I turned off that switch. Otherwise, I’d have gone slightly feather-headed myself!"

"You sure would have," Tom agreed. "Thanks to both of you for rescuing me!" With a happy grin the young inventor bounded to his feet. "One good thing—at least my gravitex works! All I have to do now is fix the test setup, so I won’t conk out again next time I try it."

"Either that or I’d better get you some iron pills to weigh you down, big brother," Sandy quipped. She added: "But Tom, if all this means what I think it does, it’s just fantastic!"

The next morning Tom put together a more sophisticated model of his gravitex with the assistance of Hank Sterling. At noon Chow brought the two young men a lunch of hot chicken sandwiches and cherry pie. The veteran ranch cook was curious about the invention.

"Brand my cactus salad, what’s that contraption?" he asked, scrutinizing the metal cone. "Looks like a fancy brooder for raisin’ biddies!"

Tom could not suppress a smile, and Hank didn’t bother to try. "Actually it’s a—well, a sort of weight-reducing machine, as it turned out."

"Hot ziggety!" the hefty chef exclaimed. "How about me usin’ it first, boss?"

Tom told him the truth before the joke went any further. The cook went off with his lunch cart, mystified but impressed.

As the two finished their dessert, Hank commented, "It wasn’t hard to fix the machine to keep the operator out of the gravity shadow, Tom. But it does bring up a question. Why couldn’t you make use of that G-force inverter effect to propel your spacecraft? In other words, a real antigravity drive!"

Tom shook his head. "I’m afraid we’re still a long way from what most people think of when they talk about
antigravity—
making things fall upward and so forth. It’s one thing to slightly shift or distort the energy-stresses of spacetime in a small region, but to literally turn the dimensional fabric inside-out would take even more power than my space solartron. And you know how power mad
that
baby is!"

Later in the day, while Tom was working alone, Bud paid him a visit. When his friend demonstrated the improved gravitex, Bud was astounded to see how much its weight was increased on the suspended balance beam.

"This is the ‘string’ for my space kite," Tom explained. "I’ll be able to step up the gravitational attraction many thousands of times."

"You mean the poor astronauts will end up weighing a few tons or so?"

"Don’t worry, pal. The amplified G-force is focused on the innards of the machine itself."

"I still haven’t seen this space kite of yours," Bud reminded the young inventor. "Or are you waiting until we scoot off into space on a test flight?"

"Hey, that’s right," Tom said. "I’ll take you over and show you the model. But if—"

Tom’s phone bleeped. It was Harlan Ames calling from his office. "Glad I found you, Tom."

"Any clues yet on the
Sea Charger?"
Tom asked the security chief with a meaningful glance Bud’s way.

Tom could sense Ames shaking his head. "Not yet—or rather, not definitely. But it’s pretty certain that the crash that happened to you and Bashalli was no accident." Ames said that the rented truck had been found by the State Police abandoned on the highway. "As I told you before, the guy who called himself ‘Gus Emden’ has vanished into the woodwork. The police think he wore a disguise, including a wig, when he rented the truck. No usable fingerprints on the papers, either. And of course the truck itself was wiped clean, bashed bumper and all."

Tom’s jaw clenched at the news. It was clearer than ever that some deadly enemy was at work against the Swifts. "I guess I’m not surprised, Harlan. Any evidence that he might be working for Li Ching?"

"Some circumstantial evidence, if you’d care to hear from my gut. I think this Emden character is the same man who shot that mob-type—the one who knocked you out in the woods next to the Mansburg road."

Earlier in the year, while Tom and Swift Enterprises were embroiled in preparations for the undersea trip to Aurum City, a troop of hired mob figures had stalked the young inventor. He had been lured off the road, then knocked cold. It was then that Tom had had his first taste of Li Ching’s ruthless methods. Tom’s assailant, viewed by Li’s group as the employee of a competing interest, had been shot dead by an unknown person while Tom had lain unconscious. "What you say is sure logical," said the young inventor slowly. "The guy must be Li’s local agent in Shopton."

"Just a sec, Tom—got a buzz on my other line." A long pause followed, then Ames came back on. "Get this, skipper. Our videophone station on the West Coast just received a shortwave call from a freighter, the
Magcandong,
bound for San Francisco out of the Philippines. The ship’s operator was answering our broadcasts asking for information about the
Sea Charger."

"They saw something?"

"Heard
something. Says he picked up a strange signal yesterday—a Chinese voice speaking in Cantonese dialect, which the radioman understands. He thinks his receiving the signal was some sort of atmospheric freak, which happens now and then, and the voice kept fading in and out. But it mentioned some latitude and longitude numbers fairly clearly, then finished with:
‘You must meet us at midnight to put our fast captive in the hidden—’
But that was all."

As Bud watched keenly, Tom’s eyes flashed with excitement. "Harlan, that word ‘fast’ may be their code word for ‘Swift.’ And ‘fast captive’ could have referred to the captured
Sea Charger!"

"Yes." Ames spoke with grave firmness. "And also, Tom, it could mean you personally are in danger!"

TOM’S deep-set eyes stared ahead. His jaw set resolutely as he said, "I’m prepared for danger, whatever it is. Harlan, that message in Cantonese is our best lead yet."

"Obviously, it could tie in with Li Ching," Ames agreed. "The man is Chinese, and has probably surrounded himself with a gang that speaks to him in his own language."

Tom nodded to himself. After finishing his conversation with Ames, he dialed George Dilling, the plant’s communications chief, and asked him to try to put him directly in touch with the radioman on the
Magcandong.

"All set. Go ahead," Dilling reported a few minutes later.

Tom identified himself to the radio operator and asked for any further information on the source of the strange signal.

"I cannot say precisely, sir," the Filipino operator replied, selecting his words carefully. "However, we did pick up the same wavelength twice again, last night and this morning, although not as clearly. I could only make out a phrase here and there."

"Could you get the gist of what was being said?"

"Perhaps so. If you wish my opinion, I think one party was asking about—please pardon me—about ‘keeping the prisoners alive.’ One was saying yes, the other, no. There was a phrase, ‘must remain beneath for now,’ and one later with a word I do not recognize, ‘the fool in
Shah Tun,’
if you see."

Tom gasped. Shah Tun—
Shopton!

"Oh yes, and one more thing, a single word in Cantonese,
fanshen.
I am not certain of the meaning." The operator added, "Sir, it is my belief, taking into consideration the elapsed time between these separate transmissions and the change in reception strength as I reoriented the antenna, that the ship must be proceeding on a course almost due north from the coordinates mentioned. But of course that is only a guess."

"It’s good enough! Many thanks for your help," Tom said. "Please keep us informed if you pick up anything more, won’t you?"

"Of course, we shall be most pleased to co-operate, sir," the Filipino radioman replied as he signed off.

Tom turned to his lab computer and fed in the positional coordinates received by the
Magcandong
operator in the first partial message. The point was in the northern Bering Sea between Saint Lawrence Island off Alaska and the Siberian coastal town of Provideniya. The Russian name of the town made Tom smile ruefully. "We’ve gone from ‘disappointment’ to ‘providence’!" he told Bud. Tom extended a great-circle course heading northward from the fix.

"What do you make of it, skipper?" Bud asked.

Tom frowned uncertainly. "If that information from the radioman is right, it sure looks like the suspects are heading up the Bering Strait toward the Chukchi Sea. That’s right at the edge of the Arctic icecap."

Tom zoomed in on the detail in the video map, which was constructed from satellite photography. The young inventor studied the chart closely for a few moments. Suddenly his eyes narrowed as he noticed a cluster of specks on the map which he had previously overlooked.

"See something?" Bud asked.

"Maybe."

After bringing up the navigation charts for that area, Tom exclaimed, "Flyboy, I have a hunch! Before they reach the margin of the ice, they’ll be passing near a small formation of rocks hardly big enough to be called an island." Tom pointed out the formation on the map. "According to the navigation charts, it’s usually shrouded in ice-fog—and would make an ideal hide-out for pirates."

"Tom, I like the way you think!" exclaimed Bud as he clapped his pal on the back. "When do we leave?"

"Right away." But then Tom hesitated and added, "If we see any craft or structures with Chinese-type lettering on them, it’d be useful to have a translator along." He picked up the telephone and called Linda Ming in Arv’s workshop. After explaining the mission he had in mind, Tom asked her if she would care to accompany him and Bud on a scouting flight that would probably last twelve hours or so, all tolled.

"Chief, you know I’d do anything I can for Bob and Nina and the others. I’ve picked up a little about calligraphy and so on; but the fact is, I was born in good old Kansas and can barely speak the language of my honorable ancestors, much less read it," she explained apologetically. "But listen, what about my big brother Felix? He’s into all that old-country stuff! I’m sure he’d be glad to do it."

Consulting his employee directory, Tom called Felix Ming, a Chinese-American engineer employed in the Enterprises aircraft development division. "Felix, how’d you like to take a quick jaunt overnight up toward Alaska?" Tom asked, explaining that his sister had recommended him. "I’m going on a secret mission. If it pays off, I may need a Chinese interpreter."

"Sounds most exciting," Felix replied with a chuckle. "I shall consider myself lucky to be included!"

"Good!" Over the phone, Tom briefed the young-looking, slender Chinese American on the sobering purpose of the flight.

Shortly before four o’clock that afternoon, the three friends rendezvoused in the cavernous hangar beneath the Enterprises airfield and climbed aboard the mighty
Sky Queen
. The huge overhead doors were mechanically flung aside and in minutes the three-decker Flying Lab was airborne and heading north of west over the American continent.

A sparkly polar darkness had fallen long before they reached the tiny rock formation near the Bering Strait. "Boy, those hunks of rock don’t amount to much. No wonder the formation is just a speck on the map," Bud muttered. "This is going to be like looking for a needle in a haystack."

"Now they tell me!" Felix Ming groaned, but his eyes twinkled merrily in his round face. Felix was liked by everyone at the plant for his never-failing good nature.

"Don’t worry." Tom winked at Felix. "Bud’s my navigator on this flight, so it’s his problem. If he lands us in the drink, we’ll sue him!"

"A consoling thought," Felix retorted with a chuckle.

As they neared the location of the small rocky islets, Tom turned off the skyship’s lights, not wishing to be seen. They had nosed into an overcast, with the sea visible only as a dim heaving shadow far below them.

Tom directed Bud to take the controls and hover above the overcast on the ship’s jet lifters. "Come on, Felix, let’s take a closer look in the cycloplane." The
SwiftStorm,
Tom’s ultrasonic cycloplane, was a highly maneuverable jetcraft of revolutionary design. Like the
Sky Queen,
it could hover like a hummingbird and was capable of vertical as well as horizontal flight.