Tom Swift and His Atomic Earth Blaster (7 page)

"I want to try it out for speed," she said, turning to Bud. "You see, the yacht club is hosting the final race of the season is next Saturday, and I’ve signed up. This’ll be my last chance for a trial run before the race."

"Wonderful!" Bud exclaimed. "What are we waiting for? Let’s go!" The dark-haired young flier, whose parents lived in San Francisco, loved all forms of outdoor sports but was especially fond of sailing.

Tom, however, held back. "I’m sorry, gang, but I have a million things to do! I’m afraid I’ll have to beg off this time." He caught Sandy’s eye and gave her a special look, reminding her not to mention the drilling project in front of Bashalli.

The girls let out a wail of protest.

"Tom, you
can’t
let us down like this, after Bashi and I have been counting on you!" Sandy protested. She hastily pulled a copy of the racing announcement out of her shoulder bag and added: "Just look at all the people who’ve signed up for the race! It’s not just members of the Yachting Society, but all sorts of local clubs and organizations. We won’t stand a chance against competition like that unless you figure out the angles for us!"

"And I have no doubt half of them will be out on the lake this morning practicing," commented Bashalli entreatingly. "Do you wish us to look like
also-runners,
Thomas?"

Tom looked helplessly at Bud. "Did Einstein have to put up with this?"

"Don’t know," Bud responded. "Did Einstein have a sister?"

In Bud’s convertible, the four young people were soon on their way to the Shopton Yachting Society on Lake Carlopa. As they drove past the Excelsis Club, the boys exchanged veiled glances but said nothing.

The
Mary Nestor
was moored in the club’s boat basin. She was a graceful little craft with a gleaming hull and sleek lines.

As they hoisted sail and got under way, Tom settled himself in front and prepared to scan the lake with his field glasses. Sandy and Bashalli were to captain the craft and control the tiller, Tom and Bud serving as front-seat advisers.

It was a perfect day for sailing, with a hot sun sparkling down on the water and a brisk, spanking breeze. As predicted, the lake was dotted with sailboats, skimming across the blue like graceful white sea birds.

"They think they’re so smart," Sandy said. "Well!—just wait."

As Sandy handled the tiller, Tom, with his glasses, studied the occupants of every craft that came into view.
Not that Bronich is the boating type,
he thought.
But you never know!

The
Mary Nestor
picked up speed, and soon they were breezing along past one craft after another, and the girls noted more than a few envious glances.

"That was Heather Quinn," Sandy whispered gleefully. "The girl next to her—with the bad hair—that’s Lauren Desmars. Did you
see
those expressions? You just know they’d give an arm to have a boat like this."

"Maybe," commented Bashalli smoothly.
"Or
boyfriends like these!"

They sailed lithely further out into the middle of the lake, where they would have more space for a speed test without contending with the other boaters.

Suddenly Tom lowered the field glasses as if he couldn’t believe his eyes, and then looked again.

"Someone you know, Tom?" Bashalli inquired.

Tom did not answer, but wordlessly handed the glasses to Bud, pointing.

"Bash, let Bud take the tiller!" Tom commanded breathlessly. "Hurry!"

"Tom, what in the world—?" gasped Sandy.

Tom spat out a single word. "Torpedoes!"

Trails of white foam—the wakes of five surface-cruising torpedoes—were rapidly converging on the
Mary Nestor!

"They’re homing in on us, skipper!" Bud cried. "Abandon ship?"

"They’d plow right over us," responded Tom with a negative head-shake. "Or they might home in on anything in the area."

Sandy touched her brother’s arm. "About how long before—"

"Less than a minute," he said. "They’re still a ways off."

"But there’s no way we can outrun them in a sailboat," Bud said quietly. "I just
might
get us around the first one, but the rest—we’re sitting ducks."

Having no alternative, the four watched in horrified resignation as the first torpedo bore down upon the
Mary Nestor.

Abruptly Bashalli called out, "Tom, Bud—look!"

With a roar, a highspeed motorboat jetted past them to portside, going into a smooth arc that took it across the bow. A figure rose to a standing position in the prow, cradling something in his arms.

"A shotgun!" Tom exclaimed.

The boat pilot braced himself and took careful aim at the nose of the first torpedo. The crack of a shot split the air—and the torpedo seemed to swerve out of control.

Bashalli cheered. "Direct hit!"

The torpedo tumbled wildly stern over stem, finally gouging into the waves as it headed for the lake bottom.

The other four were now closing in as a group. The powerful gun roared four times in rapid succession, and for a moment the calm waters of Lake Carlopa were stirred to a froth by the death throes of the destructive engines. Two of the torpedoes collided, and suddenly the air was full of hot spray and spinning fragments of metal as a thudding explosion rolled over the lake from one end to the other.

"He’s got ’em all!" Tom cried in happy astonishment. "But
who
is it?"

The small, swift cruiser slowed and executed a lazy figure-eight, puttering up close to the
Mary Nestor.
Their rescuer could now be seen more clearly—a compact figure in sunglasses, a dark tank-top shirt, and a cap pulled down low. He carefully set down his gun and bent down, reaching behind the seat.

"Mister, where did you come from?" called Sandy gratefully. "You saved the day!"

"That was great shooting, pal!" Bud added.

But the man didn’t acknowledge any of this. Without a word he reared back and tossed a small shiny object in their direction.

Bashalli shrieked
. "It’s a grenade!"

TOM DUCKED down and lunged for the object, which was bouncing across the deck beneath their feet, intending to bat it overboard. But when he stood upright again, it was to nervous laughter.

"Just a pop bottle!" he said disgustedly.

Meanwhile the powerboat had throttled up again and straightened its course. As Tom and his friends watched in bewildered amazement, it skimmed away at top speed toward the far end of Lake Carlopa. In minutes it was lost to sight.

"What
was
that?" Bud demanded. "Some kind of sick gag? I was ready to shake hands with Davy Jones!"

Without warning Sandy began to sob. "I—I can’t stop shaking!" she whispered. Bud threw a comforting arm around her.

"Are you all right, Bash?" Tom asked.

"I am shaking on the
inside,"
she replied. "But at least we are still boating on the lake, not the River Styx."

"Those torpedoes were plenty real," Tom declared. "And my guess is they were launched from someplace close to the Excelsis Club!"

"But why would a high-class club try to sink us?" quavered Sandra.

Bud essayed a joke. "Maybe they’ve declared war on the Yachting Society!"

As Sandy and Bashalli guided the
Mary Nestor
back to berth, Tom contacted the lakefront authorities by cellphone.

"So
that’s
the story," said the woman who answered. "In the last five minutes we’ve been swamped with calls!"

Tom asked, "Did anyone report seeing where the torpedoes came from, anything about a strange motorboat?"

"Not so’s I can tell," she answered. "But it’s all pretty confusing. Torpedoes in Lake Carlopa! If the report didn’t come from one of you Swifts, I’d hang up on you."

After docking the sailboat, Tom put in further calls, first to Captain Rock of the Shopton Police, then to Harlan Ames.

"Mighty dangerous stuff," whistled Ames. "I suggest you get the wind in your sails and get back to Enterprises right away."

Arriving at the Swift Enterprises parking lot, Bud let Sandy and Bashalli off at Sandy’s car, then promised Tom he’d follow behind to see that they got home without further incident. "Thanks, pal," responded Tom with gratitude. "I’m worried that they may be too shook up to drive safely."

Bud snorted. "Like I’m
not?"

It was after noon when Tom entered the grounds of the sprawling experimental station by the small side-gate. In the main building, Munford Trent bustled up to Tom and said, "Your father just got back from Washington. He’d like to see you at once!"

Tom hurried to their private office.

"That was a quick flight, Dad!" he exclaimed, in response to his father’s greeting.

"Tom, I have great news!" announced Mr. Swift. "That’s why I flew back to Shopton immediately. The government officials I talked to are very much interested in your proposed expedition to the South Pole."

The young inventor was thrilled. "Have they given us the go-ahead?"

"They have indeed; even granted permission for us to survey any part of the Antarctic under United States oversight to determine its suitability as a site. And Uncle Sam will also lend us funds to help finance the expedition, provided we take along several government scientists, just as you proposed!"

Tom gave a whoop of delight and pumped his arm up and down in a burst of joyful enthusiasm. "Dad, that’s wonderful! Let’s start planning for the trip right now!"

Mr. Swift smiled at his son’s excitement. He fully shared Tom’s reaction to the promise of high adventure. But he added a note of caution. "Don’t forget this will be a tremendous undertaking. And it all depends on your perfecting the new model of your atomic earth blaster!"

Then he pressed the switch of his intercom. "Trent, please phone Mr. Aturian at the Swift Construction Company. Ask him to set up a teleconference call with us as soon as possible!" Both Swift facilities contained special teleconference rooms providing a lifelike video link between the locations.

While they walked down to the teleconference room, Tom told his father about the latest developments in the case of Bronich and the hired thugs, ending with the morning’s incredible occurrences on Lake Carlopa. He also described the progress he had made earlier in the morning on the new blaster, including some new ideas about its onboard guidance system.

"Fantastic work, son!" Mr. Swift congratulated him. "At this rate, your new blaster may be ready for testing even sooner than we’d expected."

Shortly after that, Uncle Jake appeared by electronic magic in the teleconference room, as if seated at the same polished mahogany table as the Swifts—though he was miles away.

The three got down to business. First Mr. Swift gave a detailed report of the news from Washington. Knowing well the Swift reputation, the members of the subcommittee had been almost as wildly enthusiastic as Tom had been. But Uncle Jake reserved judgment until he had time to study the details of their proposed arrangement with Swift Enterprises.

"There are some conditions," Mr. Swift explained. "In order for them to be willing to waive the usual bidding procedures, the government will substantially control the ore-processing station once it is established. Long-term management will be contracted out, and most of the profits will go to the Federal Treasury—as we anticipated. Enterprises is in this for the science, and to open up a better source of steel."

The expedition was discussed from all angles. Tom frankly pointed out the hazards they would be facing. Uncle Jake drew up a rough estimate of the total cost. Even with government financial backing for the expedition, it would amount to a staggering sum!

Uncle Jake and Damon Swift faced each other soberly across the table. The risk was tremendous. But finally they came to a decision. They agreed to undertake the South Pole expedition, with the investment of large sums of money and equipment from both the Swift Construction Company and Swift Enterprises!

"It’s only fair to warn you, Tom," Uncle Jake added, "that we’re staking everything on the hope of success. If your project fails, our firms will be ruined!"

Tom’s heart pounded, but he managed to reply calmly, "I’ll do my best to make sure the expedition succeeds, Uncle Jake!"

Tom realized that success of his venture would necessarily mean the loss of the blaster, which would disintegrate upon striking the vein of molten iron. But this loss would be only a fraction of the value of the endless source of pure iron obtained!

"And that’s not all," continued the young inventor. "We’ll be opening up, to scientific investigation, a whole new world—
our own!"

At the conclusion of the teleconference, Tom went to one of his laboratories to finally eat lunch and change out of his sailing clothes and into something more suitable for the rest of the workday.

"Got lunch right here!" announced Chow, meeting him at the lab. "A nice cool cucumber soup, and an
ex-
perimental sandwich!"

"What kind of sandwich?" Tom asked in mock suspicion.

"You’ll never guess, boss," replied the Texan. "Marinated Penguin!"

Tom gave him a startled look.

"Naw, boss, jest a-kiddin’," Chow said. "It’s tuna—what they call
dolphin-friendly
tuna!"

As Tom changed out of his clothes in the bathroom, something in one of the deep side pockets of his shorts bumped against his leg.

That’s right!
said Tom to himself.
That stupid pop bottle the guy tossed at us!

He held up the bottle in the light and looked at it closely for the first time. The top was open and there was no drink inside—yet there
was
something within it after all. Tom shook the bottle and it slid out into his hand. It was a piece of white paper, carefully folded into a thin packet.

Tom finished dressing, then unfolded the sheet, a single sheet with lettering printed neatly in the center. The sheet of paper appeared to be a business letterhead, though Tom noticed immediately that the printed name at the top was subject to smearing, as if it had just been freshly manufactured by a computer-printer. At the top was DR. MONTROY SNEFFELS, SHOPTON, NEW YORK, followed by a local telephone number. The message read: