Tom Swift and His Triphibian Atomicar (7 page)

"Oh my word, you wished to make
our
acquaintance!" Bashalli’s voice showed that the wave of astonishment had now spread her way.

"As the only one here who is neither pretty
nor
a celebrity, we’d be delighted if you’d join us at dinner, Ort," stated Ed Longstreet. The others added their urgings, and Throme finally accepted.

"In fact," he said, "if you don’t have a restaurant in mind, I’ll guide you to one of my local hangouts. Wonderful food."

"Actually, we have one more in our party, Mr. Throme, who’d surely like to meet you," Sandy said. She glanced at Bashalli. "I wonder how Chow is getting along with Lady Thunderbird." She turned to Ort and explained: "Our friend is in there, probably posing for Custer’s Last Stand." Throme chuckled.

"We can all see for ourselves," Bash continued mischievously, pointing to the artist’s house far down the street. "Mr. Throme, too. You’ll like our friend—he is
colorful!
"

As they passed the driveway beside the house, Sandy glanced into the back yard and clapped a hand over her mouth. "Oh, no!" she exclaimed, struggling hard not to burst out laughing—and the laughter was winning!

In the yard, seated before an easel, was the stout lady artist. She wore a blissful expression. Her subject was not so happy.

Chow’s leathery face bore a scowl. He wore a gaudy silk neckerchief and bearskin chaps as he posed beside a discontented, even downright surly, cow.

"Now pick up that branding iron," the artist ordered, "and pretend you’re branding the bull."

"You don’t brand ’em standin’ up!" Chow protested. "An’ besides, I keep tellin’ ya,
this ain’t no bull!
"

As if in total agreement, the cow turned her head and licked Chow’s face. "Git away!" the cowboy stormed.

Unable to restrain themselves any longer, the watchers burst into shouts of laughter. Chow’s neck reddened with embarrassment. "Sorry, ma’am," he apologized, doffing his big hat, "but this stuff ain’t fer me, I guess."

The woman appeared stricken. "Ohhh, dear. But Mr. Winkler, you’re so perfect!"

"Ye-ahh, that may be, little lady, but I ain’t no model." He handed her the chaps and kerchief she had provided. "And
that’s
no bull!"

Looking straight ahead, the flustered cowboy stomped out of the yard. Tom clamped a hand on his shoulder as he passed. "Come on, old-timer. What you need is a good, juicy, three-inch steak!"

Chow brightened. "Now you’re talkin’, boss. An’ loaded with ketchup, too!"

The chef was introduced to Orton Throme. "Say, it’s a right honor. I got a book o’ your pictures back in Shopton!"

"What do you think of them?"

"Don’t rightly know. Never did open up the book, t’tell it straight."

They dined in a small cafe. Throme talked of his experiences in the Afghanistan conflict, and Tom spoke of his triphibian atomicar. He avoided all mention of the ruby mystery, and his subtle glances warned the others to do likewise.

"A flying, swimming supercar, eh?" The artist’s face assumed a thoughtful look. "What’s it look like, Tom?—if you don’t mind my asking."

"Not at all," said the young inventor. "There’ve already been news articles about it." Taking out a pen, Tom sketched out a rough drawing of the prototype. He pointed out its various key features. Ort gazed at it in silent fascination, then produced a pen of his own and commenced drawing on his dinner napkin.

"Lovely!" exclaimed Bashalli when she saw the result.

"Just doodling," Ort replied with a smile. "Call it one possible direction your prototype could evolve toward."

The sketch presented a sleeker, more attractive version of the atomicar’s body shell and overall configuration. The teardrop dome now completely enclosed the upper part of the vehicle, nose to tail, without a break in its smooth line. Throme had added some chrome trim, and had moved the forward wheel cowlings further toward the front, so that they now extended slightly beyond and below the enclosed nose. "Wow!" grinned Tom, very impressed. "The future on wheels!"

Ed studied the drawing. "Mounting the wheels so far forward really changes the look."

"Now the
Silent Streak
looks more like a leaping jaguar!" Sandy exclaimed. "I’ll bet Enterprises’ll sell a million of ’em!"

Tom handed the sketch back to Throme. "Ort, would you be interested in selling us this design of yours?"

Grinning, Throme waved off the napkin. "No, Tom, keep it—it’s yours. Send me a release to sign if you want. I don’t care to become a paid automotive designer."

"Son, you stick to yer picture-paintin’, ’specially western stuff," advised Chow. "Never goes out o’ style!—an I been in plenty o’ motels."

Darkness had fallen when the group finally started back to the Citadel, with Tom at the wheel. Sandy and Bash were still chatting excitedly about the day’s sightseeing and their encounter with the celebrated Orton Throme. The highway was almost deserted, moonlit and star-lit except for a pair of lights far behind them. Eventually even that disappeared.

About ten miles out from Taos, the van’s engine suddenly began sputtering and coughing. "Wonder what’s wrong," Tom said.

"Frankly, cousin, it sounds as if we’re out of gas," Ed said cheerfully.

"We can’t be. Look at the gauge needle."

A moment later the engine died abruptly. Tom barely managed to steer off the road before the van rolled to a halt. The three menfolk got out to check the tank, lift the hood, and offer unneeded advice.

Suddenly a distinctive-looking pair of headlights flashed on some distance away on the highway. The car that had been behind now overtook them and pulled off the road just ahead of the van. A bareheaded man leapt from the car, brandishing a revolver.

"Raise up your hands, all of you!" he snarled in a voice that had a familiar foreign accent.

No turban. But it was Mirza!

AS HE strode toward Tom, Ed, and Chow, Mirza’s face was starkly revealed in the glare of the Citadel van’s headlights. He looked pale and unshaven. His eyes gleamed fanatically.

Moving past the three men, Mirza jerked open the rear door. "You women, if you please—step outside!"

"At least you asked politely," commented Bashalli with calm dignity.

Sandy followed Bash out. Mirza motioned for the girls to join the others.

"I suppose you drained our tank while we were having dinner back in Taos," Tom accused Mirza. "And then doctored the fuel gauge."

"Most clever of you to guess," the man sneered. He turned to Sandy and held out his free hand. "I will take that ruby ring, please!"

As Sandy stepped back defiantly, Tom snapped, "Go ahead, take it from her. I want to watch what happens when you touch it!"

Mirza froze. "And what is this?"

"In case you’ve forgotten, the rubies from that lost mine in Kabulistan bear the curse of Shaitan! Did you forget what happens to one of the faithful who defies the words of an imam?"

Tom’s words were a mere shot in the dark. But the effect was startling. The former secretary’s face contorted in fear. "What does a young American fool like you know about the curse of Shaitan?" he blustered.

"I know that it’s already bringing you bad luck," Tom said smoothly. "Every word we’re saying is being picked up—which means a State Police car is probably on its way here right now!"

"A lie!"

"Take a look for yourself at the cellphone on the dashboard," Tom prodded. "It’s on. Did you think we wouldn’t guess that we were being followed, just because you switched off your headlights?"

"We spend half our time in public being followed," Sandy added. "We’re very used to it."

Mirza took the bait. He edged toward the open door of the van. As he bent forward slightly to glance inside, Chow’s gnarled fist shot out in a whirling uppercut!

The punch caught Mirza on his outthrust chin. He tottered backward and Ed dived at his legs in a tackle that brought the man crashing to the ground. Before Mirza could bring his revolver into play, Tom wrested the gun from his hand.

"Don’t try any stunts!" Tom warned.

Said Bashalli mockingly, "The stunts are to be all on our side! Unfair, is it not?"

Mirza struggled like a madman, but Ed and Chow pinned him relentlessly to the ground by the power of muscle and unforgiving gravity. Tom quickly got a length of rope from the van, and Mirza was finally subdued and bound.

"Brand my tumbleweed soup!" Chow panted, when it was all over. "Back in the noose! Yuh’d think the critter would learn."

Mirza gasped out a torrent of abuse in his native language. Several times his listeners caught the word "Shaitan."

Tom asked Bashalli if she could understand any of it. "A little bit," she replied. "Most of which I shall not venture. I am too refined. As to the rest, it appears he is unhappy with you and rather upset. And he advises the devil to shift his curse onto your shoulders, Thomas."

"Let’s jest hope he ain’t listenin’," declared Chow nervously.

Tom made use of the van’s dashboard phone. Soon a State Police car arrived. The sergeant in charge tried to question Mirza, but the prisoner gave only raving, disconnected replies.

"Beware! The Amir’s ruby must be returned to Kabulistan, or hurled into the depths of the sea!" he stormed. "If not, the curse of Shaitan and his afrites will fall upon you!"

"I guess that’s all we’re likely to get out of Mirza," Tom murmured. "Might as well show him his cell, officer."

The sergeant agreed in disgust. "I’d say this guy belongs in a
padded
cell."

After Tom put some gasoline into the van’s tank from the police car’s emergency supply, he and his companions continued on to the Citadel.

"Tom, do you suppose Mirza really believes in that silly curse?" Bash asked a few moments later. "Or was the whole thing just an act?"

"If you ask me, he was just covering up to keep from answering questions," Ed Longstreet said flatly.

Tom agreed. "For all we know, he may still be working for Flambo!"

Sandy shuddered. "If that business about the curse was just an act, he deserves an Oscar!"

For a thoughtful moment Tom did not comment. Then he said: "Frankly, I’m not worried about any ‘curse.’ But there
is
something I wonder about. We would have left Taos a lot sooner if we hadn’t spent a long dinner chatting with Orton Throme."

"You’re thinking he might be in league with Mirza?" asked Ed in surprise.

"What I’m thinking is, that extra time allowed Mirza to do a number on our car after it got dark."

"Never did trust them artistic types!" snorted Chow. "No offense, Bashalalli. Jest mean the men."

The next day Tom reported the incident to Citadel security and by phone to Harlan Ames. He soon forgot about Mirza and the attempted burglary as he plunged back to work in his laboratory. A study of the new isotope’s atomic characteristics had sparked a different train of thought.

"Maybe I’ve been thinking too narrowly," he said to Bud Barclay. "Why think in terms of a miniaturized atomic reactor in the first place?"

Bud grinned. "Because otherwise you wouldn’t be able to call it an atomicar?"

The young inventor laughed. "But there may be an entirely different way to utilize atomic reactions to produce power." Tom explained to Bud that, some time previous, he had run across a report in an internet journal concerning a novel theoretical approach to using neutron decomposition to induce electric current. "In fact, we were given permission to repeat the article on our own website,
ForeSite
. This was back when I was trying to solve the power problem on my space solartron."

"You solved that problem with your antiproton device," Bud observed. "Couldn’t you use the same thing in your cars?"

"The energine?" Tom shook his head. "It runs on Exploron gas, remember, and the stuff is very limited in quantity—we don’t know how to manufacture it." Switching on his computer, Tom visited
ForeSite
and brought up its archives. "Here’s the article," he muttered. "Hmm! That’s interesting."

"What?"

"I’d forgotten—the original research was funded by Imperative Motorskill!"

"Ah hah! That must have something to do with Mr. Isosceles wanting to see you!" The dark-haired flier asked if Tom had yet heard from the eccentric businessman.

"Not a peep," Tom answered. "Strange, isn’t it? In any event, I don’t need to speak to Isosceles at this point, not about the neutron research. I’ll contact the company scientist who worked on it. Let’s see—the name is Rosso Freegler."

"Jetz!" Bud chuckled. "I’m sure glad
I
don’t have to come up with these names! Sometimes you gotta wonder what parents are thinking." It was a matter very familiar to young Budworth Newton Barclay. And to his childhood schoolmates.

Tom began making calls. To his dismay he soon found that Dr. Rosso Freegler was no longer in the employ of Imperative Motorskill, "where
skill
is the last word."

"I’m sorry, but it’s against our policy to give out information on our former employees," pronounced the head of human resources. "It’s a liability issue."

"I understand," Tom said. He made several other calls—to his father, to various contacts in science, industry, and government. Finally he hung up in disgust.

"Guess the guy doesn’t
want
to be found," Bud suggested.

"Maybe not." Then the young inventor decided to try another approach. "Bud, there’s one thing about us scientist-inventor types—we can’t help commenting when we think we see other people heading off on the wrong track, scientifically."

"So?"

"So I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find that Freegler has sent letters to various scientific journals since he left Motorskill. I’ll put a few search engines on the scent—we might be able to dope out his location!"

Tom’s strategy began producing answers almost instantly. "Thank goodness the guy has an uncommon name! All these ‘hits’
must
be the man we want." It developed that Freegler had written several letters to scientific publications and research journals. One printed letter gave a partial address!