Tom Swift and His Dyna-4 Capsule (18 page)

"Mm, genius boy—I think I’ll just live with the first explanation."

Tom grinned. "It’s great to have you back, pal."

"For both of us, pal."

They turned their attention to the ball Bud had thrust into the field. Somewhat hard to see, it was descending very slowly, like a piece of lint caught in a shaft of sunlight. After more than a minute by "normal" time, it touched the floor, the surface of the lower chronolens. There it began to flatten and compress—and then slowly
un
-flatten, rising upward in an impossibly slow bounce. "
Jetz
!" exclaimed Bud. "Time must be movin’ slower than molasses in there!"

"Oh, that’s nothing," Tom responded. "My next tests’ll bring time almost to a stop! But I’ll have to deactivate the system for awhile in order to do some hunting for microfractures in the lenses, by old-fashioned eyeballing. You’ll have time for a late lunch."

Nodding, Bud said: "What would happen if I tossed a ball into the field
after
it’d been turned on? You said something had happened in the lab at Enterprises—"

"Well, if the outer field had an accelerated time flux, the ball would be sucked right in—and spat out the other side like a missile!" explained the young inventor. "But if a slowdown is in effect, the ball would just rebound off the time barrier. The front rank of molecules would be moving so slowly it’d be like hitting a wall."

"But light gets through the barrier, anyway."

"Sure. It’s just that human muscle power doesn’t pack enough punch—not even yours, flyboy. You’d need a bazooka or a shotgun to get through the barrier."

"Yeah. Which reminds me—I sure wish I could risk goin’ up topside to watch Chow’s target practice. He was already mighty good at it. And now he’s doing some
real
Texas-sized bragging."

Tom chuckled. "Something tells me Randy Dibs’s final day here will involve a little gunplay! Our big cowpoke just
has
to beat him."

After briefly running the lenses at a setting that brought time almost to a full stop, Tom flipped the power switch to off. As he crossed the access gangway to commence his inspection, Bud left the chamber for a Winkleresque luncheon.

As he strode down an empty corridor, a voice from behind stopped him. "Well, Bud Barclay! At last I get to meet you in person."

Recognizing the voice he had only heard on the phone, the young San Franciscan began to turn, smiling. "Hi, Randy. I thought you weren’t expected back until—"

Then Bud looked the young man in the face for the first time—and froze. He stared at the grinning figure with outstretched hand. He found his voice with difficulty. "Shave and a haircut. Suit and tie. You clean up pretty nice—
Baxx
!"

Garton Baxx—of late known as Agent Randy Dibs—put a warning finger to his lips. "Ooh, not too loud, bo. M’man Eck can’t keep this hallway off-limits for too long. Looks funny." He pulled out a gun—a gun that Bud found very familiar. "And then there’s this."

"Eckdal is already down here?—!"

"Dude, Eck’s been down here for weeks—as one of those special security guys in the jackets. Not all that hard to squeeze him into the posse. Had to make him look a little different in case old lady Finch came down, though. Real motivation to lose weight, hunh? But she hasn’t seen him close in years ’n a day, man."

Bud raised his hands, eyes fierce, looking for openings to charge. "And Dibs?"

"Guy decided to retire suddenly. And for good. Happened on the drive to Shopton. Not so good for his rep, I guess. Good for the fishies in Lake Carlopa though, hey?" Baxx snarled. "By the way, be sure to talk nice and respectful about Torr Eckdal. He’s not just my boss.
He’s my Dad!
" He laughed at Bud’s shocked expression. "Yeah, man, straight-up true! Adopted me full legal. Part of the deal; labor demand on my part, right?—to make legal-sure ol’ Gar gets his share of the money." The voice, no longer disguised, turned mocking. "But don’t get shook, Bud. It’s also real sentiment. Torr gets lonely since he offed his kid. See? I’m the replacement. We have a lot in common, Daddy and me. Call it a fulfilling relationship."

"A real pair!" Bud spat out. "You’re a—"

"Sweetbuns, I don’t need to know what I am. Really don’t. Makes me mad. My little Rose Reb tried to tell me. Got her a trip out through a window and straight down, L-shape trajectory. Too bad—I think we coulda made it work, Reb and me." Baxx’s eyes twinkled, but his voice was without mercy. "Now turn and march, Barclay. Puttin’ you in cold storage for a while. This time you don’t get out."

Baxx marched Bud into a shielded lab cubicle with a formidable, lockable door. "Not t’ be rude, Barclay, but gotta run. Dad’s waiting. Gotta fetch the brick for him."

"You won’t get it easy, Baxx," snarled Bud. "The locker is keyed to Tom’s DNA." Instantly Bud blanched—realizing that one way to make use of Tom Swift’s DNA was to
remove one of his fingers!

Baxx had a different plan. "Come
on
!" he chuckled. "We’ve had the real brick since I broke in to the old lady’s house! Look pretty different now. Even old Mina wouldn’t know me."

"I get it," Bud muttered glumly. "She caught you going out, not in."

"Easy to switch a false for a true, bo. Eck learned the combination as a kid, when Mommy and Daddy still lived together. And he’s got a great memory. Even if he’s dumb as a doorknob—sorry, guess that was disrespectful, hunh?"

"You sick hotshots won’t get away—"

Baxx laughed. "Why, cause I don’t have my board? I’ll tell you ‘
won’t
,’ Bud. You genius boys won’t be able to stop Ole Gar Baxx, hacker, conniver, techno-fiend, stocked with juicy energy. Strategist, too—my messin’ with your car was almost enough to get you folks to agree with Agent Dibs’ smart recommendation to leave you behind."

"So you wouldn’t have to worry about me recognizing you—yeah."

"But Tom couldn’t go on without his chum. Ohhh no. So I had t’ go offbase and hide my charming face for a few days.

"Well, time to point a gun at a young inventor. Get that box opened up so’s Dad and I can make tracks out of the country. Oh Dad, poor Dad—I don’t think he has very long to live. Maybe just long enough to cross the border. Ya think?" Baxx snickered and slammed the door on Bud. He heard the locking mechanism click into place.

The young flyer paced, trying to pump a little Tom Swift into his brain.
There’s a way out of here,
he insisted.
Always a way. I found it in Friendly Village!
But innovation was competing with desperation. Baxx was just as likely to murder Tom as to kill Torr Eckdal when it suited him!

Bud’s gray eyes scanned every corner of the cubicle, but it was almost empty, scarcely used. There were no tools, and the few scientific instruments he saw were delicate and useless against the heavy door. He looked for the intercom—and found an empty space in the wall. The Nevada site was still under construction.

What, what,
what
?

Bud found himself eyeing the door. He looked at the handle, called a crash-bar. When the door was unlocked, slamming the bar down would thrust the door open wide. A convenience for experimenters with full arms...

But also...

Isn’t it more than that?
Bud mused.
Doesn’t the law require installing things like this? Safety code? So you can get out quick if there’s a fire or something? As a matter of fact...

He didn’t dare hope. It was too fantastic. With a gulp he pushed down on the bar.

The lab door swung open!

"Good night!" he chortled. "You’re a mastermind, Gar—except you didn’t even think that the lock is only to keep people out,
not in!
"

Bud didn’t look for intercoms or security personnel, didn’t raise an alarm. His only thought was to reach Tom’s side and somehow protect him.

He burst into the time cave, wide eyes scanning for his friend. Tom knelt on the chronolens just across the gap from the control console, carefully examining the surface. And back near the center of the chronolens, almost beneath the dyna-4 capsule, was a distant figure in suit and tie—who froze as he saw Bud Barclay.

"Tom!" Bud cried frantically. "Behind you!
He’s got a gun!
"

--a gun that Baxx had snapped into position, aiming at Tom with a deadly, furious grin. Bud knew without seeing that he had murder in his eyes, knew without thinking that Garton Baxx would kill anyone who challenged his great ego, kill impulsively as he had killed Reb, whatever the effect on the plan to open the box. Striking out, striking
back
—that was all that mattered.

Tom rose to his feet, looking at his pal with a bland quizzical smile.

And the gun flashed.

THE FLASH from the muzzle reached Bud Barclay’s eyes, but the report did not. Even as Baxx had squeezed the trigger, Bud had thrown himself at the control console and thrown the actuator switch.

Time halted in the chronolens field.

Bud’s heart felt ready to thud its way right through the walls of his chest. Inside the weird time shadow, Tom stood immobile, expression innocent and unchanged. Far distant, time had also captured Garton Baxx’s expression—snarling rage, gleeful contempt, superiority engraved on his weaselly face as he stood poised like a statue.

Bud loped around the perimeter of the time-transformer, next to the encircling gap. He found the point closest to Baxx—and saw more than he had seen at first.

The presets on the control console only
slowed
time. Things were not frozen in eternity, not completely. The milliseconds were oozing forward—and so was the bullet from Baxx’s gun!

The tiny speck was already yards from the muzzle, creeping in a straight and deadly line that ended, Bud could tell, at the back of Tom’s head.

"
Good grief!
" the youth gasped. "How do you
unfire
a gun? How do you stop a bullet that’s
already on its way?
"

He knew that switching off the field would bring Tom death in an instant. Yet with the field active, Bud could only watch utterly helpless as the bullet drifted sedately toward its unknowing target. Bud would watch Tom die with aching, horrifying slowness, crimson stretching out in streamers like growing vines, a probably fatal wounding spread over minutes like the death scene in a bad play.

Could he somehow enter the field and yank Tom aside? But as he crossed the gap on the gang-bridge, extending a screwdriver handle, he saw that it was an impossible task. The time barrier was like an invisible wall of diamond. Nothing could enter the region of braked time. Nothing could push Tom out of the line of fire, or bat the bullet aside.

And then, as Bud stared at the creep of the bullet, he remembered Tom’s words. Slow and weak things, mere human muscle and flesh, could not enter. But
something
could.

"
Chow! Chow Winkler!
" he shouted into the wall intercom. "
Jetz! Answer me, Chow!
"

The blustery answer came. "Aw, brand my griddle, what’s s’ all-fired impor—"

"Listen, just
listen
! Do you have your gun with you?"

"Wa-aal sure, I got ole Mouthy strapped to—"

"Loaded?"

"Hunh? It’d jest take a sec to—"

"Chow, come running to the big chamber with Mouthy all loaded and ready! Tom needs you!
You’re the only one who can save his life!
"

"Wha—wha—"

"
Hurry, cowpoke!
Don’t say anything to the security guys—don’t know who to trust right now."

Chow Winkler could shift his bulk into overdrive when he wanted to—and he wanted to! It seemed only seconds when he gallumphed into the chamber with gun drawn, face red and white and panting. "O-okay, okay, here I am!" He glanced at Bud, then at Tom. "So what’s th’ matter, boss? This a joke er—"

Bud ran over and yanked the westerner to a precise spot along the perimeter. He babbled some sort of simple explanation, and Chow’s eyes bulged even further. "S-so—Buddy Boy—that there bullet’s gonna hit Tom—less’n—"

"You can do it, pardner," Bud exclaimed. "Only you. Put steel in those Texas nerves and aim true—for Tom Swift!"

Something went out of Chow Winkler, and something went in. Trembling and protest fell away. His blue eyes took on fire—but a cold fire. He studied the situation, read the angles, calculated almost by instinct. He raised Mouthy straight-arm.
Bang
!

And now his bullet was at the very edge of the time field, past the barrier, drifting inward—on an intercept course with Garton Baxx’s bullet. Chow’s mission was to shoot down a bullet already in flight!

Baxx’s bullet was now more than halfway across the chronolens interval, halfway to its target. Chow’s bullet was plugging along just as slowly. But Chow had an advantage. Positioned as he was, the distance from muzzle to strike was only a couple score feet. He was cutting across at right-angles to the deadly path, aiming at a spot now empty which would accommodate
two
bullets in a matter of minutes!

"Naw," muttered Chow, "naw. Gonna miss by two fingers. Try ’er again." He strode a few feet further toward the control console, aimed, considered, and fired.

The two waited, Bud white and frantic, Chow calm as a cool branding iron. "Chow, it’s gonna cross too early—" sputtered Bud.

"Nope. Jest right. See it plain."

Baxx’s bullet was about five feet from Tom’s head when it encountered Chow’s anti-bullet bullet. They drew together shyly—and met. Then Chow’s bullet was on a new upward course, and Baxx’s was tumbling away.

The two watched in awe for several long moments. "Pardner," Bud gasped, "you—y-you—"

"Course I did. Texas honor! Couldn’t let that slick young idjit put ole Mouthy in th’ shade."

Now Bud went to the control console, and Chow assumed a new position closer to Garton Baxx. Bud switched off the time-transformer. And now he heard, at last, the bang of the enemy gun.

Too Baxx it seemed as if his gun had exploded upon firing. It leapt from his hand, whirling away. "An’ I kin shoot you down jest as easy as I took care o’ your gun," came a gravelly voice. "Best walk nice ’n slow over to Bud. But yew stay right clear o’ Tom Swift!"