Tom Swift and His Flying Lab (18 page)

"Down we go!" he chortled into the intercom. Even from the lower deck, he imagined he could hear the cheers echoing from above!

Returning to the command deck, Tom supervised the descent of the Flying Lab by means of its jet lifters. He also slowly redirected the searchlight beam. The military men moved along with it, showing no inclination to defy "Robur" by leaving the spotlight.

"Getting close now, Tom," Bud called out.

"Altitude?"

"Thirteen hundred," answered Rip Hulse. "Won’t the heat from the lifters barbecue pretty near everyone below?"

"Not if Señor Zavoga reminds everyone to stand well back," said Tom. "And repeat it in English, too."

A half-minute later Bud announced that the
Sky Queen
was now hovering one hundred feet above the village square. "Everyone’s moved to the side," he added. "Looks like they’re behaving themselves."

Although his ankles were still tied, Zavoga rose to his feet. "Do not trust Santorez and his men! Though for the moment they are unsure, soon enough they will decide to reach for their guns."

Tom nodded—he had arrived at the same conclusion. He had Rip slowly turn the stratoship so that the main boarding hatch would be next to the liberated prisoners, and the ship itself would stand between the prisoners and the mass of onlookers.

"Take her down, Rip," Tom directed. In a moment they all heard the thump of the extended landing gear contacting the bricks below.

Now time was of the essence. Tom threw open the wide hatchway and, standing in the light of the streetlamps of Alta Bapcho, motioned for the prisoners to run forward to the boarding ladder.

Suddenly Tom heard the alarmed voice of Bud Barclay over the open intercom speaker. "Tom! Hurry! They’re grabbing their rifles!" Prodded by their leader, the soldiers had decided to risk a confrontation with their mysterious conqueror!

"Run!" Tom cried. But he saw that several of the prisoners were weak and ill, and some could only limp along with assistance.

A rifle crack sounded, followed by a volley. Chips of cobblestone flew up from below. One slashed across Tom’s cheek, drawing blood.

Could Tom and the captives get aboard the Flying Lab before being mowed down by their enemies?

As if in response to his thought, the
Sky Queen’s
jet lifters gave forth a full-throated roar. The whole craft shuddered, and Tom heard yells of panic and pain from the space beneath the hull. The shooting ceased.

Rip’s giving ’em a hotfoot with the jet lifters!
thought the young inventor with relief. A short, weak burst would not be likely to harm anyone, but would be more than slightly intimidating.

The freed prisoners now made it up the ladder, the more able-bodied helping those who were faltering. Damon Swift was last of all. Passing Tom he said nothing audible, but gave his son a look of pride and gratitude.

Slamming the hatch behind him, Tom yelled. "Hit it!" The Flying Lab roared toward the upper air like a skyrocket, smoothly shifting to horizontal flight after clearing the tops of the mountains.

The former captives had been assembled in the lounge on the upper deck, where there were comfortable chairs and sofas. Sterling and Hanson began to examine them and provide first aid, while Tom drew his father to a corner of the lounge. They exchanged their tales in brief, rapid bursts.

Mr. Swift and three representatives of the Department of State had been flown directly to Cristobal via high-speed jet. But the entire diplomatic mission, which purportedly involved discussing grades of uranium ore with the Montaguayan government and the Verano rebels, proved to be a hoax. The four had been transferred at gunpoint to a helicopter, which had taken them to Alta Bapcho and their patioed prison.

"We weren’t poorly treated," Mr. Swift declared. "The ones in bad shape are all from the Roberts expedition, which was shot down by missile. They’ve been here for weeks now. They told me of a man from the government who came now and then, but no one mentioned his name. I never dreamed it was Rigoledo!"

Mr. Swift was shocked and dismayed to learn of the theft of the space projectile just as he and Tom were so close to cracking the mathematical code.

"Which reminds me, I ought to radio Harlan and let him know the status of things here in Montaguaya," said Tom. First, though, he introduced himself to Barry Roberts, the geologist son of the Swift Enterprises employee.

"There were times when I gave up hope," said Roberts, his voice husky. "I hate to think what my wife and parents went through!"

"You can call them from the cockpit down below," Tom offered. "We have a very good long distance plan, Barry—we’ll send you the bill after we get back!" he added jokingly.

After setting course for Bogota, where the former prisoners were to be transferred to a hospital for treatment prior to their return home, Tom raised Harlan Ames on the communications system and briefed him on the rescue of his father and the others. "And how about the gang stateside?" Tom inquired. "Any sign of that guy Doss?"

"Some amazing developments have occurred within the last hour, Tom," Ames replied. "For one thing, Vernon Doss and two associates turned themselves in to the State Police!"

Tom was astounded. "They must have got word from Montaguaya that the plan was falling apart."

"No," Ames said. "It was because—well, you might say the space missile is no longer missing!"

"What do you mean?"

"It was discovered sitting neat as you please in the crater where it came down the first time.
Just sitting there!
The Enterprises employees who found it assumed it was just something we were testing, so the big secret is still safe. The arresting officers told me Doss has been babbling about how the object took off on its own without warning—and took off most of the roof of his hideout at the same time! The gang was so frightened by the experience they decided they needed official protection."

Tom shook his head wonderingly. "All this time I’ve been assuming the projectile was just some inert device designed to carry those symbols to Earth. But maybe our space friends are actually using it to monitor us."

"Yes," agreed the Security Chief, "or maybe it has some kind of electronic super-brain aboard that takes care of it automatically. And that’s not all that’s happened. Brenner just called to tell me Dr. Tennyson is in custody. He was arrested at the Baltimore airport trying to flee the country under an alias."

"What about that scientist-for-rent, Dr. Leeskol?"

"Not a trace. But we do know a little more about his background. He’s worked with a number of militant and terrorist factions in the former iron curtain countries for at least ten years. His current employer—and the source of that jet—is thought to be the Democratic Workers Republic of Kranjovia! Of course they deny everything."

Tom chuckled. "I’ll bet!" But suddenly he turned serious. "Harlan, I don’t know who we can trust in Cristobal, but we have to arrange to free Chow."

"That won’t be as difficult now as it might have been an hour ago," responded Ames. "News sources are reporting that, in effect, half the Montaguayan government has placed the other half under arrest! President Fernans just addressed the nation on TV, saying that a dastardly plot has been uncovered, blah blah blah. Deputy Minister Rigoledo is under house arrest, as are several prominent citizens—members of that so-called Cabal, I’d wager. And you’ll be interested in this. The President has pledged to begin negotiations with the Verano rebels without preconditions, under the auspices of the United Nations!"

"That’s fantastic news, Harlan," was Tom’s excited response. They spoke a few more minutes, and then Tom turned the microphone over to his father.

Tomas Zavoga, ankles still bound, had been sitting within earshot of the speaker. "So what do you think of this?" Tom asked him.

The rebel looked up at Tom with his usual somber, hangdog expression. "What do I think, young Tomas? I think revolutions come and go in Montaguaya. I think factions break with factions, friends turn against friends, and to put much trust in our feeble
Presidente
is to be an
idiote!"

"That may be true," said the young inventor thoughtfully. "Yet it is also true that more will be at stake now than ever before."

"And why is that?"

Tom hesitated, then decided to reveal what he knew. "We have barely begun using my new device to detect radioactive ore, but already there have been some incredible results. There is uranium, yes, though on the whole not as much as you might have expected. But the readings show something else that science cannot explain—higher elements that cannot exist in nature, elements that we have only brought into existence for
billionths
of a second in particle accelerators! The next revolution in Verano and Montaguaya may be a
scientific
one!"

"I see, I see." Zavoga’s eyes took on a distant look. "Valuable new elements, scientific mysteries—something to bargain with! Perhaps we shall prevail after all. That is, with firm and clever leadership."

Tom knew what the
Veranista
was thinking, but said nothing.

"I wonder," said Zavoga, "if I might have the privilege you
Norte-Americanos
give to those you arrest—that is to say, one phone call?"

Cautiously agreeing, Tom frisked his captive and then cut loose his ankles, asking Bud and Rip to help him keep an eye on the man. "And listen to what he says on the phone," Tom whispered to Rip.

Zavoga punched in the numbers on the keypad. As he did so, he spoke to Tom. "And Tomas, one question…"

"What?"

"The red light on the control panel—not depleted power?"

"No."

"What, then?"

With a mischievous smile, Tom leaned close and answered softly. "It means the control panel clock is on Daylight Savings Time."

Zavoga nodded and, to Tom’s surprise, gave an ironic wink. Then he spoke rapidly in Spanish into the phone. He evidently had to repeat part of his message in a commanding tone.

"What’s he saying?" Tom quietly asked Rip Hulse.

"He’s talking to someone named Jorge. He told him to take Mr. Winkler back to the Palacio del Colon, check him into the best suite in the hotel, and tell him to wait there for you!"

Tom shot a glance at Zavoga, who was looking at him with raised eyebrows. "In our country," said Zavoga, "when one does a courtesy for another, it is incumbent on the other to do something in return. I unlocked the trap door, you overthrew the government. Very good. Now, I release your friend. And you?"

Tom reached out to take the receiver, wishing to speak to Chow. As Zavoga handed it to him, Tom said, "We’re not policemen, and the government that hired us no longer exists anyway. At the hospital, I suppose anyone we bring in could just check himself out and head—elsewhere."

Zavoga nodded with great dignity.
"Gracias,
Tomas,
mi amigo.
Oh, by the way, just a small matter …" He reached deep within his pants pocket and brought forth—his gun! "Do not be ashamed, it takes years to learn to frisk properly."

He handed the gun, muzzle down, to Rip Hulse.

Tom repeated
"Chow Winkler, Chow Winkler"
on the phone several times before the man Jorge set down the receiver to get him.

Bud approached Tom and touched his best friend on the arm. "Where next, genius boy? I think your Flying Lab could take us nonstop to Mars if you’ll just give the word!"

"Nope," replied Tom, grinning. "I think I want to do a little traveling in the opposite direction!" In his mind he was envisioning the new deep-submergence mini-submarine already under construction at Swift Enterprises, an adventure to be related in
Tom Swift and His Jetmarine
.

Chow finally came on the line. "Say, boss, is it true what Jorge said, about me bein’ cut loose an’ all?"

"It’s true, Chow."

"Waa-al, I don’t s’pose you could postpone it an hour or so, hmm?"

"But why?" Tom asked in surprise.

"It’s jest that I’m in the middle o’ watchin’ some TV on one o’ them big-screeners, besides which—that big mattress that shimmies up an’ down sure does feel good on this ole back o’ mine. So the fact is, I’d rather not be set free jest yet!"