Tom Swift and His Giant Robot (14 page)

Tom slept away what was left of the night, and awoke reinvigorated, his mind seething with ideas. He took breakfast in his laboratory workshop, and within hours he contacted Bud about piloting him to the haunted skies above Purple Mesa.

"Are you sure, Tom?" asked Bud ruefully. "Lately me and flying seem to make a bad-luck combination!"

"That’s okay, Bud—I’ll pack an extra parachute!" Tom joked.

Soon they were arcing through the stratosphere in the same high-altitude jet they had used before.

"So what’s the agenda, Skipper?" Bud asked, eyeing the tip of a small tubular device that Tom had mounted under one of the wings. "Another part of the robot?"

"Nope," said Tom with a grin. "It’s a genuine Swift crow-catcher!"

"Cool! But how does—" Bud broke off as Tom’s hand gripped his shoulder from behind.

"Caw-caw!"
exclaimed Tom. "And right on schedule."

A flapping black shape had appeared against the dark blue of the stratospheric sky!

"What about the short-circuit beamer?" asked Bud nervously.

"We’re prepared for that," responded Tom confidently;
"and
for Oi-Pah!"

The crow-black-as-night-shadow flashed closer, like the image in a zoom lens. Tom made some adjustments on the control box that rested in his lap.

Suddenly a flare of light burst from the tube on the wing. It streaked in the general direction of the ghost-crow.

"Missed him!" Bud said. "You aimed too high, pal!"

"Watch," Tom retorted.

The small ember of light, barely visible, began to turn back. Its course became an upward-coiling spiral which slowly straightened on a skyward heading. In a moment it was lost to sight.

Meanwhile the crow had "split" into an angry flock, bearing down upon the cockpit. Bud had to keep reminding himself that it was only a projected illusion—according to Tom Swift.

Then, without warning, Oi-Pah and his children seemed to come undone, the images shattering into a million flickering shards of light which faded from view almost instantly!

"Whoa!"
Bud cried. "How’d you do that, genius boy?"

"Tell you in a sec," said Tom. Bud could hear the tension in Tom’s voice, as well as an electrical crackling sound that seemed to suffuse the cabin.

After a few seconds, the sound dropped out.

"Tom—blip on the scope!"

"Right, one of their mini-missiles," Tom remarked calmly. "Don’t worry, it won’t be able to track our movements, thanks to our Tomasite coating. But give us some distance, pal."

Bud banked the jet and turned into a shallow dive. They saw the missile very briefly, off to starboard. Then the jet vibrated with the shock of an explosion.

"I didn’t think they’d let it fall to the ground for us to examine," Tom explained. "Hopefully they’ll write it off to equipment failure. Back to base, Bud."

Bud complied, changing course. But he was bursting with curiosity. "So
talk!
What did you do?"

Tom laughed. "Nothing too fancy. My ‘crow-catcher’ is a little missile of my own, about the size of a grenade."

"Heat seeking?"

"No point in that—Oi-Pah’s a mighty cold ghost. But I was able to adapt the robot’s photoreceptor setup to a new use. The missile’s mighty eyes are able to make a sensitive analysis of the frequency and angle of propagation of the laserlike beam that creates the hologram."

"You mean the beam from the satellite? But we haven’t been able to see it, except the image part of it," Bud objected.

"Right. I’d guessed our foes were using a paired-beam phase-interlocked approach, and I was right. But even in the stratosphere the air contains tiny floating particles of everything from ice to dust to plant spores—even some of your good California smog, Bud. There will always be a weak side-reflection, and the scientific problem was to detect it against the background glare. My optical system is able to do that."

"I see," Bud remarked. "Like amplifying a weak signal mixed in with a lot of static. But how did the missile knock off the crow?"

"By blocking the beams that were creating it. After locking onto the beams, it squirted out a cloud of Herculesium particles formulated to acquire an electrical charge from the ultraviolet light that’s so strong up here. The random particles scattered and ‘de-phased’ the incoming beams. No more crow!"

Now it was Bud who laughed in triumph.
"Your
cloud-spirits were stronger than Oi-Pah’s!"

"Yep! As for the short-circuit machine, I made use of the technique I used to make the relotrol invulnerable to radiation," Tom continued. "You know—my ‘smart sunblock.’ A flat antenna, like a tape, runs the length of the fuselage. At the first sign of an electromagnetic buildup, it begins to interact with the waves at the proper phase and frequency, producing a neutralizing effect."

As the Citadel came into view, Tom concluded by explaining that he would be installing the anti-attack antenna beneath Ator’s body armor as soon as they landed. "We’ll also install it at various critical points around the reactor dome. Tomorrow—finally!—I hope to let Ator get his feet wet inside the chamber."

Later in the day, Tom told Bud that he planned to drive out to Nicky Ammo’s home some fifty miles distant.

"Not without me!" Bud exclaimed. "I have a few words to say to him about trying to bring Sandy into all this."

Chow Winkler, who had brought the boys a snack, now spoke up. "Say there, Boss, how ’bout I head out there too?"

"How come, Chow?" Tom asked.

"Wa-al, I never seen one o’ them gangsters close-up," he replied. "I wanna see if’n he talks like they did in that movie!"

At a quarter to five, a utility van from the Citadel made its way down the curve of the long driveway from the road to Nicky Ammo’s home. An automatic gate swung open for them.

"Thought we’d have to call him on the intercom," said Tom, who was driving. "For a guy who wants protection, his security is mighty sloppy."

They pulled up and parked in front of the rather gaudy, two-story house.

"That pool looks purty nice," commented Chow. "Mebbe he’ll invite us in."

"Wouldn’t mind
that,"
said Bud. "Long as he doesn’t fit us with cement shoes."

The three walked up the brick steps to the double-door, and Tom extended a finger to ring the bell. But then he paused.

"Look," he said quietly. "The door—it isn’t even latched."

"Something’s wrong here," Bud said.

Suddenly they heard the mounting roar of an engine behind them. A small sports car was streaking up the driveway toward them at top speed.

"Ambush!"
cried Chow.

THE SPORTS CAR, a silver-hued foreign job, skidded to a screeching halt so close to them that Tom, Bud, and Chow almost dived for cover.

The door banged open and Nicky Ammo sprang forth. He barely gave the three a glance, throwing open the house double-doors and stalking inside.

"Luscious! Where are you, Luscious?"
Ammo called from within. Then he appeared at the door again. "Where is she?"

"Your guard dog?" Bud inquired.

The gangster scowled. "Luscious—my wife!" He disappeared from view, now calling loudly for Jarret. Tom knew this was the name of Ammo’s son.

After a minute Ammo’s voice fell silent, and Tom and his companions entered the house cautiously. They found their host in the living room, his arm on the mantlepiece. He looked at them emotionlessly.

"What’s wrong?" Tom asked. "What’s happened?"

Ammo said nothing. He pressed against part of the mantle with the palm of his hand and it swung down on a hinge. A small drawer was revealed. He drew out a compact but evil-looking pistol and aimed it coldly at Tom.

"You’re violating the terms of your release, Nicky," said Tom calmly. "Put it down."

"I’ll violate your forehead—
kid!"
snarled Ammo. "Now tell me where you stashed my wife and my boy."

Tom stood with his hands at his sides. "We have nothing to do with it. You invited me here, remember?"

The gangster leered.
"Remember?
I’ll give you bums a remembrance you’ll never forget. Upstairs!" He herded the three up the elegant stairway and made them detour through several rooms. They ended up in the master bedroom, dominated by a huge oval bed and a wall-mounted television.

Ammo waved his gun menacingly, and Tom and the others backed away until they bumped against the mattress. "Okay," he grunted. "I got a mental countdown going on, and ‘blast-off’ makes specific reference to this little beauty in my hand. Let’s commence a bit of discourse—starting at your end!"

"We don’t have the ghost of an idea what you’re talking about," said Tom.

"Yeah? Well,
pardonez-mui
if I beg to differ," the gangster responded. "You get me riled up, Swift, and I’ll make up for lost target practice on this
porcilene
cowboy here."

"Huh!" snorted Chow. "No call t’ insult me, whatever thet there word meant."

Before Nicky could answer, a strange sound was heard through the open window, evidently coming from below on the brick walkway. It was a loud, steady
clomp-clomp-clomp
with a metallic ring.

"Whazzat?" demanded Nicky. "You got someone else in that van?" Tom shrugged.

The sound grew louder, and it was easy to imagine something making its way up the front steps. Then came a sharp, splintering bang—metal against wood.

"That’s my front door!" cried Nicky.

"Was
your front door," Tom corrected.

The clomping sounds now morphed into peculiar bangs and clatters, some so loud that the bedroom floor seemed to shake beneath their feet.

Nicky Ammo looked panicky, hardly able to keep his gun aimed. "Something’s loose down there! What is it, Swift, one of your machines?"

"My newest one," replied Tom with a smile. "A giant robot named Ator. He’s ten feet tall in his bare feet, and—by the way, I noticed that nice crystal chandelier in the entrance hall. About eight feet off the floor? Nine feet?"

The house echoed with a shattering crash, followed by a cascade of glassy tinkles.

"Never mind," Tom said.

"That was an expensive chandelier!" snarled Nicky. "Genuine Venetian crystal, straight from Vienna! You’re gonna pay for—"

His voice was lost beneath a new sound, a tearing and crunching sound.

"Guess Ator couldn’t find the door to the kitchen," Tom explained, "so he just went through the wall."

"The kitchen?" repeated Ammo weakly.

A dozen clangs and crashes suggested a rampage through the pantry and china hutch.

"The kitchen," Tom confirmed laconically.

Ammo pointed his pistol. "Switch it off!" he demanded.

"Afraid I can’t do that, Nicky," was Tom’s reply. "Ator sort of has a mind of his own. He got lonely and came looking for us, you see. He’ll keep tromping around and walking through walls until he sees we’re all okay and smiling." The floor shook again. "I just hope your house’ll be standing by then!"

The gangster’s eyes narrowed to cruel slits. "Take your hand out of your pocket, kid." When Tom did so, Ammo nodded at Chow. "Okay, cowpoke, show me what he’s got in there. Quick!"

Chow reluctantly reached into Tom’s pocket and drew out a small rectangular control unit, studded with buttons.

"I thought so," said Ammo. He stretched out his free hand. "Give it over. I’ll shut the thing down myself."

Chow started to hand the control to their captor. At the last moment, he flicked it upward toward Ammo’s face with his fingers. Ammo jerked backwards, and Chow darted forward and plucked the gun from his grasp.

"Not s’ bad, eh?" Chow chuckled. He started to aim the pistol—then frowned. "Brand my sagebrush sausages! This thing ain’t a
gun
at all!"

Nicky Ammo shook his head. "Of course not. It’d violate my release conditions. But it does shoot bubbles if you fill it up." He scooped up the control unit and began to push the buttons wildly.

The television blared on.

"That
thing isn’t a
robot controller
at all," Tom grinned. "It’s your TV remote—it was lying on the bedspread."

The sound of a heavy robotic tread now seemed to be coming up the stairwell.

"Ator’s found the stairs," Bud remarked. "I give your banister about sixty seconds, Nick."

The gangster sighed heavily and bitterly. "Okay, okay. Call it off. We’ll sit down and have ourselves a pow-wow."

Tom nodded in Chow’s direction. The cook reached up, lifted his cowboy hat, and removed the midget controller-box taped inside it. Chow handed it to Tom and, one button-click later, all was quiet.

"Homing device," Tom commented. "Now why don’t you tell us your troubles, Mr. Ammo."

Tom, Bud, and Chow relaxed on the edge of the bed as Ammo paced the floor in front of them. "I got a call from my grounds-keeper—that’s what I call ’im—saying he thought he’d seen some kind of big van pull off the road down by the rise, at the far end of my property—which is very
expansive,
you know. Then he got cut off! So I told Lush and Jarret to lay low, and I took off in the sports car. And whataya think I found, huh?
Nothing!

"Even Albert was gone. The whole thing stunk, you know? So I come zoomin’ back here, and the gate’s open, and here you are with this van, standing in front of my door—with my wife and kid missing! What was I s’posed to think, huh, boys?"

"The door was unlatched when we got here," Tom said. "Whoever took them must have driven across the backside of your property."

Bud spoke up. "This may be a stupid question, Nick, but—do you have any enemies?"

Ammo looked at him scornfully. "Whadda you think, pal? I got enemies from the other world, as if this one weren’t bad enough!"

"That ghost you saw is just a projection," remarked Tom. "I proved it earlier today. But it shows your enemy, and mine, is a scientist."

"I don’t know anybody like that." Ammo picked up the bedroom phone. "I’m calling Sam Valdrosa. Maybe his watchdog boys saw something." Then he threw down the phone in disgust. "It’s dead!"

"Musta cut the wires!" cried Chow.