Tom Swift and His Flying Lab (8 page)

"No," Tom replied. "Mr. Geiger has been honored enough, and my machine works in an entirely new way. I’m calling it the Damonscope."

"After your Dad?"

"Nope. After a family friend from way, way back."

Wakefield Damon had been a colorful eccentric living in the town of Waterfield, near Shopton, when the first Tom Swift had been a youth. When his newly purchased motorcycle had tried to "climb a tree," as he put it, Mr. Damon had presented it to Tom, and young Tom’s improvements to its motor constituted his first invention. Tom Swift had shared many adventures with his much older friend during the first part of the twentieth century, and he was remembered and honored even now.

The Damonscope mock-up resembled an enlarged version of the old-fashioned box cameras from days past. It was basically a square black chassis with a tubular lens assembly protruding from the front. Cables from the box led to an instrument readout panel.

"The target is in place in that anti-rad bottle over there," said Linda, pointing to the opposite end of the lab. "Shall I expose it?"

"Go ahead," Tom replied, switching on the Damonscope.

Linda pressed a button on her remote control, and a band encircling the container slowly rotated until an opening came into view. Adjusting the various dials on the instrument panel, Tom concentrated his attention on a small round monitor, which resembled a radarscope screen. In the middle of the monitor was a shadowy black-and-white image of the anti-rad bottle and the rack supporting it. As Tom continued making adjustments, the area surrounding the bottle’s aperture began to show a green halo on the screen.

"There it is!" cried Tom, delighted. "The Damonscope is actually mapping the pattern of radiation onto the viewscreen."

After testing a variety of settings, Tom called his father on the televoc.

"That’s wonderful news, son," said Mr. Swift, "especially coming on the heels of the incident this morning. And I have some news for you, too."

"What is it, Dad?"

"It’s a bit disturbing. The Canadian authorities informed the FBI that a small plane was stolen from a farm up in Newfoundland earlier this morning. The owner caught a glimpse of the thief, and it matches the man who stole the helicopter!"

Tom’s voice grew solemn as thoughts of his new invention momentarily vanished from his mind. "Have they been able to track it?"

"From the few sightings received, it’s heading south by southwest, which puts it on a fairly good course towards Shopton. But Tom, this man must be quite a flier—he’s taking the plane dangerously low, presumably to elude radar."

"It figures," observed the young inventor. "Dad, some of our Enterprises planes are outfitted with that new phase-diffraction radar of yours, which is just the thing for catching a ground-hugger. I want to go up and see what I can see!"

"I won’t try to stop you," said Damon Swift. "But take another experienced pilot with you. Is Bud back yet?"

"No," was Tom’s response. "I’ll take Hank Sterling." Hank Sterling was a young engineer who had become fast friends with Tom and Bud.

"That’s a good choice," Mr. Swift commented, much relieved. "You may need help."

A few minutes later Tom was piloting one of Swift Enterprises’ two-seater propeller-driven planes down the runway.

"I’ll swing her in a big circle, concentrating north and east. Keep a sharp eye on the sky, Hank," Tom directed the blond, square-jawed young engineer. "We’re looking for a Renshaw, kind of an older model."

"I used to fly one," said Sterling. "I’ll recognize it."

They flew for several minutes at full throttle. Then Tom broke the tense silence, gesturing at the radar screen. "Picking up something, very low. Let’s take a look." He banked the plane, heading onto an intercept course. Scanning the horizon ahead of them, Hank said suddenly:

"I see something far ahead."

Tom’s alert eyes shifted from his instrument panel to the sky in front of him as the Swift plane drew closer. It was definitely a Renshaw dead ahead, and they were rapidly gaining on it.

Hank whistled. "Man, that guy’s really clipping the trees. I wouldn’t think it possible to fly so low!"

"Just shows he really
is
a low-down snake," joked Tom.

"Hey, he’s swinging around!" exclaimed Hank.

"He’s probably going to land," Tom murmured, down-throttling, "but I don’t see any airstrip."

A minute later the Renshaw dipped behind a stand of tall pine and was lost to view. Minutes later Tom whirled over the trees just in time to glimpse the plane taxiing into a large shed at the end of a meadow. Behind the shed stood an old farmhouse.

"A private airfield!" Tom exclaimed. "I didn’t know there was one around here."

Circling over the long meadow, which served as a runway, Tom banked to land. Making a short, sharp approach, he put his flaps and wheels down, throttled back, and glided in to a smooth landing.

"There’s no way of concealing ourselves," he told his companion, "so be prepared for anything."

When the plane had been braked to a stop, Hank jumped out, but Tom delayed a moment to radio their discovery to his father. As they were now too distant to use their televoc devices, Tom utilized the plane’s inbuilt radio set.

"I’ll contact the local authorities," said Mr. Swift. "You and Hank get out of there! You’ve done what you came to do."

"Say again, Dad? You’re breaking up…" He switched off the radio unit. "Now Dad and the folks at home know where we are, Hank," Tom said.

"And so your greasy-haired pal and his buddies would be
terribly
foolish to mess around with us, wouldn’t they?" Hank was grinning.

Tom grinned back. "Terribly. So it might just be a perfect time to pay a call on our country neighbors."

"Absolutely," declared Hank, unbuckling his safety harness. "After all, we’re all fellow fliers!"

There was no one in sight as Tom and Hank strode determinedly toward the barnlike shed into which the fugitive’s plane had been rolled and the door closed. Reaching it, Hank tried to swing the big door up and open.

"Locked," he said.

Tom pounded on the panel. "Open up in there!" he commanded. "We know you’re inside!"

"Ah, the brilliant young Swift!" said a cool, calculating voice from around the corner of the shed, as four heavily armed men surroundedthem from behind. "It seems we are not inside after all. What a new experience it must be—to be wrong!"

TOM WAS NOT surprised to see that the man who spoke matched the description of the slick-haired man who had stolen his jetrocopter and frightened Sandy.

"And so we meet at last, eh?" sneered the man.

"Please!" retorted Tom. "We don’t even say
that
on
television
anymore!"

"We are on television?" asked one of the others nervously. His voice was heavily accented.

"Sure," said Hank smoothly. "It’s one of those reality shows. Your mother is watching."

The sneering man nodded, as if in approval. "Yes, bravado in the face of death. That is a  good thing, I think. They say,
you can live any day, but you die once only.
"

He made a gesture, and the four other men, clearly his subordinates, approached Tom and Hank.
"Por favor,
do not resist us," said one of the men. But there was no chance for resistance. The men produced strong-looking cords, intending to tightly bind their captives’ hands behind them.

Suddenly Tom was struck by the realization that he and Hank were still wearing their televoc pins, which would allow their adversaries to perfectly mimic their voices and impersonate them!

His hands raised, Tom said "Sterling!" sharply, as if warning his companion not to resist. Then Tom added, "There’s no need to
pin us down,
guys. You can
lose the pins
anytime." He hoped the Spanish-speaking group would assume
lose the pins
was American slang.

Hank appeared to have understood. He shrugged his shoulders, arms upraised, and Tom saw him nudge the shoulder bearing the communicator pin with his jaw.

"Turn around," ordered the man assigned to Tom. "Put your hands behind you." The young inventor knew that his hands were about to be tied.

"Not too tight, please,
Señor
." As Tom half-turned, lowering his hands, he managed to hook his televoc with his thumbnail and flick it off. A slight sound told him the tiny device had fallen to the dirt below. Guessing its position, he managed to step on it as if losing his balance while turning. The man tying him said nothing, quickly binding his wrists with a number of sturdy loops.

The leader now resumed his train of thought. "But perhaps you will not die after all," the man continued. "For you are rational men, and my
compadres
and I are rational as well."

"Don’t try to make funny business," one of the armed men cautioned.

"Don’t worry, Miguel, they have no chance," another answered. "We have them tied up like chickens on market day, eh?" The men all laughed at this.

"We’ll deliver these hombres to the
capitan,"
said the man called Miguel. "He will be pleased to see them, no?"

"He will be most pleased," agreed the slick-haired leader.

"Where are you taking us?" Tom asked defiantly. The answer was a shove from behind, bringing more laughter. Tom and Hank were prodded along a path to the farmhouse. They were led through a short hall which opened into a large, well-furnished room. A heavyset man with European features reclined in a chair, smoking.

"Our visitors come to meet you," said the man in charge of the patrol, holstering his revolver.

The heavyset man regarded the captives nervously, puffing smoke into the air. "Thank you, Canova."
Well,
thought Tom with grim humor,
at last I know the name of Mr. Oily-Hair!

"I take it you are the
capitan,"
commented Hank.

The man dashed his cigarette into an ashtray and shook his head. "You do me too much honor," he said. "The
capitan
awaits you elsewhere—far away, in fact."

"In Verano, I’ll bet," declared Tom.

"Ah!" said the man, noncommittally. "As for me, there is no reason not to tell you my name. It is Leeskol. Dr. Leeskol, in fact."

"
Not
pleased to make your acquaintance," Tom said. "You’re crazy if you think you can kidnap the two of us and trundle us all the way to South America! Obviously we’ve contacted the authorities before landing our plane."

"Yes—
obviously,"
Leeskol replied. "But you see, there is only one road to this lonely farmhouse of ours, running to the north and the south. To the north, sadly, the old bridge has collapsed, and to the south a tanker truck has just had an unfortunate accident which will block the road for hours. Of course, there are planes and helicopters, but our little airfield is not lighted, you know, and the sun is going down as we speak. There will be several hours, I think, before your ‘authorities’ come to disturb us."

Hank stared steadily at Leeskol, and was rewarded by seeing him twitch. "How did you know Tom and I were out searching for your plane? I gather you made these preparations for our benefit."

"You ask how we know—how do we know anything, Mr. Hank Sterling? We have our ways. When we knew you had spotted Pedro Canova in the Renshaw and seemed preparing to land, it was easy to have our tanker truck driven into position. We would have used it no matter who had discovered us. But I cannot take credit for the bridge. It has been out for two years, I’m told!"

Tom and Hank were herded down a creaky wooden ladder into a musty cellar that seemed as wide as the entire farmhouse. It was lit by a single yellow bulb. There the man called Miguel removed the cords around their wrists. They were ordered to stand at the far end of the room, and after their captors had climbed the ladder again, it was pulled up through the trap door.

"You cannot hope to escape the cellar," Leeskol called down through the trap door. "It is entirely underground on all sides, and the ceiling, of thick wood, is six feet above your heads. But do not be disheartened—you may expect to leave within an hour or two." The door clattered down, and Tom and Hank could hear it being bolted above.

"Well," said Tom in a whisper, "I guess we’ll be meeting the man in charge whether we want to or not."

"As well as free passage to picturesque South America," Hank snorted. "Thanks for signaling me about the televoc pins, by the way."

"I was able to drop mine to the ground."

"That sounds like an improvement on how I got rid of mine."

"Why? What did you do?"

"I swallowed it!"

This forced a muffled laugh from Tom. "Don’t worry, Hank. It won’t hurt you. We’ll just take it out of your salary!"

The two settled down to wait, conversing in whispers. The minutes dragged slowly by.

Suddenly Tom sat bolt upright. "Listen! Something’s happening up there!"

They could hear the floorboards creaking and the muffled sound of excited voices.

"Our limo must have arrived," Hank remarked. "Seriously, how do you think they plan to transport us?"

"I think when Doc Leeskol said ‘just one road,’ he meant ‘just one road
on the map’
," responded Tom. "I imagine they’ve cleared a backwoods trail hidden beneath the trees, just wide enough for some sort of all-terrain vehicle."

"Bet you’re right. And at the end of the road, a jet to Verano."

"With all the proper—" But Tom was interrupted by a loud sound that made both of them flinch. Gunfire! From overhead came the confused thud of running feet and shouting in Spanish. Then came another volley!

"It’s a firefight!" Hank cried. "Hit the deck!"

They flung themselves to the floor, looking about for protection in case the bullets wouldpenetrate the wooden floor above them. But there was nothing to shield them; the cellar was unfurnished.

The noises above had developed into a generalized chaos. Tom could envision their captors huddled below the farmhouse windows, automatic rifles blazing away into the early evening gloom. But against whom were they fighting? The police? The FBI?