Tom Swift and His Repelatron Skyway (2 page)

When Bud nodded, Tom went on: "The effect modulates the microdensities in the floating ‘cloud’ in such a way that light is refracted away, creating a dulled background. At the same time, the particle-chains inside the outlines of the letters—or whatever shape we want to create—are configured to
reflect
selected light-frequencies." He added that, unlike standard skywriting, the display could be made visible at night by using a searchlight beam with a diffusion lens.

"And I suppose you just switch off that resonance deal to disperse the cloud when you’re done with it," Bud mused sagely. "An advertiser’s dream!"

"Exactly what George said." George Dilling, chief of Enterprises’ publicity and "public interest" office, was always quick to point out the potential commercial application of Swift inventions.

"And those robot arms—like the ones on your giant robots?"

"Right, with all kinds of goodies at the end. I used miniature versions of Dad’s vacuum-lifter to grab the bus." Tom added that the chopper itself was held in steady balance by a pair of his gravitex stabilizers, and that small repelatrons—amazing force-ray beamers tuned to specific combinations of elements—directly stabilized whatever was being hoisted.

Bud laughed. "You’re in good hands with Tom Swift!"

Tom called Captain Rock from midair and was relieved to learn that the forest fire—apparently ignited by a downed power line—was now under control. There had been no serious injuries.

They landed at Enterprises. After reporting to his father at home, who promised to pass along the story to George Dilling for the inevitable news consumption, Tom went to the big modernistic office he shared with his father, a virtual showroom of Swift family inventions displayed as detailed models. Its most recent addition, a needle-shaped spacecraft with an arrowhead-like device on its nose, illustrated a dangerous exploit from which Tom and Bud had just returned—their confrontation in space with the asteroid pirates.

As Bud sat himself down with a plop, Tom rounded his desk to his own chair—then jumped back with a yelp of surprise!

"What’s
wrong
?" Bud exclaimed.

"Wh-What’s wrong? Better you should ask—
what is it?
"

Bud jumped to his feet and ran to his friend’s side, following Tom’s gaze to the seat of the office chair next to his desk.

Sitting on the cushion, facing them impassively, was a small, eerie object—an object that stared back at the two with wide, fierce eyes!

THE WEIRD object, about the size of an outstretched palm, resembled a human face, long and narrow with a sharp-pointed chin. Its huge eyes and down-twisted mouth proved, on closer inspection, to be holes carved in the wooden face. It was propped up against the back of the chair.

"Okay, genius boy, it was
your
question," Bud stated. "So what is it?"

Tom approached it and scrutinized it carefully. "Some kind of mask, I guess, scaled down. It looks African. Munford Trent must have set it there."

"
Wrong, Professor!
"

The declaration had half a giggle in it. Two pretty girls glided breezily into the office bearing big smiles.

"Hi, Bash! Hi, Sandy!" Tom exclaimed. Bud echoed his greeting as the boys turned to their visitors.

"We came to make sure you two fabulous flying heroes were all right," teased Sandra Swift, Tom’s blond year-younger sister.

"We received a phone call from Father Swift at the coffeehouse—news on the fly, one might say," explained raven-haired Bashalli Prandit, who had become a close friend of the Swift family and Bud. "Naturally we were compelled to seek, firsthand, your exciting elaboration of the forest fire rescue."

"We saw your new copter on TV when you two were carrying that big van over the fire," Sandy said more seriously. "It was really thrilling!"

"Plenty hot, too," Bud replied with a wry chuckle. "But your modest blushing brother over there is the genius who deserves all the credit."

Tom changed the subject by waving the two around the desk and pointing to the mask. "Don’t tell me you’ve been shopping again, sis," he joked.

With a wink Bud put in: "Must be another of those ‘anonymous’ gifts from your almost-old-enough-to-shave admirer in town."

Sandy’s blue eyes twinkled above a slightly embarrassed frown. "Not this time. It’s for you, Tom. Maybe
you’re
the one with the admirer!"

"We arrived a few minutes before you, and Mr. Trent showed it to us." Bashalli’s reference was to the Swifts’ efficient secretary and receptionist. "We offered to bring it into the office. And then, typically, we hid around the corner."

"And all you got for your trouble was a little yelp," said Bud.

"Yes, Budworth. I think you two adventurers are finally beyond human excitement."

Tom was smiling, but his tone reflected sober curiosity. At Swift Enterprises the unexpected often concealed danger. "Where did it come from? Did Trent say?"

"Oh yes," Sandy answered. "Security delivered it to him this morning. And please don’t worry, Tomonomo. It’s been TeleTec’d and spectroscoped and everything else they could think of. Certified bug-free and bomb-free."

"Yet still quite ugly," pronounced Bash. "I would say it is a small souvenir version of an African tribal fertility mask, perhaps to be worn on a chain about the neck."

Tom snorted. "
Fertility
? Somebody must think we’re growing crops here at Enterprises!"

Bashalli, Sandy, and Bud exchanged mock-startled glances at the young inventor’s words.

"
Anyway
," Sandy said, "here’s what it was wrapped in. It came by special parcel delivery."

Tom took the brown wrapping paper and noted the return address on the label. "Mm-hmm, from the Ngombian Embassy in Washington, D.C.," he observed in surprise.

"Ngombia? There’s the Africa connection," Bud noted with keen interest. "Even
I’ve
heard of it!"

"Yes," Tom replied. "A country that overthrew its military dictator recently and gave itself a new name. As a matter of fact," he added, "they’re sending an official here to Enterprises tomorrow to discuss some new project. Maybe this carving is some sort of traditional gift—the ‘god of good luck’."

Bashalli gave a disapproving look. "Well, I would say it’s
not
good luck for the
eyes
. It may be stylish neckwear in Ngombia, but to me it looks like some kind of devil mask."

Bud agreed. "It’d sure make a great Halloween present."

Tom grinned but pointed out, "Actually, I think it’s supposed to be a desk ornament. Look down below the chin—it has a tiny body with wide feet to stand on and big hands to hold a pen instead of a spear." He picked up a small object attached to the base, wrapped in tissue paper. "Here’s the pen that goes with it."

"Charming," Sandy pronounced sarcastically.

The four engaged in animated banter for a time, and Tom and Bud dramatically recounted the inside story of the air rescue.

When the girls left, Tom called Munford Trent into the office. He confirmed the girls’ report. "I don’t really have anything to add. If you don’t think it goes with your office decor... well,
please
don’t insist that I put it on
my
desk."

As Bud laughed, Tom responded: "Don’t worry. But we’d better have it on display tomorrow when our guest arrives, or he’ll put some kind of voodoo curse on us!"

Tom and Bud stepped over to the nextdoor office to speak to Enterprises’ reliable head of security, Harlan Ames. Other than reiterating that the mask had been carefully examined after its delivery to Enterprises, he had no further information.

As Tom and Bud wheeled back around the corner to the Swifts’ office, they were startled as Trent appeared at the office door.

"
H-Help me! I—I’m
― "

The secretary’s hands clawed at the door frame as he tried to support himself. Bluish veins bulged out in his face, and he was gasping for breath! "Good grief! Trent! What’s wrong?" cried Tom in amazement.

The man was unable to answer and seemed on the verge of collapse. As Bud lowered him into a chair, he whispered to Tom, "Look at his hand." The skin of Trent’s left hand had taken on a livid purple hue, which seemed to be slowly spreading up his arm even as they watched.

Frantic, Tom called the plant medico, Doc Simpson. "I won’t waste time by running up there," he declared calmly. "I’m sending a stretcher and emergency pack. They’ll get him stable if they can, then bring him over. I’ll ready the equipment."

"Any idea what it might be?"

"Not yet. Poison, toxic gas—maybe he’s having a coronary!" Simpson gave Tom some further brisk instructions, then hung up.

In two minutes the emergency team had arrived; in three, they were gone with their charge, who had lost consciousness.

Bud followed Tom into the office. Both were shaken. "What could’ve happened, Tom?" asked the young pilot. "You were just joking about a voodoo curse—I mean...
weren’t you?
"

"Look at this!" Tom motioned Bud over and indicated a notepad on the desk. The mask-figure had been set next to it, and a pen, apparently carved from ivory, lay next to its discarded wrapping tissue on the top sheet of paper.

The paper bore writing in big letters. "
The demon gods of Ngombia doom you to a terrible...
" A ragged line trailed off the paper from the end of the uncompleted message.

Bud was wide-eyed. "Good night! Somebody must have snuck in and― "

"It’s Trent’s handwriting," observed Tom. "He was probably just trying out the pen after he unwrapped it."

"Maybe the pen has a chemical on it—or gives off some kind of gas!"

"If so, it’s odorless. But you know, the fire sensor on the ceiling also spectro-samples the air, continuously. It’s a safety feature we’ve put in all over the plant. Of course," he went on, "there
could
be some kind of contact poison on the pen that doesn’t evaporate... "

Keeping his hand well away from the pen, the young inventor carefully tore off the sheet of note paper and held it close to his eyes. "The word ‘doom’ is slightly smudged, but other than that I don’t see― "

"
Jetz! Drop it!
"

Bud lunged forward to knock the sheet from Tom’s hand. But his startling cry had already done the job. The paper fluttered down to the carpet. "Flyboy! What’s going on?"

Bud clamped a hand on his pal’s arm and drew him several steps back. "It hit me—it’s not the pen, Tom,
it’s the ink!
"

"The ink!"

The athletic youth nodded vigorously. "For once I got the idea before you did! The effect started on Trent’s left hand—
and
the guy’s left handed."

"His writing hand!"

"Yeah! He must’ve smeared the ink accidentally with the edge of his hand, and it started to affect him before he could get more than a few more words down."

"That
must
be it." Tom’s words were grim, his face white from his narrow escape. "The Security inspection wouldn’t have included taking the pen apart to test a sample of the ink. But― " The scientist-inventor’s mind was spinning furiously. "The ink probably contains a fast-acting nerve agent of some type that adheres to the surface of the skin. My gosh!—they’d formulate it so that it wouldn’t just wipe off or wash off. It may still be releasing the toxin into Trent’s bloodstream!"

Bud completed the thought. "And it’s
killing
him—even as we speak!"

"Come on!"

Tom sprinted toward the office door, scooping up an object from a display shelf in a single smooth motion.

In minutes the two had flung open the door to the Enterprises Infirmary. Doc Simpson, bent over the prone Munford Trent, barely glanced up. The secretary’s mouth was covered by an oxygen mask and his outer clothing had been cut away. "I’ve called Shopton Memorial, but he’s sinking fast. Some kind of progressive muscle paralysis affecting his heart and lungs."

"This may help!" Tom exclaimed.

The object in his hands was an intricate model of an invention called the spectromarine selector, or spectrosel. It was a working model, though crude and limited compared to the real device, which was as big as a military cannon.

"I know you used the spectrosel to clean off that skin fungus in the underwater city," Doc said. "But this isn’t a fungus, Tom."

"No, but I think there’s something on the skin, a nerve toxin, that can’t be removed by ordinary medical solvents. But the spectrosel should be able to ‘read’ it and whisk it off."

Doc let out a sharp breath. "Try it."

Tom moved the tubular mouth of the unit close to Trent’s left hand and arm. He aimed at the purple splotch and thumbed the control button.

"Looks like it’s working," he murmured. The ugly, spreading rash had begun to lighten and retreat before their eyes.

As Tom continued, Doc rushed close and applied his stethoscope to Trent’s bare chest. "Heartbeat a little steadier already," he pronounced. "Without more of the toxin flowing in through the skin, I think we can turn the corner." He injected a heart stimulant.

The effect of Tom’s quick action soon became obvious. Trent’s color slowly returned to normal, and he no longer struggled for breath. His eyelids flickered. "Don’t try to talk," Doc ordered gently. "You’re going to be all right, my friend."

The crisis over, Tom and Bud left the infirmary, and the young inventor gave an account of the incident to an astounded Harlan Ames, who promised to contact the Ngombian Embassy.

That evening Tom called Doc Simpson from home. "Trent’s doing fine," Tom reported to his parents and Sandy as he hung up the telephone.

"In a way you owe him your thanks, Tom," said Damon Swift. "Under normal circumstances― "

"I know, Dad.
I
would have been the one to use the pen."

"And
you
wouldn’t have had Tom Swift to figure out what to do!"

"You know, they never just
shoot
a person," Sandy declared thoughtfully. "You’d think they’d learn that ‘simple is best’."

"Well, Dear, it’s just
possible
they don’t want to be caught," suggested Tom’s mother Anne, her pretty eyes twinkling despite the gravity of the situation. "Hiring a hit man might get the job done, but those big lugs do tend to leave a trail of clues—on television, at least."