Tom Swift and His Dyna-4 Capsule (14 page)

"He figured sending the carbon would cover up any possible clues," added Radnor; "but he was way wrong. It’s
easier
to differentiate strike intensities on a standard carbon, not harder."

"Tom, Damon, this Eckdal fellow isn’t one of your criminal geniuses," Ames noted. "He’s a shady businessman and probable swindler—also a suspect in the death of a former partner, though he was never charged. We can’t connect him to any high-tech work. Has a long string of failed business ventures. Apart from that he’s mainly known as a very aggressive collector of what you might call ‘nifty-Fifties’ items."

"What about a photograph?" asked Tom’s father.

"No luck so far," replied the former Secret Service agent. "Mina Finch says her employer trashed all the photos he had of his son. We haven’t found anything yet—trying to get his Drivers’ License photo, but administrative privacy rules make that a real challenge."

Tom had a fierce look on his face. "Can you at least tell us where he might be holding Bud? Some idea?"

"He sold his house in California about six months ago. Present address—present whereabouts—well, as of this minute, nothing."

"What about the girl?" asked Mr. Swift.

"No sign of any prior connection to Torranz Eckdal."

"I know I asked you not to do any checking—to respect Bud’s wishes..." Tom muttered sadly.

Harlan Ames smiled and raised his eyebrows. "Boss, that was a directive to your
employee
Harlan Ames, not your
friend
Harlan Ames. You helped me find a free my daughter, remember? You must’ve known I’d look into it all ‘unofficially’—this apparent stalker threatening a part of our family here. Just as
I
know without ‘knowing’ that you’ve been trying to reach Bud by phone ever since he was a day late." As Tom nodded sheepishly, Ames asked in a tone of understanding: "How many times today?"

"Eight," Tom admitted. "It goes to voicemail."

Hank Sterling paced the room. "But somehow this old high school girlfriend—whatever you want to call her—has gone from stalking to kidnapping!"

"Or at least working with the kidnappers," added Tom’s father.

"Sure looks like it," Tom stated. "What
did
you find out about her, Harlan?"

"That she handled the pink note, that there’s a fingerprint match to a ‘Rose Rebecca Truncheon’ who attended that school of Bud’s, that the picture comes from the school yearbook, and—

"Here’s something unexpected. Bud seems not to have known it. After she broke up with him she had several involuntary hospitalizations, arranged by her parents."

"Yup!" snorted Chow. "Kee-
razy
!"

Tom asked if Rose Reb’s parents had been contacted. Ames and Radnor exchanged glances. "Mr. and Mrs. Truncheon are dead. Run down on a sidewalk by a drunk driver, in San Francisco."

"When?" asked Tom. "Recently?"

"No. Back when Rose Truncheon was enrolled in school, at least on paper, before Bud moved to Shopton. It was kept out of the papers, somehow."

"And no one mentioned it on campus—something actually
true
in the middle of all the teenage gossip," Tom said. "She had no friends. Her real life didn’t count, did it."

"We know where she’s been in recent weeks," noted Mr. Swift dryly. "Where is her residence?"

"No record since San Francisco. We’re working on it, guys." Ames added: "She may have been in a facility, or living on disability. It’s not easy to get info on people in situations like that, you know. Medical privacy issues, enforceable by law. And in this case, Miss Truncheon’s legal status is a little unclear. She was still a minor when her parents died—"

"When her parents
were killed
," corrected Tom.

"There were custody and guardianship issues resolved in court, but we don’t have the docs. At any rate, she’s now an adult. For all we know she may have changed her name."

Mr. Swift asked the two security men what they would recommend as a response to Eckdal’s demand, but Tom answered sharply before Ames and Radnor could respond. "What choice is there? If this madman has Bud—"

"But wait now," interrupted Hank Sterling. "Do we really
know
that’s true? Let’s say Eckdal and the girl are working together, as it seems. Maybe she and Bud are off on some romantic interlude, and Eckdal’s using Bud’s absence to pretend he—"

"No," stated Tom coldly. "Some innocent—
interlude
—wouldn’t prevent Bud from getting in touch with—with
us
—any time he wanted to."

Chow spoke quietly. "Mebbe he
doesn’t
want to, son."

"It’d be too risky a gimmick to depend on, even for a cheesy non-pro like Torr Eckdal," Tom insisted doggedly. "Listen, all of you. I’m posting the reply Eckdal wants. ‘
At least a percentage
’—I’m not risking Bud’s life while he’s in the hands of some sort of maniac. It buys us one month." The room was stone-silent. Tom turned to his father. "That’s what I’m going to do, Dad. I’m sorry if you don’t agree."

"And I’m pleased to say—I do," Damon Swift replied.

Tom posted the notice. Within hours an untraceable response appeared beneath the posting.

OFF TO A GREAT START!
720 HOURS
STARTING LAST MIDNIGHT
C’YA!

The 720 hours—30 days to save Bud’s life—were already ticking away.

Tom’s nights were barely slept in, and the days seemed to run together. As the dyna-4 capsule and chronolens installation were constructed in the "time cave" beneath the Nevada test range, as overseen by Enterprises employee Art Wiltessa, Enterprises Security pushed a frantic, discreet investigation. The motel Bud had stayed in—but never slept in—had no information. Tom was now willing to employ his robot-mobile tracker, the sensitector, in an attempt to trace the movements of Bud’s missing convertible, license plate TSE TSE FLY, but too much time, and too many cars, had passed. Nor could Ames and Radnor locate the two who would know something: Torranz Eckdal and Rose Reb Truncheon. Mina Finch, now living in secure surroundings near Gabe Knorff with her metal box in safe-deposit, was kept unaware of Bud’s kidnapping. She could only wait for Tom Swift to turn years into seconds.

The Swifts decided not to alert the authorities until something further was heard from Eckdal, or Bud. "Bud’s parents want it that way," Tom explained to Sandy. "They’re afraid of making the guy ‘nervous.’ So am I."

There were tears in Sandy’s voice. "Tom... this isn’t like when Bud was lost in New Guinea, when his plane went down. We know he’s in the hands of a human enemy, who—who threatens—"

"I’m doing my best, San."

"Everyone is. But how long will it go on?" Her eyes filled. "M-maybe the longer the better, because wh-when the phone rings, it might be—it could mean—"

Tom tried to comfort his sister.

Tom himself was comforted by those around him. "Thomas, you will do what must be done for Bud," said Bashalli Prandit to her good friend. "You
always
do what must be done, always with coolness, always with logic. You’re the one who never loses his head. Leave the head-losing to the rest of us."

"I don’t know if I can," murmured the young inventor, listless. "But I have to keep working on the time-transformer project—
have
to. It could mean Bud’s life."

Bleak days inched by, as if on a slow conveyor belt.

One issue placed on Tom’s plate with a
thunk
! was the matter of scientific personnel at the Nevada site. Tom explained to his father: "Dr. Franzenberg’s gall-bladder surgery puts him out of the picture, but I do need someone to backstop me on the theoretical physics as I test out the capsule."

Mr. Swift looked apologetic. "As of two hours ago, that problem is solved—whether we like it or not. That edgy physicist Hyram Beecher pushed his own choice on us by way of the authorities at the Department of Energy. His name is Irvin Valetta."

Tom frowned. "Fine. An expert in black hole abatement?"

"Perhaps more like what they call
black ops
. Apparently he’s been an employee of the NSA, the National Security Agency. I’m not familiar with him personally, but Beecher says he’s well-regarded in the NSA community. Secret physics, Tom, probably destined for weaponry. But some of that classified NSA work is the most advanced in the field."

"Well... guess there’s nothing to do about it."

One morning, as Chow was clearing away Tom’s breakfast plates, Phil Radnor brought a visitor to Tom’s office, a trim young man with a high forehead and short, slicked-back hair, who looked as if he had been cleaned and pressed at a laundry. "This is Randy Dibs, Tom," said Radnor. "The one Harlan talked to you about."

Tom offered his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Agent Dibs."

The man grinned hesitantly as he shook. "Me too. I—it’s weird to hear that—
Agent
Dibs. I know that’s what I am now, but... you know..." He resolved the dilemma. "Call me Randy—er, if you want."

"I’m still a little unclear—" began Tom.

"Right, right, what it’s all about, my duties." Dibs cleared his throat nervously. "You see... well, I guess you know... I’m not FBI. I’m actually with the, the investigations enforcement arm of the Federal Accounting Office, Department of the Treasury. But no, now, I’m not an
accountant
, I carry a gun—as you can see—and it’s a sworn law enforcement position. I investigate security risks pertaining to financial documents and apprehend, uh—"

Tom smiled. "Bad people. Don’t worry, Randy. We know you’re a real agent. We asked the Subcommittee for this kind of support. We have a... a private situation that we need to ‘put on file’ with the Feds without—"

"Without going through the FBI or the Defense or Energy people. That’s what I understand. As I told Mr.—that is, Harlan—I have discretion to be, um—well, discreet. You know, because it involves money handling and business things."

"Let’s be open about it," interrupted Phil Radnor. "Dibs here won’t get in trouble with the higher-ups for not immediately reporting the matter we plan to bring to his attention. His bureaucratic slot gives him more freedom than we could expect from, say, Wes Norris. And a year from now, no one can say we concealed the situation from the Federal authorities."

"But you can also provide us with information that ordinarily would be out of our reach," Tom stated. "Nothing illegal, of course. But there are databases even Tom Swift Enterprises can’t access."

Dibs nodded enthusiastically. "Oh, absolutely! I have great, great access—er, well, within reason. I admit—there are limits. See, I’m wet."

"Wet?"

"Behind the ears. New. I mean, really—I’m kind of... young."

"We encourage young talent at Swift Enterprises," grinned Tom Swift, young inventor.

"Honestly, I’m hoping this assignment will make my rep. If I don’t mess up. But, oh, I won’t, believe me!"

Dibs was introduced to Chow, whose thick handshake was more cautious than usual. As Radnor led the young agent next door to the Security office for a briefing, Tom asked the westerner his opinion. "Wa-aal," he drawled through a billowy frown, "seems nice enough, boss. Mebbe a mite green. Seems t’ these old eyes he looks like a newborn calf who ain’t hardly been licked over yet."

"Hm. Is that bad?" asked Tom humorously.

"Ever’body starts someplace. But if Buddy Boy’s off somewhere penned up by some loco-weed chomper—"

"At least Randy has a gun," Tom reminded his friend.

"Yep, leastways that," replied the cook. "Question up in my head is—kin he use it? Like t’ know."

"Guess I would too, pardner."

Chow’s big face took on the hint of an idea. "Then afore we turn ’im loose—let’s find out!"

THE DAY FOLLOWING Tom, Chow, and Dibs trooped over to the furthest corner of four-mile-square Swift Enterprises on the employee conveyor system, called the ridewalk. At this undeveloped spot, an open field bordered on one side by the plant’s security wall, Chow had established a modest shooting range that was used by the dozen or so employees who enjoyed recreational gunplay. They had formed a club, known inevitably as the Swift Shooters.

"Feel free to use the range whenever you need to scuff the rust off your trigger finger," Tom said to Agent Dibs. "Nothing fancy. It’s not an interest of mine, but I’m told it relieves tension."

Dibs nodded. "Sure, right, sudden loud noise, pretending you’ve blown somebody’s head off—I sleep better at night."

"Yuh’ll find me out here once ’r twice a week," declared Chow with a look of cowpoke superiority. The cook showed Dibs his near-antique sixgun. "Passed down fer 133 years, right down here t’ my hand. Got a name, too—Ole Shoot-Yer-Mouth-Off. ‘Mouthy’ to ’er pals." His eyes narrowed playfully as he twirled the gun. "You gonna be a pal, Randy?"

Dibs gulped. "I hope so. Expect so. Definitely."

"Chow’s joking, of course," Tom added hastily. "Enterprises expeditions don’t use firearms ordinarily. We have our electric impulse rifles and i-guns."

"But them things don’t give ya a kick when ya shoot ’em off," remarked Chow. "Out here’s where a man knows he’s a man—know what I mean?"

"Sure do," nodded the young agent. "I’ve had the standard training, of course. Did pretty well."

"I been shootin’ more years than a dog has barks. So let’s give ’er a try, son. Show yer stuff."

The two showed their respective stuffs immediately. Chow’s face reddened as Dibs’s target score climbed and climbed. He seemed an entirely different sort of man with a revolver in his hand—steady and cool, focused like a laser. The unexpected performance rattled the older man despite his wealth of years, but Chow began to catch up toward the end as his nerves steadied. The competition became fierce and a shade grim.

Finally, as the scores drew almost even, Tom called a halt. "I think we can rely on both of you to defend Enterprises from hoss thieves," smiled the young inventor.

"Don’t you make fun o’ shootin’," snorted Chow darkly. "Blame serious business."

Randy Dibs smiled blandly. "Sure is. But I’ve never had to even draw this thing in the line of duty—never given it a name—since I started. Nice to know
I
can make ‘pals’ too, though."