Tom Swift and His Repelatron Skyway (6 page)

"Perhaps so."

"Someone could have been hiding in the other, unused segment, the one branching off to the right."

"Um, um, um!"

"So he lures, or forces, Mr. Kwanu off to the right, closes the partition, and takes his papers and briefcase. Then the other man, Inbimah, steps out and takes his place."

"Remarkable!" Onammi exclaimed. "Yet it does make plausible the impossible, does it not? My word, my word! And so one must ask—where are these two men now?"

"That’s the question," agreed Tom.

Tom expected the Ambassador to end the call, but the man raised another matter. "I promised you a copy of the Burlow file, from our office in the capital. But it seems there will be a delay."

"Oh really?"

"I am informed we cannot—quite—find it. Rather humbling to admit. I’m afraid the new government, though we are well-educated and efficient Ghidduas, is not yet in an orderly state. Even as I speak, this report may be resting peaceably on a desk somewhere. We will surely have it soon in hand, but― "

Tom grinned. "I understand, sir. We’ve been known to misplace things here at Enterprises."

"Yet what a shame, to delay your ability to give answer to our proposal to you."

"Maybe we can get around the problem. Couldn’t I contact Burlow directly? They must have copies of their findings."

"Of course," nodded Mr. Onammi. "Though I fear I cannot assist you. Burlow and Ngombia parted ways on a somewhat sour note, I should say. We cannot compel them to provide you with what is, in legal fact, their own property."

"I understand," said Tom. "All I can do is give it a try. Perhaps if I go to them in person they’ll be more inclined to cooperate."

"As you say—all you can do."

That settles it
, Tom thought as he hung up. Giving life to his quick decision, he took a company jetrocopter and, without further delay, flew to Newark to interview Ben Burlow, president of Burlow Engineering Company, about the Ngombian highway survey.

The young inventor gave his name to a receptionist in the Company’s second-floor office lobby. She stared at him uncertainly. "Mm. Yes. Just a moment, please, Mr. Swift," she said. She entered the office behind her, closing the door—despite which Tom could hear a muffled verbal explosion.

A moment later a rugged-looking, gray-haired man burst from the office, his face red with anger. "So you’re Tom Swift, eh!" he shouted in a growl. "Get out of here before I throw you out!"

TOM was startled by the man’s furious outburst, but said with forced calm, "If you’re Mr. Burlow, I’ve flown all the way from Shopton to see you. Please hear what I have to say."

"I’m Burlow, all right!" the man stormed. "As for hearing you, I’d say you’ve talked too much!" He waved a newspaper in front of Tom’s face.

Tom took the paper and glanced at the article Burlow pointed out. The next moment Tom flushed with annoyance and embarrassment.

The story was headlined:
TSE Wins "Impossible" Job in Africa Jungle
. It stated that Tom Swift Enterprises had just announced that it was contracting with the Ngombian government to complete, in a matter of months, a jungle highway which other engineers claimed would take years to build. The story was full of boastful quotes, attributed to Tom and his father. A number of snide, slurring remarks, supposedly made by Tom, were included about the firm which had lost out on the project.

"So you think you can do a better job than the Burlow boys!" the company president raged. "You young whelp-snipper, you aren’t even― "

"Look, Mr. Burlow," Tom cut in coldly, "I know nothing about this story. Swift Enterprises has made no such announcement, and I’ve given out no interview. Those alleged remarks of mine are as much of a shock to me as they were to you. Being in this business as long as you have, you must know that we at Enterprises don’t talk about other companies that way."

Burlow stared at the young inventor in disbelief, the red slowly subsiding. "In that case, where did the story come from?"

"I don’t know, but I intend to find out," Tom replied. "We haven’t even agreed to take on the job."

"Very well," the company president said grudgingly. "Come with me."

Tom followed him into Burlow’s private office, where he was gruffly waved into a chair. Burlow regarded Tom with a scowl of mistrust.

"All right," he rumbled. "What’s on your mind?"

"So far, Swift Enterprises has merely been invited to take on the Ngombian highway project," Tom began. "We haven’t even looked over the terrain yet. The job must involve terrific problems if a topflight, experienced firm such as yours would need years to handle it."

Burlow looked somewhat mollified.

"Before going any further," Tom went on, "we’d like to know what we’re up against. That’s why I came to see you."

Tom refrained from intimating that he had an added reason for his visit. He was hoping to glean some hint of whether Burlow Engineering, no friend to Ngombia, might be connected with the sinister events of the past two days.

Burlow became somewhat paternal, if in a patronizing way. "You came to the right place, son," he said with relish. "I like to do what I can for young men entering the arena. But in this case—well, if any outfit can lay that highway in less than three years, I’ll eat my hat! And it’s a hardhat!"

Tom shrugged. "You may be right. However, I would like to study the proposal you submitted to the Ngombian government."

"Why should I let you see that?" Burlow snapped.

"The engineering details and specifications could save us a lot of time in sizing up the project."

Burlow snorted. "Encouraging the young is one thing. If you think I’m about to help a competitor, you’re way
too
young for this business!"

"The Ngombian government paid for your survey," Tom pointed out. "Surely they should be able to make use of the results."

"Then ask them. They have copies."

"They do," Tom acknowledged, "but I’m hoping to avoid a delay in making a decision." He mentioned the problem in the Ngombian government office.

Burlow stared in amazement, then burst into a loud bray of laughter. "Too bad, Swift. In that case, I guess you boys are just out of luck!"

Tom stifled the angry retort that rose to his lips. All that escaped was: "Our company doesn’t treat honest competitors as enemies, Mr. Burlow. Then I take it you won’t cooperate?"

"That’s right. If you great
hey-we-went-to-the-moon
geniuses at Swift Enterprises want to take on the job and show us up, go for it. Bid it out." Burlow’s little eyes crinkled in a foxy smile as he added, "I’ll tell you one thing, though, boy—you have a real unpleasant surprise coming if you think you can lay a highway straight across that jungle swamp. It’s a
busy
place, you might say." The man chuckled in a snide way. "You’ll soon find out why we jacked our price up so high!"

Tom realized that it would be useless to press Burlow further. He was more than happy to leave and fly home.

Arriving at Enterprises, a harried George Dilling reported that news services and "media people" had been phoning his office, asking for more details on the publicized Africa project. He had already issued a statement by Tom’s father denying the original story, but confirming that a development project was being "studied".

Tom then he hurried to the security office to discuss the matter with Harlan Ames.

"I’ve just finished checking out that phony article," Ames reported. "Its undisclosed source was one of those trashy ‘fearless investigator’ gossip sites on the internet, something called the Burge Blast. The teenage owner declined my gentle invitation to reveal where those quotes came from originally."

"You can spread anything far and wide these days, Harlan."

"Especially manure."

Next day found Tom in one of his personal labs, deep in thought over the mystery and the ominous warnings by Creel and Burlow. Giving up on the conundrum, Tom hopped into one of the plant’s midget electric nanocars and sped across the grounds to the observatory building, where he knew his father was working with Enterprises’ electronic video-telescope, the megascope space prober.

Father and son engaged in a lengthy and detailed conversation in the dimmed light of the observatory dome, the huge megascope antenna presiding. By the end of the sober conference the Swifts had decided to plunge ahead on the African project as quickly as possible. "I’ll call Ambassador Onammi and give our provisional acceptance," declared Mr. Swift. "We can talk more about our strategy tonight at home. A good meal can do wonders for the imagination."

Onammi was delighted. However, he reported with some embarrassment that the file on the Burlow survey had not yet been uncovered. "We are becoming concerned that Ulsusu sympathizers are working within our government, undetected," he admitted.

For this reason, Tom decided that an on-the-spot survey of the jungle terrain would be needed before the project agreements could be finalized. By the end of the day he had made tentative plans and put together a small team to join him on the trip to Ngombia. "I’m still pretty dry of ideas on how to solve the transport problem," Tom told Hank Sterling after inviting him along. "Maybe looking over the ‘enemy’—The V’moda—will suggest something."

That evening the Swift family was joined at dinner by Jake Aturian, Mr. Swift’s longtime friend, who managed the Swift Construction Company on the other side of Shopton. After supper Tom and the two older men gathered in the den to discuss the possible Ngombia project.

"Well, Damon, from what you’ve told me, I’d say the project is worth looking into," said Mr. Aturian. "We’d be helping a new democratic country in Africa, and a successful job over there would he a credit to America—if you two Swift thinkers can lick the engineering problems."

Mr. Swift’s eyes lighted with enthusiasm. Trim and youthful looking with keen blue eyes and hair barely touched by gray, he closely resembled his taller, lankier son. "I agree, Jake. However, I’ll be tied up on our aerospace research project, the grant from NASA—which means that Tom here will have to take charge once again."

Jake Aturian raised an eyebrow. "Sometimes one’s offspring can be pretty convenient to have around.
After
you’ve brought ’em up, of course." Tom laughed.

"So how about it, son?" asked Damon Swift.

"I’d sure like to try. With the team backing me up on the engineering end, and Uncle Jake on costs, I think I’ll be able to handle it."

"It’s bound to be easier to deal with than other big operations you’ve wrangled, Tom," Uncle Jake noted reassuringly. "You did a fine job with the earth blaster operation in Antarctica, and the Little Luna expedition."

"Thanks. But if I get knocked down, it’ll be the tech problems that do it—the invention side of things," said Tom.

His father then asked if he had any ideas beyond the repelaspan system to knit together the divided nation.

"Not exactly, not yet. It seems the Ngombians have some kind of superhighway in mind. I’m not sure we ought to limit our thinking, though. An atomicar transport system might be one solution," Tom mused. His listeners knew that this flying vehicle Tom had designed had been intended for mass production. "Since the flying cars can operate over any terrain, no regular highway would be needed. That way, we― "

Tom’s words were cut short by a spurt of the alarm system, a sudden whine of warning! The startling alert was followed by a strange sharp sound, like something tough being ripped violently in two. An object, long and skinny, streaked across the line of vision of the three.

With a twang the bizarre missile buried its nose in the wall of the den!

"A spear!" Tom cried in disbelief.

Leaping from his chair, he dashed over to examine the still-quivering weapon. The two others, slower to put aside their surprise, took a moment to join him.

The spear was imposingly large. Attached to the back end of the shaft, fluttering limply, was a small strip of light-colored material bearing a crudely printed message in blood-red ink:

TOM SWIFT — YOU AND YOUR KIND HAVE NO BUSINESS IN AFRICA. STAY OUT OF NGOMBIA OR YOU AND YOUR FAMILY WILL SUFFER !

THE EXCITED shouts of the men had sent Sandy and her slender, pretty mother hurrying into the den. As Tom read the message aloud, not realizing they were standing in the doorway listening, their hands flew to their faces in alarm and dread.

"Oh!" Mrs. Swift gasped anxiously.

"Why didn’t the warning buzzer keep ringing?" Sandy asked, bewildered, as she put a reassuring hand on her mother’s arm. The Swift home was surrounded by an electromagnetic motion-sensor field that gave warning of any intruder.

"It was the spear that touched off the alarm," Tom guessed. Crinkling some sheets of blank paper around his hands so as not to disturb any fingerprints, he yanked the fearsome object from the wall with a grunt of effort and held it upright next to him. "Whoever threw it must have stayed outside the range of the alarm."

His sister couldn’t believe what Tom was saying! "But Tomonomo,
look
at that thing—it’s taller than
you
are! Are you saying somebody
threw
it—all the way from the road?"

"And even if
were
thrown, how did it manage to break through the window glass?" demanded Mrs. Swift. "Damon, I thought the new Tomaquartz panes― "

"It didn’t break through the window pane," murmured Tom’s father as he eyed the weapon, and then let his gaze backtrack along its half-glimpsed path. "It broke right through the
wall
!"

He pointed to a ragged, palm-sized gap in the front wall of the room, which faced the little road that crossed in front of the well-protected Swift property.

Jake Aturian joined his friend in examining the spear. "I’ve never seen anything quite like this," he stated.

"Put that aside for now, Uncle Jake," Tom exclaimed suddenly. "The spear thrower may still be outside on the roadway—maybe even inside the hedge if he’s wearing one of the field-neutralizer coils!"