Tom Swift and His Flying Lab (5 page)

"But do they really have the technology to do anything with it?" Tom felt the visitor’s story was somehow incomplete.

"They would sell it to a power hostile to the United States—and to Montaguaya as well. This we must prevent."

"These rebels—they must be more than ordinary guerillas," Mr. Swift remarked.

"I shall say only that they are cruel, ruthless men, as were their ancestors five centuries ago," Señor Rigoledo went on, passionately. "Hemispak sent an expedition of scientists to survey the border from the air, with instruments for the detection of uranium. But we fear they have met with foul play from the rebels. It has been two weeks since we have heard from them by radio."

Tom sat bolt upright, exchanging alarmed glances with his father. "That’s probably the same expedition Barry is with!" he cried.

"What? You are acquainted with Barry Roberts?" Rigoledo asked in surprise. "He is one of Hemispak’s finest scientists."

After Mr. Swift explained how they knew him, Señor Rigoledo said, "Ah me, then this is indeed bad news. Do not mention my worries to the father and mother if you please, as all is uncertain for now."

Mr. Swift agreed, a frown creasing his forehead. Rigoledo continued, "They are good men, our scientific party, and it is at least very strange that we have had no word from them in so long a time. At this moment, as we speak here, those rebels may be forcing Roberts and the others to locate the uranium for them!"

"But you don’t think the scientists will do it?" Tom said.

Señor Rigoledo waved his hands in a gesture of despair. "How long can they hold out? A man has his limits." He leaned forward in his chair. "It all leads up to a very important question which I am about to ask you, on behalf of my government and Hemispak.

"Will you and your father help us thwart these dangerous rebels?"

TOM’S EYES gleamed with eagerness as he waited a moment for his father’s reply to the South American’s question. This could be a high adventure!

"But how can we help you and your country, Señor Rigoledo?" Tom could sense that his father was moved, yet uncertain. "We’re not diplomats. These are matters for governments to resolve."

Rigoledo nodded his understanding. "Indeed so. And as you understand from my documents of introduction, I myself have held many positions in the government of Montaguaya. Sometimes, you see, governments must be willing to operate outside the usual channels."

"Yes," said the elder Swift brusquely, "and outside the public eye. It seems we could help you locate the rebels and their captives—and watch your army come in with guns blazing, wiping out everyone!"

Rigoledo’s face flushed. He rose from his chair and regarded Damon Swift coldly. "I can see you know little about the history of the Montaguaya situation. My government is one of South America’s oldest democracies. Year after year we have been attacked, our citizens killed—yet we show restraint. We conduct ourselves with honor!"

He removed from his coat pocket two small white cards and slapped them down on the desk. "My residence in America. I shall be here for five days. The other card is the private office number of Dr. Harold Tennyson, a trusted senior official in your State Department. He will vouch for me. If his word is not enough for you—there is nothing more to say."

"Please, Señor Rigoledo," said Mr. Swift in a calming tone of voice. "Allow me to withdraw my ill-chosen words. Your request is obviously made with great sincerity. And it seems we are already involved."

Rigoledo smiled so readily that Tom wondered if his indignation had been more act than reality. "We need the help of you Swifts and your wonderful inventions," continued Señor Rigoledo as he pressed his case, "both to locate our missing scientists and to investigate the presence of uranium deposits."

"I’d like to do it!" Tom exclaimed, no longer able to hold back. "It would be the perfect field test for the Flying Lab!"

Mr. Swift, still cautious, asked whether the Montaguayan government had tried to find the scientists.

"Yes, but we have not succeeded," the South American replied. "We believe the involvement of Americans would give pause to the rebels, if you see. After all, our children learn about the first Tom Swift in their schools!"

Tom was more eager than ever to go. He wanted go rescue Barry Roberts before the man might he tortured into working for the rebels!

"You’ve made an eloquent case," Mr. Swift said. "We’ll give you a formal answer before your departure. But you should know that the new aircraft and its instruments will not be ready for another two weeks or so. In that time a lot can happen in Verano."

"Es verdad!
It is true!" their caller agreed. "I will keep you informed, of course. But I am sure our scientists will not give in to the rebels and help them find the uranium before then. They will hold out as long as they can."

"You mean, they won’t give in until they’re forced to," said Tom.

Rigoledo nodded. "I shudder to think of those five scientists being tortured into helping the enemy. And now, I should take my leave of you."

As they shook hands all around, Tom said, "Whatever we decide for the moment, I know the
Sky Queen
will someday pay a visit to your country and help your people safely develop their resources."

"Ah, the enthusiasm of youth!" Rigoledo beamed.
"Magnifico!
And now, if I may humble myself, there is perhaps just one thing more. Before I go, I should like to see this Flying Lab you praise like the angels!"

Mr. Swift glanced at Tom, as if to say,
It’s up to you.
Tom felt that the Flying Lab was not ready to be exhibited. However, because of Rigoledo’s governmental position and the scientific renown of Hemispak, the young inventor decided to give him a preview of the giant skyship.

In the hangar Rigoledo’s reaction was both amazing and amusing. After his first voluble praise, he seemed at a loss for words. But finally he murmured: "It is
esplendido!
But now I must leave."

As the Swifts walked to the main gate with him, he remarked, "Ah, I see over there the big hole from the meteor. We read about it even in Cristobal, our capital city. You know," Rigoledo added, "even scientists can be great gossips."

"What do you mean?" asked Tom.

"A silly rumor," the man replied, pausing inside the gate. "Somehow it goes around that this was not a meteor at all, but something mysterious—a machine! Bah! But it is amusing."

Tom and his father were thunderstruck! But they took care not to react until their visitor was out of sight.

"How could the news have gotten out?" Tom shook his head in frustrated disbelief.

"People always speculate," his father replied. "It may be no more than that. Or it may be that one of the employees who was nearby while RobiTec was ‘sniffing’ couldn’t resist dropping hints here and there, despite our instructions."

"I suppose there’s no use fretting about it," Tom said. "Besides, I’ll bet we crack the space code before we take off, and then we can release the data to the world."

Tom gave his father a sly look, and Mr. Swift chuckled. They both knew that the decision had been made. Barring some unforeseen development, the
Sky Queen
would soon be heading south into adventure—and danger!

Realizing that all aspects of work would have to be sped up, the two went their separate ways to their individual projects. As Tom neared the underground hangar, he met Chow.

"Jumping sunspots!" Tom exclaimed as the good-natured cook approached, wearing a purple and orange plaid shirt.

"You like it, eh?" Chow asked.

"It’s enough to start a stampede."

"Well, I dunno, boss. Steers cain’t see color, kin they?" Chow replied, scratching his almost-bald head.

During the next two days, father and son applied themselves rigorously to a demanding and accelerated schedule of work. After a conference call between Harlan Ames and Mr. Swift at one end and Harold Tennyson in Washington D.C. at the other, Señor Rigoledo was informed that the project for the Montaguaya government was "go."

"On behalf of my country, my people, and the Hemispak organization, I humbly thank you," he said. "I shall depart for Cristobal at once."

The next morning at breakfast Mr. Swift said he was eager to start for his office to work with Tom and the Enterprises electronics team on the new super-Geiger counter. He asked Tom if he was ready to go.

"I promised Uncle Jake," Tom replied, "that I’d give the Pigeon Special a good workout this morning. He’s about ready to announce the new commuter plane to the public and wants me to see whether I can set it down in somebody’s driveway. I don’t really have the time, but it shouldn’t take long."

Bud Barclay had breakfasted with the Swifts, as he often did. In most ways, Bud was like a member of the family, and Mr. and Mrs. Swift treated him like their second son. Now Bud spoke up.

"Listen, Tom, you’re needed to help your Dad. I know all about that new miniplane Swift Construction’s come up with. Let me put it through its paces," he urged. "I’ve been ground-bound way too long."

"Oh, Bud, no one loves to fly more than you do," observed Mrs. Swift. "I think you must have been born a mile in the air."

Sandy, who was an excellent pilot, asked if she might fly with Bud, saying that she hoped some day to demonstrate the plane herself to prospective customers.

"Sure. Go along," Tom said. Bud gave him a look of gratitude. "You can take the Pigeon up and do a few stunts. Bud’ll bring her down."

Twenty minutes later Bud and Sandy were within the gates of the old Swift Construction Company. Founded by Barton Swift and his famous son, the large facility was now a testing and development center for Swift consumer products, including aircraft. Jake Aturian, a trusted friend of Mr. Swift, was in charge.

Mechanics rolled out the tiny propeller-driven two-seater, which had stubby wings that curved upward over the top of the fuselage and joined together, forming a flattened hoop. Adapting some unconventional design principles, the Pigeon Special line boasted the ability to take off and land safely in remarkably short and narrow spaces. Ordinary runways would not be required.

Sandy took it up in a long, graceful arc. "You’re doing real well, San," Bud complimented her, after she had skillfully executed a series of S-turns without air-skidding . "Try some simple stunts. But you’d better get more altitude first," he warned her. "Never do acrobatics with a ship too close to the ground!"

Sandy immediately eased back on the stick, and the small plane quickly rose another thousand feet.

"Here goes a loop." Then, mimicking her brother’s voice, she said, "You fly straight and level as you start, then dive a little to pick up speed, and give it some left rudder. As you climb into the loop you add throttle, and at the top of the loop you ease the throttle back."

Bud grinned as the Pigeon whipped up and over in a creditable loop.

"Now you’re ready to try a barrel roll," he said, half teasing.

Sandy puckered her lip, then said, "Budworth, a barrel roll is just a simple turn. Except that you keep the ship turning until it’s upside down and back again. And since I’ll talk myself out of it if I think about it one more second, here
goes!"

"Wait a minute!" Bud ordered. "Pull the stick back until the nose is just above the horizon. Then use—"

But Sandy had pulled the stick back too far, and the Pigeon began to lose flying speedrapidly. As she moved the stick to the right, the plane vibrated, then stalled, and plunged earthward in a buffeting spin. Sandy caught her breath.

"I have it," Bud said quietly. He kicked in the right rudder, snapped the stick forward, and came out of the spin in a long dive with five hundred feet to spare. Then he used the speed of his dive to regain most of the altitude lost.

Sandy let out a sigh of relief. "I think I’ve rolled enough barrels for one day," she said.

"No, girl, that’s not how it works," Bud told her with a smile that looked unrelenting. "Try it again right now, or you’ll be spooked for life. Just don’t pull the nose up so far that you lose all of your flying speed. Now go ahead."

This time the roll was perfectly timed, and Sandy’s confidence was restored.

"I’ll take over now," her friend said. "She performs beautifully, doesn’t she? I wonder just how small a spot I can set the Pigeon down in!"

Using the standard approach pattern to the field, Bud eased in over the countryside. Gently the plane nosed down, until it was only six hundred feet above a small wooded area on one side of the field. It was able to move through the air so slowly and lightly that it almost seemed to be floating on the breeze, like thistledown.

Suddenly there was a terrific impact against the bottom of the fuselage. Something ripped through the floor, whizzed upward between them, and passed through the roof of the cockpit. The Pigeon gave a tremendous lurch.

"Someone’s firing at us!" Bud shouted.

"WE’LL have to crash land, Sandy! Hang on!"

Only the fact that Bud Barclay was an experienced pilot prevented a bad crackup. As it was, he leveled off just in time to pancake to the runway without disaster.

There was a sickening screech as the damaged undercarriage was ripped away, but the ill-fated plane skidded to a stop. Bud and Sandy sat in stunned silence a couple of seconds. Then he said:

"Are you all right, Sandy?"

"I think so. A few aches and pains. But don’t worry, Buddo—I won’t sue you for pilot malpractice." Bud was relieved that Sandy could joke despite the fear in her voice. "How about you?"

"I’m okay."

With shaking fingers Sandy unfastened her safety belt and slipped out of the seat. Bud helped her from the plane, which was listing over on its left wing, and they surveyed the damage.

"It could have been a lot worse," he said thankfully. "If that wasn’t a deliberate attempt to kill us, I’m a bald eagle!"

"But 
why?"
Sandy asked quaveringly. "By the same man who broke in to Enterprises?"