Tom Swift and His Dyna-4 Capsule (13 page)

"According to the video, she was more
girl
than
friend
. She’s a crazy stalker, Tom. Serial killers have to start somewhere. Throwing tapioca could be just the beginning!—of a real horror show."

"Maybe," Tom replied stubbornly. "But it’s
Bud’s
show."

Between crises Tom was able to work on the model of the time-transformer apparatus and the dyna-4 capsule. The unit was moved to Tom’s lab adjacent to the huge subsurface hangar of the
Sky Queen
, where he was joined by his top engineer Hank Sterling, a close friend.

"You know," Hank said with a certain awe, "there was a time when we thought of the
Queen
as a masterpiece of high-tech engineering. Just imagine, a three-deck Flying Lab that can hover like a VTOL! Or a hydrojet sub, or—Holy Mo, doesn’t the term ‘
rocket ship
’ sound like something from 1950’s TV these days?"

"And now we’re pushing around the flow of time," nodded Tom.

"What if Father Time pushes back? We have impulse guns, but the old guy has a scythe!"

Tom coolly cut off the banter. "Let’s work on getting the chronolenses focused. We need to make sure the focal terminus matches the hull of the capsule."

"I know, Skipper. If the reversed-vector exterior shadow crosses into the capsule, who knows what could happen?"

"We’ve already had some surprises, trying to deal with ‘mixed time’," noted the youth ruefully. He could still feel a twinge in his hand.

It was late in the day—the fifth since Tom had viewed Bud’s video—when Tom was called up to the office he shared with Mr. Swift to examine something a courier had just delivered. "No bomb or poison—or
bees
!—according to our security scan," declared Damon Swift as he handed his son the small box wrapped in plain brown paper. It was square in shape but shallow. "But something unusual, certainly."

"I don’t suppose we have any idea who sent it?"

"No, as usual in these circumstances the sender provided the package to the courier service in a way that concealed his or her identity. Phony return address, public phone number, payment in cash." Tom’s father did not have to vocalize the thought he shared with his son. This could have to do with Bud!

Inside the cardboard box was a folded sheet of paper and an object that made Mr. Swift smile. "My word, son, I haven’t seen one of these in years—a tape reel!"

"Kind of a primordial CD, wasn’t it?" joked Tom. "Who in the world would want to send us something on magnetic audiotape?"

"Not even a tape cassette. This is the sort of thing you’d thread onto a big, bulky tape recorder—as they called them." His brow creased. "You know... I have no idea how we’re going to listen to this, offhand."

Tom smiled. "Maybe I can come up with a Tom Swift invention. But let’s read the note."

The note was peculiar as well, a faint, smudgy blur on onionskin paper, in standard typeface.

LIFE IS TOO SHORT NOT TO HAVE A LITTLE FUN.
331 FIFTH.
REVERE.

"What are we supposed to ‘
revere
’?" snorted Tom. "Maybe this is just some sort of advertising gimmick."

"Perhaps so," his father replied. "Rather annoying. But you’ll have to investigate on your own, son. I have to have what promises to be a dull dinner with Corporate America. The hard life of a CEO, hm?"

After looking up the address, Tom drove there in his bronze sports car, a two-seater powered by a Swift solar battery. 331 Fifth Street resided in an older part of Shopton. Tom’s namesake, his great-grandfather, might have purchased his signature hat there; now it was mostly an industrial area—backroom assembly, machine shops, small warehouses.

331 turned out to be the home of The Eclectic Electric Shop. Tom entered, tape box in hand, and looked about curiously. The untidy shelves were crammed with odds and ends—radio tubes, "typing ball" typewriters, a mimeograph, something called a "dictaphone," bulky adding machines with pull-levers, trays with computer-data "punch cards," and many other relics of the electric age that preceded the microelectronic age. He grinned at one object that took up a great deal of space—an ancient xerographic copier machine the size of a sofa. A warning light was blinking on top, beaming the cryptic word
MISPUFF
.

Everything had seen better days. Including the robust woman behind the counter. Tom noticed her name badge.

Marlene Diakonis
Owner
Deal With It

"About to close," she chirped in an unfriendly way. "Closure is about to happen." Tom smiled and stepped closer. "Well! Tom Swift and His Famous Crewcut! Closure briefly postponed."

"I know it’s late in the day, ma’am," the youth apologized. "Shall I come back tomorrow?"

"Our first rule here:
no such thing as tomorrow
," she said crisply. "Second rule:
no checks accepted, cash is still legal.
So what can I do for you?"

Tom showed her the tape reel. "A note came with it that gave your address."

"If you’re thinking Eclectic Electric sent it as a come-on, no. We don’t need to advertise to find customers. Our select clientele finds
us
."

"I suppose the idea was to direct us to a place that sells old-style tape recorders."

"Oh, we have several. Various makes, some cheap, some notso." Tom gave the proprietor the cardboard box. She tapped it, ran a calloused finger over it, and rattled it next to her ear. "Okay. I can tell you right now that you’ll be needing our most expensive model."

"Why?"

"I need the money."

Tom had hoped she would offer to play the tape for him, but his hopes were not borne out. "Um... well... it’s just for one-time use. Then you don’t think the least-expensive model—"

"Sure," she responded. "That is to say, the least expensive model that will
actually play the tape without damaging it.
Let’s see now..." The woman picked up a jewelers’ eyepiece and scrutinized the tape, which had a sort of rust color. "Mm-hmm. Nice and fresh. Somebody must have an old stash of these in unopened boxes, sealed in wrappers. They turn up now and then—old back-supplies in the bottom of Grandpa’s filing cabinet.

"This tape was manufactured by the Brillian-Tone company, sometime in the later 1950’s—they went under in 1962. High quality. ‘
Brillian-Tone makes it music!
’ So."

"Do you have something that can play this?" asked Tom.

"As a matter of fact, what luck!—we do," she replied. "Oh, bad news—I’m
afraid
it’s our most expensive model. A Revere."

"A Revere is
just
what I wanted," commented Tom dryly.

"A classic. Easy to thread the tape. Monaural, of course. Rather heavy, but you’re a healthy young guy."

"Cash only, I suppose. How much, ma’am?"

"A nice $334, plus tax."

"Er—will you accept a credit card?"

"From Tom Swift, yes. Assuming you have an ID."

The transaction was completed, and Tom eyed the squat straw-colored cube doubtfully. "This is kind of an important matter," he muttered. "What if it doesn’t work?"

"Now that’s an easy question," replied the woman, apparently the shop owner. "If it doesn’t work you’re out $334. Plus tax."

As Tom moved to hoist up the machine, he suddenly noticed a slip of colored paper protruding from the seam of the lid, in the rear.

He pulled it out. It was neatly folded. And the color was pink. "What’s this?"

For some reason his heart was thudding.

"That? Dunno. Never noticed it."

"Ma’am... would you call this ‘rose pink’?"

"Oh, I suppose."

"And you... don’t know who might have left it?"

She looked at Tom impatiently. "I know it’s inconceivable, Tom, but on the weekends we get a nice bit of traffic through here. Our customers are very loyal, and they have friends. I wouldn’t notice everyone who comes wanderin’ through.

"I’ll tell ya this, though. I dust pretty regular. That little card wasn’t there last week."

Tom opened it. A thumb-sized picture was glued inside. It looked like it had been cut out of a school yearbook. The face was young and cocky and very familiar. Beneath it:

BUD N. BARCLAY
SOPHOMORE MOST LIKELY TO

The rest of the caption had been torn away. But there was handwriting beneath it.

"
C’ya. C’ya. C’ya.
"

THEY CROWDED into the office of the two Swifts, an uncomfortably large crowd, a snack dinner provided by Chow Winkler. The reels turned lazily on the Revere tape recorder.

"Hello," said a strange voice. "Welcome to my hobby! May you have as good a time as I’m having right now, Tom.

"Yes, it’s true. I have Bud Barclay. But don’t get shook, Neato-Jet. He’s up and walking, in comfortable surroundings. Safe and healthy. If he’s smart he’ll set aside his preconceptions and enjoy his time with us.

"But of course, Neato-Jet, it’s always a worrisome distraction when a loved one is kidnapped. You’re probably thinking of doing the sensible thing and calling in the so-called authorities, the FBI and all those profiling experts. See now, that’d be unwise. Do the little favor I’m asking of you and your best friend returns with a wonderful tale to tell. Make me nervous and I’ll be less inclined to play the good host. Not that you won’t end up seeing something of Bud once again.

"Note that word ‘
something
’.

"I assume I have your rapt attention—you and your security staff, who would be well advised to remain seated throughout the entire performance, and after as well. I know Mina Finch has visited you, that old biddy with her red-headed young swain. You know who I am, obviously, and what I want. And you’ve surely figured out what I want you to do for me. Time flows at your command, doesn’t it, Neato-Jet? All you need to do is make a little object twenty-five years older, then, immediately, provide me with what it contains via my personal representative, who shall be present for the grand opening. I’ve worked out the details. And believe me, you won’t find me, not with all your equipment, and you won’t find Bud. Not until I want you to find him. Or at least a percentage of him."

Tom’s face was gray. The reels spun on.

"But why be a spoilsport? It’s a scientific challenge of the sort you enjoy. To accept, post the following message on an obscure internet discussion group called
HeyKids.com
. You are already a member under the name Mr. Luna. See?—a tribute. The message: ‘
Time is the enemy of enterprise.
’ You will then have one month to complete your machine and get that box opened. The box, with whatever info Mr. Worthless Father-Knows-Best locked inside, will be placed into the hands of my personal agent, who will be allowed to leave and drive off with it unimpeded. He is to see the contents when the timelock is sprung—him alone. If he doesn’t give me the report I want, the deal’s off. Get that? Please believe that I will know if you try to substitute a fake box, or to open it in advance without my agent present.

"How will I know? Say, that’s one to think about. Seems you’ll have to trust me.

"You have five hours to post your answer, Tom, and
I
get to decide when the ol’ clock starts ticking.
Maybe it already has.

"I’ll be in touch."

There was nothing further on the tape. They had already listened all the way to the end, several times.

"Why’s his voice sound s’ blame funny?" asked Chow.

"He must be using some kind of electronic distortion to mask it," Mr. Swift said thoughtfully.

Tom shook his head. "No, Dad, I think our Mr. Eckdal prefers low-tech solutions. He—or someone—read his message from a script into a tape recorder, then played the tape
backwards
!"

"I see," Damon Swift responded. "He learned the sounds ‘in reverse’, then recited those sounds into the recorder, which again played it back in reverse."

"The double-reverse made the word-order correct, but the vocal inflections are completely obscured. But it hardly matters—we know who the message is coming from. He admits it."

"Then why do it?" mused Phil Radnor, Ames’s assistant.

"
Cause he’s crazy!
" Chow burst out. "Knew me a feller in Texas who collected coins. Nice normal poke most o’ the time, but when he started talkin’ about his hobby he ’as jest about foamin’ at the mouth like a rabid coyote! An’ that was jest a bunch o’ old
coins
!—not even enough t’ buy dinner in Tucson."

Mr. Swift held up a hand, turning to Ames and Radnor. "What do we know?"

"Three hours in, not a great deal," said Harlan Ames. "The ‘life is too short’ note that came with the tape reel was what is called a ‘carbon copy’—you and I remember them, Damon. In fact it was a second-carbon, on paper from the Krisp-Kleen company. As with the tape itself, the paper appears to have been in storage, sealed and kept fresh since sometime in the 1950’s.

"The note was typed on a manual typewriter within the last few days, probably a Royal from the late 1940’s, early 1950’s—that’s the best match. The machine had been freshly oiled and cleaned—"

"You have to ‘uncake’ the strike-heads periodically," noted Damon Swift.

"The typewriter was in very good shape."

"Sure," said Linda Ming. "The guy’s a hobbyist—he loves that old mechanical junk."

"As to the typist himself, not much to go on," continued Phil Radnor. "No prints, no interesting fibers. We do know it was a man, a longterm touch-typist, and right handed."

"Hunh? How th’ Pecos kin you tell
that
?" demanded Chow.

Ames smiled patiently. "By some factors that only apply to old-fashioned manual typewriters. Even with an expert typist, a man’s wide fingers have to be watched for certain near-miss mistakes, when two successive keys are next to one another—‘r’ and ‘t’, for example. There’s a tiny hesitation which shows up as a characteristic shallowing of the imprint depth for those pairs alone. It’s absorbed unconsciously, over time, by male touch-typists.

"As for right-handed, keys on the side of the dominant hand get a harder, crisper strike, which also shows up in imprint depth. First time I’ve had a chance to use these clues."