Tom Swift and His Repelatron Skyway (15 page)

"But surely one helicopter could not carry so much concrete," a reporter objected.

Tom chuckled, albeit uncomfortably. "The skyway won’t be made of concrete, ma’am, but a synthetic material that’s extremely strong, rigid, and durable. I call it Durastress—though in this case I’m calling it ‘Durafoam’, as it will be suffused with air-filled cells." Seeing confused expressions, Tom elaborated. "We’ve outfitted the Workchopper with equipment that allows the Durastress to be jet-sprayed into the air as a stream of very fine, buoyant droplets, where it can be guided and shaped by an electronic beam—the same method used in my skywriting setup. It takes only seconds for the extruded Durastress to solidify. In the process bubbles of air will become trapped inside the substance, producing the hardened foam." He noted that because the spray fanned out broadly from the Workchopper, the resultant road would be much wider than the vehicle producing it.

Another question. "How long, sir, from start to completion?"

"I’d rather not guess. If all goes well, perhaps a matter of weeks."

A Frenchman called out a lengthy question. "He asks about pollution from the cars," summarized the translator, "smog in the jungle."

"That’s an important issue," Tom noted. "Basically, our transmitter towers will generate a mesh of nanofilaments, too small to interact with light but able to hold back gases and particulates. The barrier will be maneuvered to enclose the skyway like a tunnel from one end to the other. We use the same technology for our space airdomes. Oh, and we’ve also designed a system to supply plenty of air inside the barrier, scouring out accumulating pollutants and controlling temperature."

The next accent was British. "And what if careless or suicidal automobilists drive over the edge, eh? Quite a drop."

"The towers have special sensors and a computerized high-focus repelatron strong enough to shove wandering vehicles back onto the road—kind of a punch on the nose. It’ll be quite a jolt, but no worse than the emergency airbags that cars are equipped with. It’s an adaptation of the anticrash device used in my atomicar prototype. Now, are there any further― "

"
Do you plan hunting monsters in the swamp?
"

Taken aback by the question, which set the crowd muttering, the young inventor’s eyes strained against the bright Africa sun, trying to see who had spoken up. "Excuse me? What do you― "

"Simple question, Tom. There are rumors of great big reptiles in the V’moda swamp. To protect your operation, you could just zoom over their habitat and wipe ’em out with guns. Right? Hey, you could pick off a few of those troublesome ‘natives’ while you’re at it!"

Security guards, drawing guns, began to advance toward the speaker, whom Tom could finally make out by shading his eyes with his palm. Getting the guards’ attention, he waved them back.

"I guess if you managed to make it all the way here to Ngombia, you deserve to be heard," Tom pronounced coolly. "So I’ll answer your question—Mr. Creel!"

THE challenging questioner was indeed Darcy Creel in all his slack-shirted, shaggy-headed glory, eyebrows up and sneer in place. "Go on, Tom. Tell the world how Swift Enterprises
isn’t
going to collaborate with the corrupt thugs running the
new progressive Ngombia
. Tell us how you’re
not
planning on ripping apart the jungle, the Wanguru, and a few thousand precarious species!"

Tom struggled to hold his temper in check. "You and I have been over these issues before, Mr. Creel. We’ve consulted with biologists, zoologists, and environmental specialists every step of the way. Swift Enterprises would never risk― "

"But you employ Ulsusus!" shouted one man. "What do
they
know about these things?"

"Your own government has― "

Another voice joined the growing verbal fray. "They say the Ministry knows all about these giant animals! The rumors are all over the city! Is there a coverup?
Are you part of it?
"

The crowd was becoming unruly. Suddenly the air was full of shouts, anger, and threat.

Tom looked at the hesitating security police, feeling helpless. Then he suddenly caught sight of a familiar, beaming face in—and somewhat
below
—the throng of reporters. "Akomo! Come up here with me!"

The crowd quieted when they saw that Tom Swift had been joined on the platform by a small boy. "This is my friend Akomo. Huttangdala is his home. He’s a good― " Tom paused slightly. "—
Ngombian.
Take a look at him, everybody. This is what the future looks like. This is why we’re here."

"That is all," stated Mr. Kiuma firmly. "The conference is over. You will be
escorted
off the airfield, ladies and gentlemen."

Tom noticed that Darcy Creel wasn’t waiting to be escorted. With a sarcastic salute, he swiveled and stalked off.

"Do you wish us to apprehend that agitator?" Kiuma asked Tom.

"No. His questions were reasonable—much as I didn’t like hearing them."

Kiuma looked as though he didn’t agree, but said, "Very well, then."

As Tom stepped away from the man and his crafty expression, Akomo tagged along. "Sir of sirs, now that I have protected you from mob action, you will want to repay me. For I, Akomo, have the face of the future!"

Tom grinned. "I think I can guess what you have in mind, Ako."

"Please, please let me go along with you to see your skyway being made! I will be history! It is the long vacation now. Call my parents—they will agree!"

"Probably with enthusiasm," Tom noted dryly. "But okay, pal. Just don’t get underfoot—and
don’t
wander away, either."

"Um, um, um," the boy cried happily. "As if I would ever do any such things!"

Within the hour the
Sky Queen
took to the air again, followed eastward by one of the cargo jets. Hank Sterling remained in Huttangdala to supervise the beginning of the transmitter emplacements from the west end of the line.

The Flying Lab set down in Imbolu just as Bud was landing in the Workchopper. "All smooth, Skipper," reported the youthful pilot.

"Uh-huh," Tom retorted. "Maybe for
you
!"

Soon Chief-Lieutenant Ata Fokguomo, accompanied by the annoying, ever-present Pieter Zerth, pulled up in a police car and greeted Tom. An animated discussion of initial construction activities commenced.

Bud and other members of the
Queen’s
crew stood on the opposite side of the great skyship, stretching and chatting, well aware that the time for stretching and chatting would soon be over for a span of hard weeks.

As always, Chow Winkler was part of the team. His idea of stretching was to get in a little fancy practice with his lariat. "Wanna see a few lassoo stunts, Buddy Boy?" he called out.

"Long as you keep that noose away from my neck, pardner."

Meanwhile, the attention of the Americans was caught by a herd of lyre-horned Ankole cattle grazing on the grassy slope next to the landing field.

"Right smart-lookin’ beeves," Chow commented, casting an expert Texas eye.

As Bud and his companions were admiring them, one of the bulls raised his head, glared at the strangers, and pawed the ground. Before the Americans realized their danger, the bull gave a sudden bellow and charged full tilt at the group!

With yelps of startled panic, Bud and the other watchers scattered as the maddened beast bore down on them. But Chow, falling back and gallumphing to the side, reacted in lightning cowboy style. His hand streaked down to the knot in his lariat. In a twinkling, he had made a widened loop and sent it snaking out over the charging bull’s head!

As the lasso dropped neatly over its target, Chow was already taking a couple of quick turns around the trunk of a nearby kola tree. The rope yanked taut, bringing the bull up short and throwing him heavily to the ground.

Snorting furiously, the animal began heaving himself upright again. But Chow dashed forward through the swirl of dust and grabbed his huge horns. Twisting the animal’s neck, he bulldogged him to the ground.

"
Wo! Wo! Kai! Kai!
"

Shouting and cheering, the native herdsmen came running down the slope to join Chow, panting and pale, and take charge of the subdued animal. In moments the roly-poly cook was the center of an admiring throng of villagers.

"
Ako-mãlu jagunjagun nla!
" they chanted.

"‘
Great bull warrior
’, they’re calling you," Pieter Zerth translated with a snicker as he came running up with Tom and Chief-Lieutenant Fokguomo.

Tom and the others wrung Chow’s hand warmly. "Nice work, wrangler!" Tom told him.

"Shucks, it’s jest a knack," Chow said modestly. "When you’ve branded as many bulls as I have, they’s nothin’ to it."

One plump Ulsusu woman squeezed Chow’s arm. "
Oni dya!
" she murmured admiringly.

"She says you are a brave man," put in Akomo. "Just like me!" Verging on gleeful laughter, he added, "She has no husband—see, no bracelets. I think she would like to marry you, sir cow."

Chow blushed, then turned even paler than before. "Ye-ahh,
thet’s
a sure thing. They all do! Dag-bang-blame Texas charm."

The
Sky Queen
had carried along, in its hangar-hold, a score of the repelatron transmitter towers, assembled and ready for planting. By the end of the first day, several had already been bolted down to foundations made of Durastress, compressed into "post-holes" dug by a small version of Tom’s earth blaster machine. Set at wide intervals, these repelatrons would support the gently sloping onramp that would connect the streets of Imbolu to the skyway at its 200-foot elevation.

"Great work for day one!" Tom told Fokguomo happily.

"Oh, indeed so," remarked Pieter Zerth. "Day
one
is often encouraging, is it not? But one day soon enough, you will be in the jungle."

That day was indeed
soon enough
. As the work team plunged on into the green depths of The V’moda, progress slowed, even though the towers were now to be erected at much greater distances from one another, intervals of one mile. A camp of portable Tomasite structures crept westward, day after day, protected by Mr. Kiuma’s guards and ringed by floodlights at night. Overhead, the Workchopper scouted out promising clearings amid the trees and brush where the eight-foot cylindrical units could be solidly emplaced. At the other end across The V’moda, Hank Sterling and Ted Spring used the cycloplane for similar purposes.

Two weeks trudged by with no interruption to the work. Real trouble only began as they neared the edge of the great central swamp. They began to find splintered trees, smashed underbrush, and what looked like huge footprints sunk deep into the soft, wet ground.

"Some of the Ulsusu workmen, the ones hired in Imbolu, are becoming resistant to orders," Kiuma mentioned to Tom. "The team bosses tell me this. The men are superstitious, frightened of these things."

One of the construction leaders standing nearby, all of whom were Ghiddua, muttered: "
Ei uls’ u wa k’qni r’ey!
"

"What did he say, Mr. Kiuma?" Tom asked.

"The Ghiddua man? Oh, just a common saying—‘
So stupid, just like an Ulsusu!
’ We all say it. No importance."

The following day brought more than footprints and superstition. Guided by a frantic worker, Tom and Bud stood aghast next to one of the transmitters—or rather its remains. It had been smashed to junk over night!

"
Jetz
! Everything’s wrecked!" cried Bud angrily. "And look at the trees, Tom. It’s the dinosaurs!"

"We’ve haven’t seen any yet," Tom reminded Bud. "But it sure looks that way. They can’t really crunch the Neo-Aurium chassis, but they can sure break off and scatter the antenna components."

"What can we do, genius boy? Post guards?"

Tom snorted. "What exactly could
guards
do—against monster reptiles? I doubt even a
bazooka
could take down a rampaging Tyrannosaurus Rex on the first shot! Besides, it’d take half the population of Imbolu to stand watch over all the towers. But—maybe there’s a solution. Remember how we handled the worms?"

"Sure—with soundwaves from the audiogyrex."

"Something like that might work with the big saurians, too." Thinking aloud, the young inventor described a sort of "siren" that could be attached to each repelatron tower and linked to its internal power supply, Tom’s neutronamo generator. "I think I can gimmick it so that humans and normal-sized jungle animals won’t be aware of it at all, but it would produce an uncomfortable resonance in dino-sized giants. They’ll feel it getting worse as they approach the towers, and veer away. I hope!"

Flying back to the
Sky Queen
, Tom produced several of the relatively simple devices on the spot, sending the blueprints on to an industrial lab in Copperville for a production run. Meanwhile he installed the first several of the devices in the swamp transmitters.

To Tom’s relief, the solution seemed to work. There was no further tower wrecking, and the signs of the dinosaurs seemed to diminish.

In days Tom’s work team from Imbolu had met up with its counterpart, Hank Sterling’s West Ngombia crew, in the middle of the great swamp. "Incredible!" exulted Tom’s chief engineer. "Holy heck, we’ve got the whole run of towers in place! And I couldn’t have done it without
my
chief engineer," he added, nodding in the direction of a grinning Ted Spring.

"Wa-aal now, you may’ve got yerself an engineer, Sterlin’," put in Chow. "But dollars t’ doughnuts, bet our boys here had better food t’ eat!"

"You’re right!"

Tom acknowledged the accomplishment with quiet jubilance. "Maybe you should send a telegram to old man Burlow," suggested Bud mischievously to his chum.

"Let’s postpone the crowing until we have the actual skyway in place, flyboy."

It took a mere two days for the Workchopper to create the first half of the flying Durafoam road, the eastern section beginning at Imbolu. It rested calmly and serenely in the empty air on its repelatron cushion, with gravitex stabilizers, attached to the skyway’s underside at long intervals, preventing it from sliding sideways out of position.