Tom Swift and His Flying Lab (2 page)

"Thank you, young Mr. Swift," she responded blithely. As the two took to their heels, she added to herself, "It’s a
‘date’!"

In moments Bud’s sleek convertible was arrowing down Commerce Avenue toward the grounds of Swift Enterprises. Although knots of people were standing and talking here and there, puzzled and alarmed, there was no sign of serious damage, and no emergency vehicles were in use.

"Well, the stoplights are all in working order," murmured Bud as he ignored one, swerving around a stopped pickup. "I guess that’s a good sign."

Taking the private Swift-family drive from the main road, Bud pulled up to the perimeter fence of Enterprises, slowing only slightly as the gate sensed the transponder in his car and slid open. Parking in Bud’s reserved space, the boys leapt out and quickly made their way to the nearest "ridewalk"—the system of flexible moving ramps that criss-crossed the facility. Stepping over to a second ridewalk that curved elegantly around the main administration building, spiralling up to third-story level, they were in Harlan Ames’s large office in less than a minute. Tom was pleased to find his father and several others already present.

"Dad!" Tom exclaimed. "Do we know what’s going on yet?"

"Tom, Bud." The elder scientist nodded at his son and his son’s best friend. "What we do know is good—there were no injuries reported, and no obvious damage to any structures. Beyond that…"

Ames gestured at a large, flat screen mounted on the wall. "Take a look. We’re getting a feed from the airfield security cams, which are mounted high enough to give us a good angle."

Tom stroked his chin thoughtfully, frowning. The monitor showed a deep elongated scar in the earth, beginning just beyond the edge of the runway tarmac. Though a smoky haze obscured the view somewhat, the fissure appeared to broaden-out over a distance of several hundred feet, ending in a craterlike gash.

"Man!" Bud burst out. "Now I really know what they mean when they say something
plowed into the ground.
You could plant a firehouse in that hole!"

"Can you see anything of the missile?" asked Tom, his eyes glued to the screen. In response Ames upped the magnification and zoomed in on a small section of the crater wall.

A round tunnel-like opening showed black against the charred dirt and debris!

"The missile—or meteor—was white-hot with friction when it sheared into the ground," explained Mr. Swift. "It not only forced the earth aside by its trajectory but turned the soil partially molten. The object slowed but continued forward right into the compressed solid ground, creating its own ‘lava’ tunnel, which is now cooling and hardening. We’ll have to wait for the cooling process to finish before we can enter the tube and retrieve the object."

Tom cast an impatient look at his father. "RobiTec could go in there right now."

Damon Swift chuckled and nodded his agreement. "I didn’t think you’d care to wait, Tom. Yes, Harlan and I have already agreed to ‘turn the dogs loose’ on our mysterious visitor."

"RobiTec" was the nickname Tom had bestowed on a remote-controlled robot-mobile Swift Enterprises had developed from his concepts and sketches. The compact, agile machine was designed to assist the police or military in examining and containing explosive devices, and could withstand devastating blasts.

"It’ll take about an hour to get RobiTec up and running," declared a technician after a brief televoc conversation with his department. "We don’t want him going on the blink somewhere inside that crater."

"Then we’ll have time to visit the
Sky Queen."
Tom motioned to Bud to join him. "I want to make sure the hangar wasn’t compromised by that shockwave."

Harlan Ames held up a hand, signaling Tom to wait. "Hold it a sec, Tom. I’m getting a message from the employee gate—someone is trying to get in without proper ID, and he’s demanding to speak to you!"

A smile slowly broke out on Tom’s face, which spread, in a glance, to Bud. "Oh? Well, I think we can spare a moment to drop by."

Long before the ridewalk carried them within sight of the gate for employees, Tom and Bud could hear a booming foghorn voice rebounding from the nearby buildings—a voice with a very pronounced Texas drawl.

"Brand my fuselage! Looks like I jest got home in time—in time fer every dang thing to get turned six ways from Sunday! You let me in there, young feller, an’
mebbe
I’ll fergit t’tell the boss you kept Chow Winkler from his kitchenly duties!"

As the boys came into view, Chow’s face lit up in a big malicious grin, and he waved at them jauntily. "Sorry, pard, too late," he said to the youthful uniformed guard blocking his way. "Might as well stick a iron skillet on yer backside an’ head fer the woodshed."

"Mr. Swift, do you know this man?" cried the security guard, red in the face. "He says he doesn’t need an amulet, won’t take one, called me a lowdown—"

Tom tried to look sympathetic, but could barely suppress a laugh. "Yes, I…
think
I grasp the concept, Mitch. You’re new here and Chow’s been on vacation. He’s a good friend and a trusted employee."

Chow beamed, adding:
"And
the best durn cook east of the Pecos’n west of the sun!"

Chow, whose real name was Charles, had been a chuck-wagon cook, employed for many years by a ranch in New Mexico. He had become acquainted with Tom and his father while they were building Enterprises’ atomic research station, the Citadel, located in an isolated spot in the southwestern desert to which Chow’s ranch was a near neighbor. It had not been long before Tom had become fast friends with the colorful roly-poly westerner, and when the Swifts returned to Shopton in upstate New York, Chow had attached himself to the party. He was now employed as private chef for Tom and Mr. Swift, not only at the plant but when off on their frequent travels around the globe.

"Say, this here feller at the gate tried t’put this li’l ole good-luck charm on my arm—an electric armpit!"

"You mean one of our electronic amulets." Tom laughed. "Without that little bracelet, Chow, you’d have our ground-hugging radarscopes working overtime."

"How come?" Chow asked, eyeing the bracelet.

"It sounds complicated, but it’s really simple," Tom explained. "That little bracelet ‘traps’—cancels out—radar impulses and keeps them off our scopes. We not only have the big radar dish on top of the main building for everyone to see, but another one set up in the new underground hangar where we’re building the Flying Lab. So," Tom went on, as Chow looked a little perplexed, "anyone who doesn’t wear an amulet causes a little dot of light to show up on one scope or the other. That’s how we can tell if we have an unwanted visitor."

As Tom concluded, he shot a glance at Bud that seemed to say:
Of course, the system has already failed to warn us of a very important intruder.

"Well, your ole radar kin have the day off, far as I’m concerned," Chow chuckled. "Guess I’ll get useta havin’ a piece o’ jewelry on my arm—leastwise as long as it don’t get in the way when I’m flippin’ flapjacks."

"That shirt of yours might set off alarms all by itself!" Bud exclaimed, jokingly covering his eyes. "Tom, I don’t think
anything
could cancel out
those
radiations!" Chow’s taste for wildly colored shirts in the southwestern style was notorious throughout Swift Enterprises, where he was regarded with affection as the Swift "mascot." This particular shirt, which somehow managed to combine lime-green with a fiery orange, was his most vivid yet.

"Picked up this li’l number in Fort Worth," Chow said with evident pride. "One of a kind!— in this size."

The three began ride-walking toward the underground hangar. Chow’s weathered face turned grave when Tom told of the mysterious missile attack upon Swift Enterprises. "Dang sidewinders!" muttered the old cook. Then his face brightened. "But say, boss, if’n you’re gonna take a look at the
Sky Queen,
how’s about me dogeyin’ along? When I left t’go, she was purty much jest a skeleton."

"Sure," agreed Tom. "Besides, I want you to give the galley the onceover."

The three transferred to another moving walkway which smoothly slanted downward into a broad underground corridor. They hopped off in front of a closed sliding panel. The next moment Chow’s jaw dropped as the panel opened for Tom and the whole of the vast underground hangar came into view. Under a battery of high-intensity worklights, a majestic silver-skinned craft gleamed and beckoned—Tom’s amazing Flying Lab!

"Wait until you see her insides, Chow," said Bud, bubbling with obvious excitement. "This baby not only has the kitchen sink, but the whole kitchen!"

The enthusiasm was infectious, and Tom grinned broadly in spite of himself. "I like to think our three-decker has everything, including—"

"Three-decker? You mean this here
Sky Queen
has three floors?" Chow leaned so far back to look up at the big ship that he almost fell over on his balding head.

"That’s right," Tom answered. "Come on. I’ll show you around."

Weaving through a crew of technicians busily at work on the Flying Lab’s outer hull, Tom climbed a ladder through a utility hatch on the underside, Chow and Bud following.

"This first level is partly for storage," Tom explained as they stood inside. "We’ll keep spare equipment, experimental supplies, and luggage down here. But look back there—see those sliding doors? Behind the doors is our flying hangar. We’re going to carry two baby aircraft—a micro-sized jet plane we call the
Kangaroo Kub
and a jet-assisted helicopter, the
Skeeter."

"That name’s in your honor, Chow," commented Bud. "Last summer you had a few words to say about the ‘skeeters’ swarming around Shopton."

"Uh-huh." Chow’s eyes widened as he took in the sleek modern curves of the ship’s interior, which projected a feeling of luxury and open space. "Y’know, this ain’t
nothin’
like one o’ them cramp-sided air buggies I took back to San Antone." Then he added, "Where’s the galley? We got to eat!"

"We’ll come to it."

Next, they went up a flight of narrow, steel-ribbed stairs and into the largest sector of the ship’s interior. Forward was the control deck containing the pilot’s and copilot’s seats. The seats faced a wide, multi-layered plexiglass viewport, tinted against the blinding sunlight of high-altitude travel. The viewport curled around the corners of the fuselage to the right and the left, providing a degree of sideview, and at the middle between the seats it dipped downward to the floor in order to give the crew a view downward.

Every bit of wall space was covered with dials, switches, and gadgets. Chow rubbed his eyes. "Say, you’ll need a crew the size of a trail-drive to push an’ pull all those buttons an’ levers."

Tom smiled. "Chow, this is so simply arranged and computer-assisted that the
Sky Queen
could almost fly itself."

The cook, utterly amazed, shook his head.

"Since this here’s a flyin’ lab, where’s the lab part?"

"Mid-fuselage. It’s partitioned off from the rest of the ship and is a soundproof, air-conditioned room, or series of rooms. One’s my physics lab, another’s for chemistry. Then there’s a place for experiments with animals—"

"Hold on!" Chow begged. "We goin’ to carry a zoo along?"

Tom and Bud laughed. "Just wait!" said Bud.

Tom slid back the door and switched on a light. The large room, still under construction, was partitioned off into cubicles with walls shoulder high. Chow gazed in awe at the physics division with its six-foot electron microscope and x-ray, ultraviolet, and infrared absorption apparatus.

He shook his head. "Mighty fine," he said, "but it’s beyond me. I’ll stick to my galley. Where is it?"

Tom chuckled at the cook’s impatience as he led the way up to the third deck. Forward was a comfortable windowed lounge, complete with easy chairs, sofas, and a small library of scientific books and magazines. Back of this were the sleeping quarters, and in the rear was the galley. Chow surveyed the layout of modern equipment in pleased astonishment.

"Wa-aal, brand my skillet!" he said. "Will I cook up some fancy dishes up there in the stratter-sphere!"

He was about to inspect his new domain when the ship intercom crackled on an override-link to the exterior. "Tom! Tom! Come to the hangar security office! Quick!" The anxious voice belonged to Tom’s father!

TOM RACED down the stairways and ladder and across the concrete floor to the hangar office where his father stood with his hand on the monitor console for the secondary radar-scope.

"What’s up, Dad?" Tom cried as Bud came clattering up behind him.

"Our security radar equipment—it’s been disabled!" Mr. Swift exclaimed. "And look at the backup printout. An intruder was registered at 4:19 this morning!"

Bud whistled. "Hours ago!"

"Someone without an amulet broke in
here?"
Tom cried incredulously.

Mr. Swift’s face was stern. "Yes. And according to the time imprint, someone who was looking around for five minutes before he cut the radar apparatus. We didn’t know the system was out until just now, when I double-checked it to see if I could discover why the projectile hadn’t been detected. No telling how long he was here after that, nor what it was he wanted."

"He’s not hiding aboard the Flying Lab," Tom remarked. "We’ve just been through the parts an outsider could get into. Say, it’s funny no one reported a dot on the other radarscope, the main one. Maybe the intruder’s still around!"

Mr. Swift immediately contacted Harlan Ames on his televoc to initiate a plantwide search and have the security alert announced to all the employees.

"I think he’ll have a harder time getting out than he did getting in," remarked Mr. Swift after breaking contact with Ames.

Bud Barclay suddenly let out a cry. "Tom, we left the
Skeeter
on the test helipad beyond the runways!"

Tom groaned. "The ground crew wouldn’t have hangared it yet." Tom and Bud had taken the craft on a short test flight just before noon, prior to the lecture in town. "If that guy can fly, he may try to get away in it! I’ve got to—"