Tom Swift and His Giant Robot (12 page)

The three riders rode on around the broad rocky skirt of the upthrusting mesa, stopping again at the poignant wreckage of the
Skeeter
.

Tom looked over the twisted hulk in silence. Bud put a hand on his pal’s shoulder. "Sorry, Tom," he said simply.

"It wasn’t your fault," Tom replied. "In fact, it’s likely that you were a victim of that short-circuit beamer our enemies use. It may have knocked out your stabilizer controls. I’ll build another jetrocopter—a better one!"

The three of them were alert to the possibility of clues, examining not only the ground, but the side of the cliff, with binoculars. But nothing was evident.

"They had to have launched those missiles from
some
where!" grumbled Bud. "It sure looked to me like they were coming from right around here."

"You’re probably right, but that doesn’t mean they used a fixed launcher," Tom observed. "If they used a chopper to land by the cargo jet and take Sermek, they could have shot missiles from the same chopper."

"Guess you’re right."

Tom flipped the cellphone back and forth in his hand, thinking. "What I’d really like to know is how our pals are working their magic crow act."

"You suppose it could be a robot, like yours?" Bud suggested.

"I don’t see how," Tom answered thoughtfully. "The way it changes shape and disappears, the way it keeps up with fast-moving vehicles—it’s more likely some kind of optical phenomenon, like a projection."

"Wa-al," said Chow, "that’d explain a lot, wouldnit?"

"In what way?" Tom asked.

"Think about it, Boss. We see ’em when it’s dark, don’t we? An’ a movie theater’s got t’be dark if you wanna see th’ movie."

Bud gave Chow a superior look. "But it
isn’t
always seen when it’s dark, cowpoke. The first time Tom and I had a run-in, it was morning. And the other day in the
Skeeter,
it was still afternoon."

Seeing Chow’s face fall, Tom clapped him on his wide back. "Actually, I think you may be on to something," he declared. "Even if it wasn’t really dark out, the crow is always seen against a fairly dark background. The sky in the stratosphere is pretty dark blue; and the air is so dry and clear around these parts that a big stretch of the sky can start darkening in the later afternoon, when the sun’s still high up."

"Yep, that’s so," said the cook, brightening. "You can see a fair amount o’ stars even at four o’ the PM."

Bud sought out a face-saving rejoinder. "Okay. But you’d need a mighty big and powerful projector, wouldn’t you? Not to mention some kind of screen!"

"You’re right, flyboy," Tom conceded. "We’ve looked all over and never seen a trace of the kind of equipment that—" He broke off his comment. Bud glanced up and saw his friend staring intently at his cellphone.

"Good vibrations?" Bud asked.

Tom nodded. "The best kind!" He held up the telephone unit. "This long-distance company doesn’t use ordinary cell relay towers. They use a whole string of
low-orbit satellites!"

"Sure," Bud responded. "Launched by that German mega-conglomerate."

"Now just suppose," Tom went on, "some of those little satellites carried stowaways!"

Chow looked skeptical. "You mean, crows?"

"No, pard—crow
makers!"
Tom grinned at this new idea. "Oi-Pah doesn’t just need a dark background, but two other things. He’s always appearing
against the sky—
that’s why we see him up
above
the level of the plane. And he’d only be able to show up when the
right
satellite was above the horizon. Remember, these are not geosynchronous satellites that are always in the same position."

Bud snapped his fingers. "I get it now! It’s like a laser, beaming down from a satellite!"

"More specifically, a laser
hologram
in the form of a little ‘film loop,’ projected more or less directly toward the viewer. And if you’re not at exactly the right angle with just the right speed of film, you’d only see a little spot of light if you tried to photograph it." Tom turned excitedly to Chow Winkler, who was straining to keep up with this dialogue. "Chow, I can’t thank you enough!"

"Fer what, Boss?" Chow asked.

"For this ride! It
did
inspire me after all!"

Chow beamed. "Why, o’ course it did!"

Braving the heat, the range riders headed back to the Citadel forthwith, where Tom got in touch with Sam Valdrosa and told him of his conclusions.

"Very interesting," commented the agent. "And it violates a slew of federal and international laws if that’s what’s been going on. My guess is the German corporation, DKZ-Konkordat, doesn’t have a thing to do with it—someone managed to plant the equipment on board the satellites without their knowledge."

Tom agreed, and added: "I’m working out a way to test my idea, Sam. We’ll see!"

Tom now plunged into other problems—those involving his giant robot Ator. Tom had already determined that Ator had been immobilized the previous day by a failure in his powder-pumped muscles brought about by radiation exposure.

"We never expected a Tomasite shield of that thickness to keep out
all
the hard radiation," Tom pointed out to his father. "But we thought a slight degree of exposure would be harmless, as it was for the earlier Herculesium formula."

"What’s your solution, son?" Mr. Swift inquired. "Thicker shielding?"

"No; I don’t want the robot to become too heavy and bulky," responded Tom. "I’m thinking in terms of a slight reformulation of the powder."

"Another transfusion?"

"That shouldn’t be necessary. I believe I can force the ‘antidote’ compound through the full cylinders under pressure. The process should only take a few hours; then we’ll be ready for another test in the reactor."

By mid-afternoon Ator was again positioned in the reactor access corridor, awaiting the relotrol command to move forward to the reactor hatchway.

"This is the easy part," commented Tom, sending Ator the signal to begin walking.

The lumbering giant took one step—two steps—and began a third. Suddenly the image from the robot’s cameras tilted sideways, and the corridor videocams showed that the huge figure had ceased to advance and was leaning against the wall like a dizzy drunkard.

Tom groaned.
"Now
what?" He checked the various dials and sensor-instruments. His inner voice grew puzzled.
Nothing obviously wrong,
he thought.
Muscles are functioning. Relotrol signal OK…

"I’m going in there to examine Ator where he stands," Tom said to Mark Soren, the technician who was assisting him. The young inventor quickly slipped on an anti-rad protective suit—for the entire corridor was "hot" with residual radiation—and crossed over to the looming reactor dome.

Inside the corridor, Tom approached the leaning robot and began to look him over without touching him. He noticed for the first time that a small cluster of indicator lights were blinking red, a sign of equipment failure. Using a special tool Tom opened a service panel in the metal man’s torso and pulled out a drawer-like circuit frame. The action released a tiny puff of white smoke.

Tom muttered to himself, "Well, I’m getting close to—"

The thought remained unfinished. There was a thunderous roar from overhead and the corridor heaved and buckled, throwing Tom off his feet. An instant later, as the ceiling fractured, his prone form was showered with shards of concrete!

"MR. SWIFT! Mr. Swift!" came the urgent voice over the intercom, mixing with the wail of sirens and the shrill clang of alarm bells.

In his office, Damon Swift flicked the intercom switch, putting him in direct touch with the switchboard of the Citadel.

"I’m here!" he cried. "Where was the—"

"In Access Corridor 5," said the communications operator. "Sir, your son was inside trying to—"

Tom’s father didn’t wait for the rest of the sentence; he was off in a run toward the reactor dome, where a small, excited crowd had gathered.

Spotting one of the engineers, he asked, "What do we know so far, Dr. Mantova? Anything?"

The man shook his head. "I know nothing. I heard a sound and came running—"

Bud Barclay, white-faced, dashed up breathlessly.
"Tom!—any word about—?"

"Come on," Mr. Swift cried. He and Bud made for the reactor blockhouse, where they found Tom’s assistant at the relotrol controller panel.

Mark knew they were concerned about Tom. "He went into the corridor to fix Ator, Mr. Swift," he explained worriedly. "I’ve been trying to get an image, but the corridor videocams are all out."

"What about radiation?" demanded the elder Swift.

"No leakage so far, thank heaven," Mark replied. "Reactor levels are normal."

Damon Swift sat down in front of the control panel. The view from Ator’s camera eyes, at a slant, showed only the reactor end of the corridor. After Mark had explained the general nature of the difficulty Tom had been having with the machine, Mr. Swift extended Ator’s right arm and pushed against the corridor wall. The image straightened immediately.

"He’s upright," Mr. Swift said. He swiveled the robot’s twin shoulder-lenses, bringing in a view of the area near his feet. A mound of dust and debris was heaped-up over the floor!

"Tom’s buried in that stuff!" Bud cried. He pivoted on one heel. "I’m getting him—"

"No!"
ordered Mr. Swift. He gestured at a plant security guard standing near the door. "Guard, make sure this young man doesn’t leave the room!"

Mr. Swift had Ator crouch down and probe the debris with his hands, applying only a gentle pressure. After a minute, Mr. Swift said, "He’s not there." He had the robot stand upright again, and added without looking Bud’s way, "Sorry, Bud—I had to stop you. The corridor is full of residual radiation."

"I understand, sir."

There was a pause as Mr. Swift had the robot scan the length of the corridor with his radar mapping system. "Some motion at the other end, by the door. Maybe I can get the machine to turn a little that way, even if he can’t walk."

In a moment the giant robot had zeroed-in on the end of the corridor that led to the outside.

"There he is!" Bud exclaimed. A figure in orange protective garb, covered in flourlike cement-dust, sat at the base of the door. Every few moments a weak hand was raised into view. "He’s trying to reach the control keypad!"

"It’s not functioning," said Mark Soren. "The inner door is jammed solid, though we’ve forced the outer door open. And I’m afraid there’s another problem."

Mr. Swift met his eyes. "What?"

"There’s fluid leaking down from the reactor coolant ducts—you can see that it’s starting to spread across the floor. Tom will be in real danger when it reaches those exposed cables!"

"We’ve got to get him out!" Bud choked. "Can’t we shut down the power?"

Damon Swift shook his head. "No. We have to power down gradually, over hours, or we risk the reactor going critical. There’s a better way, Bud."

Tom, weak and reeling at the bottom of the escape door panel, reacted with a start to the distinctive sound of a knock against the corridor wall to his rear. With painful effort he changed position and saw Ator knocking delicately with his robotic muscles.

It’s Dad!
the young inventor thought with relief.
Can he see me?

Tom waved twice in the direction of the robot, and Ator knocked twice in the same rhythm. Communication had been established!

Now Ator began to make other hand signals—short, choppy horizontal motions.

"I get it," Tom said aloud, seeking the comfort of his own voice. "I should move aside." He did so, trying to get out of the way. As he moved he became aware of the coolant fluid that was slowly turning the concrete dust below to mud. He also took note of sparking cables hanging down from the ruptured ceiling at the other end of the corridor.

Good night! When the liquid touches the cable-end…
Thanks to his anti-rad suit Tom was protected against electrocution. However, he knew the electrical current would react with the chemicals and release a powerful, corrosive gas—a combustible gas that would quickly fill the corridor. Tom looked frantically about for a shielded spot, but there was none to be had.

Ator was moving in a peculiar manner that Tom found hard to comprehend. Finally, he understood!

"That’s great, Dad!" he yelled, as if his father could hear him.

Mr. Swift had realized that the robot’s difficulty only involved forward walking. His other muscular functions seemed fully intact and unaffected. His solution was to cause the machine to
walk backwards
up the corridor towards Tom. Although his camera eyes were facing the wrong way, Ator’s radar ears, on either side of his head, were able to scan the corridor in both directions.

Moving slowly and carefully, Ator approached Tom and the door to the corridor antechamber.

Suddenly Tom was distracted by a loud hissing and popping sound. Looking back he saw that the creeping fluid had reached the exposed cables and was boiling furiously, releasing its deadly explosive vapor into the air.

Tom rapped loudly on Ator’s right-side radome, which he could only reach with difficulty. He knew this action would be noted immediately at the control station. Sure enough, Ator paused.

Waving a hand for attention, Tom wobbled into camera view, and scrawled a message on the wall with mud.

VAPOR – EXPLOSION - DANGER

There was a long pause as the robot stood unmoving as a giant redwood. Then Ator stooped, dipped the end of his claw-hand in the mud, and scratched a message on the wall next to Tom’s.

FACE DOOR – ROBOT SHIELD

Trusting but not fully understanding, Tom worked his way to the other side of Ator and stood facing the door panel. Pushing the wall with his hands, the robot forced itself to pivot awkwardly until it faced the same direction as Tom. Then it leaned forward by means of its inner gyros and gently folded its powerful arms around the young inventor, shielding him, its bulk between Tom and the corridor.