Tom Swift and His Cosmotron Express (6 page)

"What makes you—"

"Record and delete, Tom. Don’t waste breath—it’s expensive these days." Langley stared into Tom’s eyes. "You have your spy sources at Enterprises. Even the lousy book series alludes to it. Great plot device. But don’t deny it’s real. Somebody in government—hey, maybe
above
the government!—feeds you information in the usual cloak-and-daggery way. Deny it if it’ll make you feel good." Tom remained tight-lipped. "Okay.

"A long while back—around when you were doing the hydrolung thing—I started getting weird messages on my private voicemail. When I say
private
, I mean it: it’s hooked to a number only I use or know about. I use it to leave myself notes and comments about ongoing stuff."

"In other words," Tom interrupted, "your personal journal."

"Yeah, an audio journal—writing makes me nervous. Anyway, this voice, a man’s, seemed to know a lot about what we were working on at Wicko, and what I was working on, even... what I was doing
at that exact moment
, behind closed doors. Spooky!"

Tom nodded, edging away from all pretense. "Sure is. Our security team can’t figure out how it’s done. They—he—gets into my personal journal on a secure server that’s isolated from the Net."

"Maybe it’s the same guy," nodded Langley. "I call him Answerman—Antsy. I call this office he works for ‘Information’. Like over the phone. Get it?

"Antsy tells me about stuff, gives warnings. Of course we’re just grunt workers at Wickliffe compared to Shopton’s great big adventure factory. We just do
work
, not
exploits
. But now and then, when somethin’ major is going down—Black Cobra on the loose or whatever—Antsy has something to say to me."

Tom was trying to hide his astonishment. For all the many times he had been in touch with Collections and the Taxman, it had never occurred to him that
others
might also be receiving warnings and advice! Pete seemed to read the look behind Tom’s face. "You didn’t know. Not a clue. He comes across like a personal friend; looks like he has more than
one
buddy."

"Whoever
he
really is."

"Yeah."

"He sent you this drawing?"

"Ohhh no." He took out another sheet and plopped it down. "He sent us
this
. Now
this
one ought to look
really
familiar."

Tom was silent for a moment. "This is the image captured by the Fearing radar system."

"No, this is the image captured by Information
from
the Fearing radar system. Doesn’t seem to be anything they can’t get into."

Tom studied it keenly. "But it’s much more detailed, almost like a real optical photo. They must have tapped into the raw feed—pulled out more data and enhanced the result."

"Uh-huh. Now, retro-boy—nngh,
Tom
—compare this ripped-from-reality image to the other one, the drawing. Note all the little details, the fin-vanes along the side edge, these indentations on the front. Identical! Your
Fire Fury
is the realization of this drawing.

"
We made this drawing, Tom! It’s a product of Wickliffe Labs!
"

Shopton’s young inventor studied the pair. "Yes. I see that. Are you saying your source sent you the enhanced radar image to let you know—"

Langley gave a fierce nod. "We’ve been messed with!

"Let me bend the law a little and give you the backstory. Wickliffe is something like the third-level subcontractor on a project that originated somewhere up high—Defense Department by way of the Air Force by way of a major contractor—on down to us. They called it part of their long-term ASP development program."

"ASP," Tom repeated. "AeroSpacePlane."

"Which us grownups know is all about ultrahigh-mach bombers—stealth hyperjets that can duck in and out of orbit. Or ideally, tech at its highest, superspeed down in the air, at treetop level."

"They wanted you to produce a prototype?"

Pete shook his head. "Nope, way short of that. They parceled out the project all over the place—a security thing, I guess. Enterprises probably worked on some part of it without knowing what it was for."

"Maybe."

"We were supposed to develop the basic aeroform shape, the design of the fuselage. Munson Wickliffe handed it over to our aerospace division, Faber. This drawing—this is the final rendering of what they came up with. Nothing was ever constructed. All on paper—pixels, actually. Windtunnel testing by computer. You know.

"When Wickliffe died, things got a little chaotic for awhile. Before we could pursue the project further, the whole thing was cancelled. We were paid off and sworn to secrecy. But our work wasn’t destroyed, just locked away under tight security. A load of info about
Viper Spirit
still exists at Wicko."

"
Viper Spirit
," Tom murmured. "We called it the
Fire Fury
because of the tremendous heat output from its propulsion."

"We had nothing to do with the propulsion component of the project," Langley declared. "In fact, we couldn’t figure out how
any
engine could actually fly the thing according to the specs we were given. They wanted it small—tiny! Our design was beautiful. Give it a beautiful engine and she’d do beautiful things..." His voice became dreamy. "Oh man, almost no radar profile, nimble as a bee at Mach 6... the shape is self-stabilizing for high-velocity water landings; no airstrip could handle her, and water’d dissipate some very sobering friction heat."

"But your design wound up in the hands of the dissident Brungarian faction," Tom concluded. "Then they developed—or stole—the necessary engine."

"And flew it. Answerman says the design breach was at Wickliffe, not upstairs. They haven’t been able to backtrack it."

Tom understood the unspoken issue. "You’re the prime suspect, aren’t you, Pete."

"Let’s say I’m up in the Top Ten. More likely the Fab Four. I’m the CEO, and I have a rep as bein’ a little—let’s say I’ve got my quirks. Us genius boys do, right?"

Tom had to grin. "We sure do!"

"Does writing make you nervous too? All those little bitty hand motions—"

"Pete, how can I help? Enterprises can’t track down the Bad Brungarians for you. We’re heading into the outer solar system."

"Yeah, I know, that new spaceship of yours." Langley tried and failed to kill a sigh. "Buddy, your security guys are the best—the
best
. You’ve had a lot of experience dealing with spies in the workforce, foreign agents—"

"The fictionalizations—"

"Sure, gotta sell the books. Still, what I say is true. Tom, my friend... I’m asking you to lend me Harlan Ames."

Tom’s disbelief brought a grin. "Wh-
what
?"

"Or the other one, the little guy, Radnor, if you’re drivin’ a hard bargain. I’ll pay, they’ll be covered completely, full benefits, no liability to them or you—Amy worked up a contract—and I’m not worried about ‘proprietary secrets’ and all that. I’ll sign off on it." Langley looked sober and pleading. "We—I mean,
I
—can’t sleep. If I’m gonna have to face down the Feds, I need facts, evidence on my side. Let’s base Ames over at Wickliffe for a while, maybe just a few weeks. He can nose around, follow leads, whatever he does. A gun!—he can carry a gun."

The Swiftian inventor was silent for a long moment. "If Harlan’s willing, I’m sure Dad and I can accommodate you. I’ve been in a situation like yours myself. I know it’s absolute
heck
." He half-smiled. "The fictionalization will have to substitute something softer for that last word."

"Can I count on you to get something going right away?"

"Yes."

"Like by this afternoon?"

"I... sure, Pete."

"We’ll get the paperwork going. I’ll put you in touch with Amy directly. Mm, that wouldn’t bother you, would it, Tom?"

"Why would it bother me?"

"Yeah, that’s the ol’ Swift spirit. The past is dead!"

Ames was reluctant but willing. With the approval of Tom’s father and the plant’s legal department, the matter moved forward. By sunset Ames was touring his new office at Wickliffe Laboratories—and noting how small it was.

"Is there a men’s room?" asked Tom jokingly over the phone.

"No, but there’s a gas station just across the street."

He promised the Swifts to maintain close contact with Phil Radnor on the matter of the threat by Ikyoris. "I guess I’ll regard it as an afterhours hobby," he told Tom with grim irony. "But Rad’s fully capable. We’ll maintain armed security around your family property until this is resolved."

"I’m glad Mom and Sandy agreed to having some of your guys as bodyguards," replied the youth. "They appreciate that they’ll stay a distance back and keep themselves unnoticeable."

"I’m just glad they finally gave in. A load off my mind."

"Mine too." But then, as he clicked off, Tom thought about Bashalli and many other innocent civilians. And his mind was reloaded.

There was no further contact with the Sentimentalists during the tense days that followed, nor did the
Fire Fury
—Pete Langley’s
Viper Spirit
—come darting out of its refuge like a striking snake. Enterprises’ CIA contact, John Thurston, reported to the Swifts that the host government in North Africa was feigning ignorance—and refusing international investigation. "We’ve been combing the region with the megascope as you asked, John," noted Damon Swift. "But the scope isn’t a tracking device, it’s a moving viewpoint. The region is huge, and the base may be well-camouflaged among the mountains."

"Yes, I understand," Thurston responded. "Our own overflight abilities are limited in that part of the world by various ‘understandings’ that we feel constrained to honor. Satellite coverage misses a lot among the peaks and valleys and ravines—and most of the installation is underground, doubtless.

"One more thing, Damon," continued Thurston. "After you and I are done, I’ll be talking to your security people about a visitor from Brungaria. He’s fully backgrounded and approved, all the way up to—you know."

"From Brungaria?"

"His name is Andor Emda. The Brungarian government has asked that he be allowed to work directly with you on this hyperjet business, as it appears to be tied to the Sentimentalists faction—and it looks like Enterprises may be their chosen ‘demonstration’ target. He’s part of their security establishment and something of an expert on the Sentimentalists and Nattan Volj. He’ll stay out of the way."

"Perhaps he’ll be useful. I’ll look forward to meeting him."

As days became weeks, Tom remotely supervised the construction of the Cosmotron Express on Fearing Island. The several transparent spheres of metallumin—an enormous central sphere and three smaller ones—now sported hatchways, all but invisible when closed flush with the curving shell. A second, opaque shell was constructed within each of them, pressed firm against the metallumin like paint on glass. Then the work proceeded within—a geodesic support structure, with decks and compartments of various size and shape suspended from its network of sturdy beams.

The
Starward
was not a secret. In a much-requested webcast interview with the local newspaper, the
Shopton Evening Bulletin
, Tom described the craft to editor Dan Perkins. "As you can see from this model—let me give credit to our ace modelmaker Arvid Hanson—the Express looks like nothing anyone’s ever put into space."

"Looks to me like a big bowl of fruit," gibed Perkins. "A honeydew melon and three oranges."

"The main body alone, the central sphere, is twice as large as the entire
Challenger
all the way out to its greatest diameter, the repelatron rail-rings. Even a bit broader—a full 200 feet."

"Which makes the interior crew section much more spacious."

"Very much more. She’ll have her own hangar for visiting craft, an entire lab deck, big personnel cabins—"

"A nice kitchen for Chow Winkler?"

"Big and luxurious—I’m looking forward to giving him the tour after he gets back from his trip."

Perkins pointed to the model, half-turning to face the camera. "And what about these smaller spheres?" The three globes, each perhaps a quarter of the diameter of the main hull, were attached equidistantly to it, two on opposite sides at the "equator" and the third on top.

"Those are our three excursion modules—and even though they look like midgets next to the central sphere, they’re really quite large. Space yachts! Each one can detach from the
Starward
’s hull and fly independently."

"Between the planets?"

"No. The mods are for landings and short-range work. They use repelatron power, not the cosmotron spacedriver system."

"In other words, shuttles," nodded Perkins. "Will you be landing the mother ship on any of these planets you’ll be visiting?"

Tom shook his head. "No, Dan. Once she leaves her special ‘drydock’ on Fearing Island, she’ll spend all her time in weightless space. There’s no need to expose her big body to unnecessary structural stresses."

"Ah. So your crew will ‘beam’ up and down?"

"Er... this is reality, Dan, not TV. They’ll use the mods."

"Got it. I suppose you’ll be decommissioning your famous
Challenger
spaceship. Will she end up in the Swift Museum?"

"The
Challenger
will remain active and ready for flight. For various technical reasons, the
Starward
will only use its repelatron auxiliaries within the Earth-Moon system, not her special engines, so she’ll just be a sister craft to the
Chal
near the Earth. But the Grand Tour will show what she can do on the interplanetary scale. That’s the next frontier Enterprises will be opening up."

"
And what happens when you run out of frontiers, Tom?
"

"Um—" The question was unexpected. Which was as Dan Perkins intended.

On that note the interview concluded.

Tom drove back to Enterprises, his brow flexed over Perkins’s question. "What happens when you run out of frontiers, Tom?"

A cellphone bleep interrupted his musings. He switched on the car’s sophisticated hands-free system.

"Hey there, boss!"