Tom Swift and His Repelatron Skyway (8 page)

Mr. Jombilabu was an elderly, jovial Ghiddua, bursting with the customary dubious humor of the culture. His driving skills were also questionable. Tom, Bud, and Ted were relieved when the crowded, colorful streets of the Ngombian capital disappeared on the far side of the protective wall enclosing the Ministry Building complex.

A tall, very skinny Ngombian awaited the visitors in Mr. Jombilabu’s well-appointed office. "Gentlemen, this is Dalo Kiuma, my chief of staff, formerly an explorer and professional safari guide. I have assigned him to assist you in your trip to The V’moda. He is a good Ghiddua, but is familiar with Ulsusu customs and language, things you will surely have to deal with."

"I thought the Ulsusu and the Ghiddua spoke the same language," Tom remarked.

"Not the same," stated Kiuma bluntly. "They have their own inflections and idioms, and can be difficult to understand." Suddenly he turned toward Ted Spring, staring at him in a challenging way. "But perhaps your Mr. Spring is himself of Ulsusu descent, is he not?"

"If I am," replied Ted, "it was generations back. There’s no way to know."

Kiuma smiled in a patronizing way. "Oh, there are ways, I assure you."

Tom Swift’s facial expression expressed a great deal—to those who knew how to read it. Pointedly turning away from Mr. Kiuma, he said to Mr. Jombilabu: "Thank you for the assistance, sir. On this trip we’ll be doing our scouting from the air, for the most part. If it looks like we’ll be requiring the services of a translator or safari leader, we’ll certainly get in touch with your office."

Kiuma started to say something—a protest or warning, Tom thought—but Mr. Jombilabu held up a hand. "As you wish. We have not yet—quite—found the Burlow file. I can at least provide a general map of the route we originally asked them to survey." Tom thanked him.

The encounter with Mr. Kiuma made the Americans uncomfortable. After leaving the Ministry compound, Tom quietly apologized to Ted for having had to endure the man’s attitude. "Doesn’t matter," Ted replied.

But to Tom Swift it
did
matter. He could already see that Darcy Creel was right. The Ngombia project would be
far
from a stroll in the palm trees!

THE THREE had been assured that the streets of the capital between the Ministry and the airport were well-patrolled and perfectly safe, day or night. Unworried, they strolled along at a relaxed pace, old colonial buildings and sleek new offices rising on every side. The twisting boulevard throbbed with color and excitement beneath the darkening African sky. Men, dark-skinned and stalwart, milled about in flowing, brilliantly patterned togas with one shoulder bare. The women were clad in sarong-like garments of printed calico, their heads swathed in gaudy kerchiefs. Some carried naked infants, slung papoose style, on their backs. Others balanced trays of food or merchandise atop their heads with uncanny ease.

"I guess those trays must be the Ngombian version of supermarket shopping carts," Bud joked.

"Guess so," said Tom. "Not much in the way of European-style business dress, except for the tourists."

"Notice how the women always walk just in front of the men?" Ted pointed out. "I read that it’s an important custom among the Ghidduas."

Bud snorted. "Yeah—
they
take the spear for their husbands! Somehow I can’t see Sandy or Bash doing it."

Some merchants displayed their wares in wooden booths lining the street; others had their goods laid out on the pavement itself on raffia mats or banana leaves. Hunks of raw meat, kola nuts, rice, yams, corn, and a variety of fruits and vegetables were offered for the customers’ inspection. Constant bargaining went on in a bedlam of high-spirited chatter. The approach of the evening meal, by tradition held immediately at sundown, seemed to energize the shoppers and merchants.

Tom made a remark to Ted. When his friend didn’t respond, the young inventor glanced over to him curiously. Ted’s face bore a fixed, wary look. "Is something wrong, Ted?"

Ted shrugged. "As we’ve been walking along, all those ‘good Ghidduas’ we’ve passed have been staring—maybe
glaring
—my way."

"I hadn’t noticed."

"I’ve had a lifetime learning to notice, T-man. It’s not because I’m dressed differently. They don’t pay any special attention to you and Bud, not here in the tourist district. It’s
me
—because they think I look Ulsusu."

Tom was dismayed. "Ted, I had no idea how this would play out."

"I know," his friend replied. "No point in my frettin’ over it."

A squeal nearby drew their attention. An older European woman was chattering in a language that might have been Italian. In the throes of delight, she was pointing into one of the stalls that displayed various knick-knacks and souvenirs.

As she drifted away, Tom saw what had interested her. It interested him too. "Look at that carving!" he said to his companions.

"That one? Looks like ivory," Bud muttered.

"It’s not what it’s made of that caught my eye. Look at the shape of it, guys."

They moved closer and bent down to examine it. "What do you suppose it is? Some kind of tribal god?" speculated Ted. "Looks like an elephant standing up on his hind legs, with the head of a crocodile."

"Yep," Tom agreed. "But to my eyes it also looks like a crude version of something else—a dinosaur!"

Bud raised an eyebrow. "It does look a little like a T-rex at that, now that you mention it. The ivory whittler must be up on all the latest movies from America."

"Maybe that’s it," Tom commented back faintly—as if he doubted the pronouncement. He couldn’t help but remember the rumor of strange beasts roaming the local jungles.

"Let’s get going," chuckled Bud Barclay wryly, "before the proprietor starts trying to convince us it comes from Atlantis or something!"

They soon reached the airport and the comforts of the
Sky Queen
, where Chow Winkler’s Africanized dinner awaited them—and it was delicious.

The last of the day dwindled away in bits and pieces and the skies shone with an ivory moon and a wash of stars. Bud, having born the brunt of the cross-world flight as pilot, was asleep in a bunk. Too excited to sleep, Tom sat in the lounge chatting with Hank Sterling about the engineering challenges of the Ngombia project.

"Maybe we should be thinking in terms of something like a high-speed bullet train with tracks suspended up above the swamp," suggested the young, square-jawed chief engineer of Swift Enterprises.

"Now that there’s a thought, boys," put in Chow, who had come forward from the galley to join them. "How ’bout one o’ them monny-rails, boss? I hear that’s purty much th’ modern thing—got one in Las Vegas!"

"It
is
a thought," Tom agreed. "It’s just that the Ngombians seem to be thinking in terms of moving big volumes of― "

All three stiffened in shock as a bloodcurdling screech suddenly resounded throughout deck three! "
He—ee—elp!
" cried a frantic voice. "Get this monster away from me!"

"It’s Bud!" Tom exclaimed, bolting up from his padded sofa.

Tom dashed aft through the carpeted passageway, with Hank behind him and Chow waddling excitedly at their heels. They had the same thought. If something had set off brave, athletic Bud Barclay, it was certain to be a menace and a half!

When they reached the crew’s bunkroom, the men stopped short in astonishment. Bud was flattened down in a wall bunk, staring up at one of the weirdest creatures the boys or Chow had ever seen!

The tiny beast was perched on the pillow at Bud’s head. It was leaning forward with its long bony fingers on Bud’s temples while it peered down hypnotically into the youth’s eyes.

"G-g-great hoppin’ horned toads!" Chow sputtered. "What kind o’ critter is that? This some kind o’ joke, buddy boy?"

"If—if it is—somebody else is pullin’ it!" gasped Bud. The little animal, small enough to nestle in a man’s hand, had brownish fur and a long tail. As Chow spoke, it looked up at the three newcomers.

"Good grief," Tom muttered. "Head lamps for eyes!" Its huge orange eyes, with pinpoint pupils, seemed to take up most of the creature’s face. Large, batlike ears made it look even queerer.

"Hank—Tom—somebody!—
get it off me!
" Bud begged the watchers. "Don’t just stand there! Do something!" As if too afraid to shift his gaze, the youth continued to stare raptly into the face of his fantastic admirer.

Footsteps came hurrying down the passageway, and Bill Bennings poked his head into the bunkroom.

"Oh—oh! I was afraid of that!" he said apologetically. "Come here, Bushy, you little rascal!" The tiny creature leapt onto Bennings’s shoulder and disappeared inside his light Enterprises windbreaker.

"You mean that pop-eyed goon belongs to
you
?" Bud growled, sitting up and glaring at the crew member.

"Well—er—yes. Little pet I picked up in town when I went out earlier today. A real bargain. She has all her shots and papers, too. No problem bringing her back."

"What is it?" Hank Sterling put in with a grin.

"A bush baby—or galago. She’s very friendly."

"
Friendly?
" Bud swung his muscular legs down from the bunk, landing on the deck with a furious thump. "When I woke up and saw that spook staring at me upside down I almost did a jet takeoff!"

Chow howled with laughter.

"And just what’re
you
laughing at?" Bud demanded.

"A great big buckaroo like you scared out o’ his wits by that little critter!"

Bud snorted. "Seems to me I remember hearing a story about a big brave Texan and another little― "

"Aw now, you kin just fergit about what happened in New Guinea!" Chow interrupted, fuming and indignant. "Brand my ghost-dance, yew cain’t do a blame thing without it follerin’ you around fer the rest of― "

"I was afraid to move," Bud muttered defensively. "It might have poked my eye out or bit my nose off."

"I take it the thing
won’t
bite?" Tom asked Bill.

"No, of course not," he said hastily. "The seller told me she was owned by a little old Kenya lady who brought her up from cub-hood. I—I guess should have asked permission to bring Bushy on board, but I didn’t think she’d bother anyone. She was curled up asleep in some of my gear. I didn’t think she’d go off exploring."

"Uh-huh. She decided to explore
me
. Okay, okay. She is
kinda
cute I
guess
," conceded Bud as the little creature timidly poked her ears and eyes out from Bill’s jacket. "But keep her away from me!—I’m all explored."

As the group left Bud alone to resume his interrupted sleep, Tom whispered to Bill: "He’s melting already!"

The next morning, as the rest of the crew readied the
Sky Queen
for the next leg of her mission, Tom decided to return to the stall where the ivory idol had been displayed. Bud accompanied him.

The hour was early, but already the streets of the capital were thick with humanity. The youths found the little stall, already up and running, the owner working quietly and patiently as if he had never left, whittling a piece of wood.

"Something tells me half these tribal antiques are newer than last Tuesday," Bud murmured with a smile.

Tom chuckled. When he glanced up, he noticed that the carver had stopped work and was watching them closely.

Indicating the small ivory statue, Tom asked, "How much?"

The man stared at the American impassively, then suddenly resumed his carving. When Tom repeated the question, the response was barely audible. "
Nkò mo nto wi.
"

"That’s putting it mildly," gibed Bud. "Maybe he doesn’t speak English."

"With all these tourists? I’ll bet he does—at least ‘
how much?
’!" Tom took out his wallet. "We want to buy it. Please name a price."

"
Kise tita!
" The carver shook his head. He did not look up.

As Tom persisted, the craftsman grew excited. A crowd of locals began to gather, muttering ominously.

"Wrong way, sirs, wrong way." The high-pitched voice came drifting in, on a thick accent, from nearby in the crowd. Looking back and forth, Tom couldn’t make out who had spoken at first. But presently another comment drew his eyes to a very short young African, no more than a child, who was looking on with a shrewd expression.

"What did you mean—
wrong way?
" Tom asked him. "I only want to buy one of the items he’s selling."

The boy laughed. "Oh yes, sirs, so you do! You were here last-day. So was I, sirs, and I saw you looking." He stepped closer to Tom as Bud watched suspiciously. "But no—um, um, um—you will not be able to buy it."

"Yeah? How come? Isn’t it for sale?" demanded Bud.

"Not to you, sirs."

"Why?" asked Tom.

"Because of your friend, the black man who was with you before," the boy replied. "This man here, Old Bu’umo—he will not sell to those who make friends with an Ulsusu. If he did, all his
own
friends would go away."

Tom was amazed! "But—but that’s—!" He forced himself to stop sputtering. "Our friend is American, like us. He’s not Ulsusu."

This brought a shrill laugh from the boy. "Oh no? Um, um, um! Too bad. He
looks
like one."

"Forget the thing. Let’s get out of here," Bud urged. "The locals here are crazy!"

"Akomo can get it for you," the lad piped up, dashing forward. A furious discussion ensued at high pitch. Finally the boy, Akomo, turned to the two Americans. "He will not sell to you, sirs, but he will sell it to me for a big price."

"What size of
big
?" inquired Tom.

"In American money, four dollars and eleven cents. Originally eight thousand, before I bargained. But sirs, he has dealt with Nigerians, and will not accept checks or credit cards. Cash only, no returning."

Tom couldn’t help grinning at the boy’s industriousness. The three-way transaction was accomplished, and in a minute Tom had the idol in his hand. "And here, Akomo—five dollars for helping us."

"Five? All right, better than sick chickens." The bill disappeared into a hidden pocket at lightning speed. "Now, sirs, I offer myself to you, for a guide and to translate. I am clever and a good speaker of all languages. And look!" He pulled up his long, caftan-like shirt. "American jeans!"