Tom Swift and His Repelatron Skyway (3 page)

Tom smiled, but said: "I think we have a few clues even without a careless hit man. The penholder ‘mask’ was picked up at the Ngombian Embassy in D.C. and delivered straightaway to Enterprises—‘
now
,’ as they say in their ads. That’s their story, anyhow."

"All right. Then what do they say at the Embassy?" Sandy asked.

"That they’re horrified! According to Harlan they confirm that they sent us a gift of that description in honor of the meeting tomorrow, but they can’t imagine how the pen that went with it could have been gimmicked like that."

"A gift in honor of the meeting. For good luck." Mr. Swift stared down at the carpet for a silent moment, as if its patterns held the answer to the mystery. "Well, it’s safe to say that
some
body
some
where wishes us anything
but
good fortune."

Tom gave a grim nod. "The worst kind of fortune—
death!
"

THE NEXT morning, seated at his office desk and musing about the strange business of the mask-penholder, Tom received a call from George Dilling. "I just got word that your visitor from the Ngombian Embassy, Kwanu, has arrived at the public entrance."

"Really? He didn’t ask to be picked up at the airport?"

"No—mentioned something about their customs, whatever. At any rate, I’ll go meet him in the Visitors Center and escort him to your office myself."

"Thanks, George.
Please
don’t try to sell him one of the T-shirts!"

Dilling laughed. "What a rep I’ve got! Don’t worry, boss, I can be diplomatic when I try real hard."

Some fifteen minutes later Tom rose and extended his hand as a tall, distinguished-looking African, in a colorful toga-like garment with long billowy sleeves, entered the office with Dilling at his side.

After shaking hands warmly with Tom, the man nodded at Dilling in a manner that suggested a polite but firm dismissal. As Dilling left he again turned toward his youthful host. "Tom Swift—young inventor! How pleasant to meet you with my own eyes."

"Thank you, sir. Er—me too." As the stranger sat down, Tom added tentatively: "You are perhaps Mr. Kwanu?"

"That is correct. Ah! I neglected to introduce myself."

"Forgive me for keeping you waiting in the Visitors Center. We had assumed you would call us when your flight arrived, to permit us to drive you to Enterprises."

"Not at all," the African said politely. "Um, um, um! We choose to retain our customs and traditional ways, even in our new Ngombia." He pronounced the name of his country
nee-yom-byah
. "One does not ask one’s host to play the role of a servant, you see. I rented a car and drove here myself—not so hard, if one has learnt to drive!" The man chuckled, and Tom smiled back.

"I know you were expecting my father to join this meeting, sir," said Tom. "Unfortunately, he had to rush over to our affiliate in Shopton, the Swift Construction Company, at the last minute. It couldn’t wait. But I often represent him."

The Ngombian official shrugged. "Then I shall reserve my apologies to him for another occasion. For I must ask his forgiveness for placing his son in danger by my little gift. In my culture, a gift is always given as a matter of respect. It must arrive prior to the first meeting, without disclosing the particular individual who has sent it. For we say, it is from all of us, all of Ngombia."

"It’s a wonderful custom," Tom responded. "Forgive me for asking, but—do you think someone from your country may have been behind the plot?"

Mr. Kwanu raised both hands as if holding an invisible beachball in front of his face. "
Of course
you are forgiven! Yes, it seems the only answer, what you say. You see, my boy-son, we have suffered much political turmoil since we gained our independence, and there are certain factions which would like to block Ngombia’s economic progress. They believe such boons will accrue only to the dominant tribe, the Ghidduas. Most of the government is Ghiddua; I myself am Ghiddua. But we Ghiddua are generous. We will share the wealth of the new Ngombia with all tribes."

Tom nodded. "Swift Enterprises has worked with what they call ‘emerging nations’ before—Kabulistan, for example. That was an economic development project, and I understand you have something similar in mind."

"Development? One may so call it. Without it, we are poor forever, I think. My friend," Kwanu said, facing Tom with a smile, "you and your very famous family have the reputation of doing the impossible. We have, therefore, come to ask you to undertake an impossible task."

Tom grinned back, slightly embarrassed. "Thank you. If Dad were here I think he’d tell you we can’t do the scientifically impossible, but we’re certainly interested in taking a few stabs at the
improbable
."

"Um, um, um. And I see you have done me the honor of placing a topographic map of my part of Africa in view. If I may― " Kwanu rose and stepped across to the big map which stood near Mr. Swift’s desk on tripod legs. "Now, I shall give you a lesson. I shall beat you bloody with a gourd!"

"Excuse me?"

Kwanu giggled, in a dignified manner. "A witticism—a joke. We Ghiddua are known for our pleasant humorous banter. It is considered polite." He turned to the map, gesturing with his hand. "My country, Ngombia, is divided into two provinces, inhabited by tribes that differ in customs." Kwanu pointed out their locations. "West Ngombia, which is agricultural and settled, contains our capital, Huttangdala, called Princetown during the colonial period. East Ngombia, more primitive—they cannot help it; they are Ulsusu—is rich in minerals which are being mined by an international firm, Afro-Metals, Limited, by arrangement with our government. For of course the Ulsusu cannot manage to do it."

"I’ve heard of Afro-Metals," said Tom. "Dutch, aren’t they?"

"Yes. Our colonial stepfathers have come back to us with some humility. Now unfortunately," Kwanu went on, "the two provinces are separated by a vast jungle with much swampland and many rivers. It is called The V’moda, a rift valley with mountains on either side. It extends from the northern border to the southern border, all the way, a sort of great gash, a knife-cut."

"Yes, I see."

"To weld our country together as one and develop it, a system of transportation must be built through The V’moda, most of which remains unexplored by the eyes of man. A modern highway, that is what we wish. This is an almost insurmountable task, according to skilled engineers."

"Has a route ever been surveyed?" asked Tom, fascinated by the scope of the project.

"Yes, quite recently, by an American firm—the Burlow Engineering Company," Kwanu replied. "My government had planned to give them a contract to build a highway. But they encountered a problem."

"An unforeseen problem?"

"Indeed. For a problem foreseen is perhaps not a problem, eh? The jungle, treacherous enough in itself, is split almost in two by a strange swamp," Kwanu explained. "The highway route must cross this swamp."

Tom was struck by his visitor’s choice of words. "You called it a
strange
swamp, Mr. Kwanu. Why?"

"It is a dark place, full of evil. Over and over, a discouraging thing happens. Innocent people keep falling into its waters and are transformed into huge shambling monsters of vines, mud, and rotting leaves—a dreadful sight!" As Tom’s mouth gaped open, Kwanu added with teeth like pearls: "Another joke! No, it is simply a bad and smelly place. It must be crossed, my boy-son. But Burlow’s engineers are certain that the bog would not support a roadbed. As a result, their proposal called for a lengthy detour around the swamp and too-many years’ construction time for the highway—if it could be done at all."

"And I’m sure the cost― "

"Quite impossible."

"Then Burlow Engineering is no longer being considered?" Tom asked.

Kwanu shrugged. "Surely not, no. I fear they were angry when we rejected their proposal, but we had no choice. We cannot afford their price, nor, frankly, can we wait years for our highway. To win the loyalty of the tribes—the Ulsusu, that is—and to make our country stable and prosperous, the two provinces must be linked quickly. We are hoping you can provide the solution."

Tom smiled wryly. "It’s a large order, Mr. Kwanu. And Burlow is very well-respected. If
they
can’t make it happen― "

Mr. Kwanu sat down again. "But
they
have not burrowed down to the center of the world for iron, nor have they been to the moon above. You, Tom Swift—
you
have done these things."

"Guess I can’t argue with history, sir," responded the young inventor. "We do have something that we’re developing― "

"No doubt the very thing that I read about, which drew me to you at this time, a sort of trestle to span great chasms. I have been advised of it."

"Yes. It’s called the repelaspan. As a matter of fact, we’re about to begin preliminary testing."

"It is my thought," said Kwanu, "that such a thing might be used to span the swamp. Perhaps indeed, the entirety of The V’moda!"

Tom grinned—yet couldn’t deny that the prospect intrigued him! "That’s pretty ambitious, sir. Before anything else, I need to look over the survey reports from Burlow."

"I was well prepared for that hopeful eventuality," Kwanu declared, evidently very pleased. He reached down to the leather briefcase sitting at his feet, and Tom heard him open the clasp.

He began to mutter, twisting in the chair and bending lower. Then he pulled the briefcase up onto his lap and began to rifle through it. "What is this, what is this?"

"Sir?"

At an angle, his eyes met Tom’s. "This is wrong, all wrong!
This is not my briefcase!
"

Tom half-stood, startled and perplexed. "Did you bring the wrong― "

"
I am not wrong
," the man snapped irritably. "
It
is wrong.
It!
The briefcase I carried with me, the one I looked through in the car before leaving the airport—
stolen
!"

The young inventor rounded his desk and stood for a moment at the man’s elbow. What he was saying seemed senseless. "I don’t understand."

"No? The stolen briefcase contained Burlow Engineering’s proposal, based on the survey for which we paid. It included complete details on the likeliest route, terrain, soil sampling, and other information," Kwanu continued. "Yes!—the very report I was bringing here for your use, boy-son." He closed the briefcase and seemed to calm himself. "However, the original report is in Huttangdala, and it will be only a matter of a day or two before we can have another copy sent to you, by electronics. Modern world, eh? Um, um, um. It would have been a great help to you in assessing the problem realistically if I could have presented the papers to you now. We had hoped for an immediate answer."

"It would have helped," Tom agreed. "We don’t want to give a false picture of what we might be able to do, Mr. Kwanu. This certainly sounds like an interesting and challenging job, but we’ll need time to think it over and prepare some sort of proposal. My father will he back this evening, sir. Could you stay in Shopton for a further discussion tomorrow?"

Kwanu shook his head distractedly. "I fear not. In view of the theft of the briefcase, I must return to Washington at once and make a full report to my government."

"I understand. But if you’re saying your property was stolen after you arrived in Shopton― "

"After I locked the door of my car and began to drive here!"

"—then we have to think it might have happened here on the grounds of Enterprises, somehow. If you could meet with Mr. Ames, our security people could begin― "

Tom broke off as Mr. Kwanu jolted to his feet. "My apologies, but I must not delay. I am obliged to contact my country from my office at the Embassy, nowhere else. We have our own security concerns. I will leave now."

Reaching for his desk telephone, Tom said, "I’ll call someone to escort you back to the main gate."

"No, please," frowned Kwanu. "It is only across the way. A crocodile could cross it like an antelope—as we would say. I will contact you within twenty-four hours. For now, goodbye!"

He turned and left, a human whirlwind. In a moment Tom heard the elevator door open and close.

Good night!
he thought.
What are we getting into?

Stepping next door, Tom spoke for a time to Harlan Ames, giving an account of what had happened. "Tom, you must admit this Kwanu’s story is quite a stretch to take in. He flies by commercial airline to Shopton with a valuable briefcase, rents a car, opens the briefcase inside the car and verifies that all’s well, then locks the door and drives here. Then—gone."

Tom nodded. "I’m sure he would have mentioned it if it weren’t in his possession at all times."

"So how’d the switch get made? If there
was
a switch!"

"That ‘if’ crossed
my
mind too, Harlan," agreed Tom. "It’s more likely that he’s lying to us than that somebody teleported his briefcase away without his knowing it!"

"You know," said Ames determinedly, "I can get pretty forceful when I need to. If Kwanu hasn’t driven off yet, I’m going to have Security politely drag him back here. We need a few answers before this goes any further."

He contacted the security desk at the Visitors Center. "No? Oh really? You’re absolutely—yes, of course. Thanks a lot, Terry." Ames looked thoughtful and troubled as he clicked off the telephone and turned back to Tom. "He hasn’t come back through the building yet. Terry says he can see Kwanu’s rental car still sitting in the lot."

Brow creasing, Tom ran a hand through his crewcut. "It’s been more than long enough for someone—even a crocodile!—to walk from Admin to the Visitors Center."

With increasing concern Harlan Ames alerted Security and initiated a search of the grounds. "Not a sign of him," he finally reported to Tom. "Somehow or other the guy’s
vanished
! Now tell me, boss—how can that
be
?"

Tom’s response was a quiet mutter of bafflement. "How can it be? I can’t imagine.
But it is!
"