Tom Swift and His Cosmotron Express (13 page)

Tom added: "Remember, chum, they downloaded some info from the beacons that were left behind on Earth. They haven’t yet shared with us whatever they discovered."

"Then—you think the SF’s might be involved in what’s been happening in space?"

"Well... not necessarily the space
friends
," replied Tom ominously. "Li Ching was in contact with the separate extraterrestrial group we called the Others, who our space friends regard as dangerous. What if these ‘Others’ are somehow involved in these events?—including the disappearances. It may even be some sort of arranged payment to Li Ching’s remaining organization."

"Sure," said Bud. "‘
For services rendered!
’"

"As for their superiors on ‘Planet X’ out there—it’s true that they have the technology to pull off a space-snatch, as they did with the outpost. But what could they possibly want with the Sentimentalists’ ship and the Nestria capsule—just those two?"

Bud pointed out that it appeared the Space Kite has also been targeted. Tom continued: "To my way of thinking, that makes it even
less
likely the X-ians are directly involved. The ‘tentacle-force’ was obviously fumbling around. When the space beings do something, they get it
done
!"

The three continued talking and speculating after Chow arrived with a light supper, joining them at Tom’s request. The big westerner had just made his chair squeal in pain when the wall-mounted videophone screen announced that John Thurston had arrived, electronically.

"We appreciate Ames’s reports on his work at Wickliffe Laboratories," said the sober-faced CIA executive. "As of yet, he hasn’t quite provided what we need—"

"In other words, evidence clearing or condemning Peter Langley," Tom interrupted brusquely.

"We have to look at all the angles, Tom. Even Miss Foger’s. At any rate, Bernt Ahlgren has reported some ‘traffic’ that may provide an important lead."

"To uncovering the spy at Enterprises?" asked Tom. His tone was simmering with demand.

"We’re sorry about your momentarily abduction, Tom. But remember, the first concern of the government and its allies has to be the
Viper Spirit
vehicle. We need to find out where it’s based—and who constructed it. And part of the chain of clues is to identify where that metal-fuel super-engine was put together. Do you understand?"

"Of course we do, John," snapped Mr. Swift. "You say there’s a lead?"

"Indeed so," Thurston continued. "Ahlgren’s intercepts point, as we had suspected, to Sumatra—to a small group of Asian engineers known to have had prior contact with the Sentimentalists."

"Good night! Have you found their base?" Bud burst out excitedly.

"Is that you, Bud? To answer—no. We don’t think it’s flying out of the North African installation. One of the Central Asian countries is a good possibility. What we may have in Sumatra is the place the engine was built and tested, before it was shipped elsewhere to be mated to the fuselage."

"I assume your agents have investigated," remarked Mr. Swift.

"Not yet. We have been advised—by certain high-level people you’re all familiar with—that sending in our usual agents, or the Sumatran authorities, might... let’s say it might ‘tip our hand’ at a point in time where—"

"Where hands should stay
untipped
," Tom interjected. Evidently the Collections crisis had not yet been resolved.

"Tom, we’d like you—you and Bud, of course—to be our eyes in Sumatra for a day or so." Thurston paused for reaction, but there was only silence. "Ahlgren is certain the facility has been abandoned. Danger is minimal. But as you know from the Pakistan headlines, it’s all about connecting the dots. What we need onsite is a scientist who can recognize the signs of advanced engineering technology at work."

"In other words, my son," stated Mr. Swift. "John, please don’t insult our intelligence by pretending this ‘mission’ will be danger free!"

"It never is, Damon, is it?" Thurston smiled, abruptly and disturbingly. "But I don’t think a little danger will scare off Tom Swift, conqueror of space."

"You’re right," stated the aforesaid Tom Swift.

"Fell right in," grumbled Chow with a wince. "Right spang-dang in th’ soup, jest like always! Boss, when’re you gonna learn t’ say no?"

Tom didn’t answer his friend, but said to the videophone screen, "Please send us all the info, sir. We’ll leave for Sumatra tomorrow morning, after recharging our batteries with a night’s sleep."

"Not likely," Bud muttered—but he grinned.

The next morning, preparations finished, the two young adventurers rounded the globe on a multimach Swift Construction Company jet, setting down at the international airport in the huge city of Jakarta, Indonesia. From there they took a small prop plane across the strait of Selat Sundit, Bud piloting them northwest to the great Sumatra Peninsula that divided the Java Sea from the Indian Ocean. "Look over starboard, Tom," said Bud. "This time
I
get to explain something to
you
!"

"All I see is water, flyboy."

"At the horizon—those little specks?"

"I see ’em."

"That’s all that’s left of Krakatau—they usually call it Krakatoa."

"That’s the island that blew up?"

"Yup. 1883. Volcano got steamed up and blew its top!"

They flew on across jagged mountain ridges, volcanic peaks, and skirts of lush forest. Arriving at the west coast, they followed it north past the small city of Krui, then angled inland. At last Bud set them down at a poor excuse of an airfield some fifteen miles from the coast, where they hangared the plane and hired a taxi.

"We’re heading out to a place called Bendautok," Tom told the English-speaking driver, a middle-aged man whose half-smile appeared tattooed in place. "Do you know it?"

The man shrugged. "What’s to know?"

"Can you get us there?"

"If there’s a road."

"You don’t know if there’s a road?" asked Bud in surprise.

"I don’t know if there’s a road
to
Bendautok," the man replied. "But say, boys, if you feel daring, we could drive the road that runs
from
Bendautok. I’ve known people to do it. Many are still alive."

"I think he’s joking, Bud," Tom observed wryly.

As they set off, the driver introduced himself. "My name is Moonbase Alpha."

"Now that’s
got
to be a joke," Bud snorted.

"No, it is a nickname, taken from English-language television reruns, which I watch as language practice. As an airport driver, I have a multinational clientele, a different nickname for each of the six most common languages. You may call me Moonba."

Tom chuckled. "Please to meet you, Moonba. We’re—"

The man interrupted. "I do not need to know your names, boys. I am a professional. I do not desire an intimate relationship with my passengers. For that, try Thailand."

"Well, I just—"

"I am not a gabby cabdriver. That is a stereotype. Should you wish to pass the journey in reflective silence, I will be content."

"Will you permit a question?" Tom asked with a grin.

"For the extra amount you will be tipping me for the answer, I will be delighted."

Bud laughed. "This is my kinda guy."

"My friend and I are—" Tom began.

"You need not disclose. I make no assumptions."

"Moonba, I’m in the... construction business," persisted the young inventor. "My colleague and I are checking out rumors that a rival company is planning to set up a manufacturing plant in the area."

"What! Near Bendautok? What do they plan to do for workers, import Koreans? The B’naui are all fishermen and bartenders. Simple villagers."

"You haven’t heard anything?" asked Bud, leaning forward from the back seat.

Moonbase Alpha grinned a mottled grin. "Have
I
heard anything? No. But if you chose to ask whether the
B’naui
have heard anything, I might mention the grotto of Koong-Na—and the screaming in the night!"

"YOU KNOW," said Tom, "we just might be interested in that."

"I thought so. I must be a prophet," replied Moonba. "Koong-Na is—well, I will not insult the dictionary by calling it an
island
. Just a pile of rock with a frosting of sand. On the best maps you can cover it with a fingernail clipping, and you probably should. But it has steep sides—all those tiny dots do. Big cliffs, way up and flat on top. They call these pretend-islands ‘the tree stumps.’ A handful of them, some four klicks—that means kilometers, but call it miles, who cares?—to the south of Bendautok. Koong-Na is the biggest one, I think, if a small thing can be a
biggest
."

"So what’s this about a scream?" interjected Bud.

"Like a tortured elephant, but ten times louder. At intervals, usually lasting, oh, twenty seconds. That’s some long-winded elephant, eh? The fishermen have heard it, many nights, late."

"What do they think it is?" Bud queried anxiously. "A sea demon? Ancestral ghosts?"

"I said they were
simple
villagers, not
stupid
villagers," the man noted with scorn. "They thought it sounded like a rocket engine. They texted me about it."

Tom and Bud shared a glance. "Sounds like our rivals, all right," Tom declared. "You say it came from a grotto?"

"No,
they
say it came from a grotto. Isn’t that the English word? Like a cave in the water? A low boat can get through the entrance, but you have to lie down flat. Very snug and dark in there. I am told many children have the grotto of Koong-Na to thank for their existence."

"It the sound still happening, Moonba?" asked Tom.

"No, not for months. All quiet now. I’ll tell you this, for weeks last year I drove men in suits out to Bendautok, important-looking men, very stuffy, Malays, Chinese, worse. I hear there were also deliveries by boat, no one knows what. Big freight. Unload at night. Floated in.

"So, couple months. Then I drove many of the same men back to the airport, and the boats came and went again. Then nothing since. Whatever was being tested must be gone. All over."

"This helps us a lot," said Tom gratefully.

"I do things gladly for mankind, given the money. Go to a bar in town, English bar, called Chic ’n Savage. The bartender knows about all this, and can give directions to Koong-Na—‘all this and more!’ "

"What’s the guy’s name?" Bud asked.

"Season Cliffhanger."

"Uh-huh. What’s his nickname in, oh, French?"

"Mise en Scéne."

Arriving without death in Bendautok, the taxi stopped in front of the small hotel. As the two Americans pressed a generous reward into his waiting hand, Moonba wished them well. As they turned away, the driver called, "Good adventure, Tom!"

The young inventor spun around, startled but half-amused. "How did you—?"

"It is the B’naui who are simple. I am not a B’naui. So bye-bye. And to you too—
Scotty
!"

As the taxi sped away, Bud grumbled, "Everybody wants to be a stand-up comedian."

Tom chuckled. "In a town this small there isn’t
room
to stand up!"

The two spent the rest of the day in their room. As a blue evening fell, they made their way to the small but neat bar-cafe called Chic ’n Savage. "Yes, lads, I am indeed Season Cliffhanger," said the fat bartender, who was also the proprietor, cook, and waiter—on occasion, late-night performer. "What shall you have? If alcoholic, you two so
young
men, you must meet the rules for drinking. Sumatra is a conservative society. I shall have to see your wallets."

"To check our ID’s?" asked Bud.

"To see if you have money to pay. As I say, rules."

Tom grinned. "Fruit juice, please."

"May I see your wallet?" smiled Season Cliffhangar.

Over their juices, the Shoptonians asked the man about the grotto and the reports of strange doings. "Yes, yes," he said, "Koong-Na. Noises and foreigners. Perhaps spies from somewhere. But we here talk only to one another, not to the officials. Not wise—punishment is severe. Yet it is fairly apportioned. Political murder, your head is cut off. To smash windows, half a head. That is apportionment, hm? Theft of intellectual property by illegal downloading of movies from the Internet, a finger." He held up his left hand. Two fingers were missing. "A DVD or two for the evening? A wide assortment, many languages."

Bud snorted. "Anything from Thailand?"

"Maybe next time," Tom said dryly. "What we’d like to do, Season—"

"Do call me Sease."

"We’d like to look over that grotto without being noticed."

"Ah! I can draw you a map, tell you where to get a little boat... I will mark down where the secret back entrances are, too, so you won’t even have to duck down to get in the sea opening."

Tom thanked the man warmly. "It’s lucky we found someone who knows the grotto so well."

"Yes, well, I have nineteen children, by my reckoning."

"Good grief!" exclaimed Bud. "We’ll be tripping over people in the dark!"

"No, not now. It is off-season. Still, I suggest flashlights."

It was two AM when the boys’ boat scuffed to a stop on the narrow beach of the cliffsided islet. They were dressed all in black, with woven hood-caps pulled down over their faces. "Jetz, forget Koong-Na," urged Bud. "We should head over to L.A. and mug someone!"

Sease’s map was crude, but they were able to find the split in the cliff that allowed them to work their way upward. Tom, in the lead, stopped suddenly. "Here’s the opening—the back door to the grotto. Gosh, we’ll barely squeeze through!"

"Suck it in, Skipper, and lead on."

Donning goggles and brandishing a special high-definition infrared flashlamp, they wormed along through the cragged passage, tending downward, sometimes at an angle so steep they had to slide along. But Tom was ever-listening through his sono-amplifier earbud, and there was nothing to hear but their own grunts and scuffles, and what sounded like waves and wind in the grotto somewhere ahead. "Nobody’s home," he whispered to Bud.

"Yeah, but they may be back for breakfast!"

The crack through the cliff ended on a narrow ledge near the ceiling of a high-vaulted open space. Tom played his infra-lamp side to side, its glow visible only through the boys’ goggles. The cave was the size of an auditorium, the floor wave-eroded rock between lumped blankets of sand. Half the floor was covered by the shifting waters of the sea beyond, which came rolling in through a long, low gash on the far side.