Tom Swift and His Ultrasonic Cycloplane (5 page)

"Absolutely!" agreed the young inventor with a broad grin.

"And what exactly did you learn from this episode?" Bashalli asked. "Something about the limitations of drawstring swimwear, perhaps?"

"That, and more," Tom said. "Thanks to Bud, I now know that I have some real problems to overcome in the design of the ultrasonic generators."

Sandy asked if a flaw in the generators had caused the
Drumhawk
to become unstable.

"In the generators themselves, or at least in their positioning," was the answer. "That funny sound we heard was an interference effect due to sonic resonance in the metal shell of the platform. It may have had to do with the waves being reflected back from the sand dunes all around. I didn’t anticipate it."

"Well, Tomonomo," observed Sandy, "even genius-boys can’t anticipate everything."

Bud rubbed his head.
"And
even handsome young sky-surfers can get a surprise now and then." He bent over and knocked water from his ears.

Two days later, while Tom was busy in his private lab perfecting new engine mounts for the cycloplane to counteract the wave-buffeting problem, the phone rang. Answering it, he heard the calm, crisp voice of Munford Trent, the two Swifts’ office secretary. "Tom, the communications center is relaying a call from the space outpost—it’s Ken Horton."

"Thanks, Munford—"

"I’d prefer to be called ‘Trent,’ please."

"Sorry. Go ahead and put Horton through."

In a moment Tom was speaking to the young head of the Swift space station facility, their voices conveyed over more than 22,000 miles of cosmic emptiness. "Tom, we’ve finished those polyfrequency photo studies you requested. I’ll be transmitting the data shortly, but I thought I’d give you some advance word."

"You found something?"

"Definitely, Chief!" said Ken excitedly. "Dr. Jespers and the astronomy boys say they’ve identified a big old crater smack in the middle of New Guinea!"

Tom was amazed. "A
crater?"

"Yep, an ancient one, so eroded-down and covered by jungle that you can’t recognize it at ground level, or even from a plane. Jespers thinks it’s from a meteor strike several hundred million years back. But it’s mighty big, amigo—the crater walls, what’s left of ’em, circle almost the entire region you wanted us to look at."

"My thanks to everyone," Tom said. "If the holmium was originally carried to earth by the meteor itself, the densest concentration should be near the center of the crater. Someone must have mined it out of the ground there, centuries ago."

"If I know you, you’re going to go take a look!"

Tom chuckled. "Obviously! But first we need to narrow down the range of the search."

Later in the afternoon, Tom discussed the matter with his father in their shared office, Bud sitting in attendance as he often did.

"Finding a source of rare-earth substances is certainly a worthy goal," observed Mr. Swift. "You could fly a search pattern above the region in the
Sky Queen,
as you did in the Verano uranium project. The improved metal detector and long-range spectronalyzer will allow you to map out the element distribution from an altitude of 30,000 feet or more."

"Great! Let’s go!" Bud cried spiritedly.

Tom rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I don’t want to leave Enterprises right now, not while I’m right in the middle of the cycloplane project. On the other hand, I don’t want to just set it aside for too long."

"Look, guys, why not do it in two phases?" Bud suggested. "Slim Davis told me you were planning to have him fly those asbestalon samples, your new formulation, to Australia overnight, so why not have me tag along with him? On the way back we could fly right over the center of that New Guinea crater, and see what the instruments pick up. Then when you’re ready to fly there in the
Queen,
you’ll have less ground to cover."

The two Swifts approved Bud’s idea, and arranged for the necessary equipment to be installed on the Swift Construction Company jet that was to be used. By dinner time Bud and Slim, a seasoned company pilot, were airborne and headed for Australia.

Two mornings later, Tom sat in one of his labs talking by satellite relay to Bud, who was now on the return lap of the flight and soaring high above the New Guinea jungle.

"Just crossed over the crater wall," Bud radioed. "Nothing to see, though—just green, green, green."

"What do the instruments say?" Tom asked.

"Oh, no big change, just—wait a sec, Tom." There came a long pause, and Tom could imagine his friend carefully examining the instrument readouts. "Got a spike all of a sudden—holmium! Man, the numbers are going up fast!"

Bud recited the readings, and Tom whistled in surprise. "That counts as an ore strike already." But he cautioned that false positives could not be ruled out yet. More data would be needed to confirm the find.

After Bud had transmitted the position of the jet, the voice of Slim Davis came on the speaker. "Boss, this is quite a place! There’s some kind of tropical storm going on, with lightning flashing back and forth. We’re bouncing around like grease on a griddle, and the instruments are wiggling all over the—"

Bud’s startled voice interrupted Slim’s.
"Up! Pull up!"

There was a long, loud burst of static.

"Slim! Bud!" Tom called frantically.

After a moment Bud Barclay’s voice could again be made out through the rush and roar of interference.
"…was a close one, Tom. I…"

"Bud, repeat!"

The static rose and fell, aping a concealed voice that could not quite penetrate the noise. Then it broke through again, very faintly.
"…like volcanoes, two of ’em…"
Another break.
"…gap in the clouds, so we’re making another pass, way low down…"

Tom strained to catch the overlapping voice of Slim.
"…huts lined up with colored roofs. Bright colors. Looks like the tribesmen are…"

With a crackle of static, the broadcast cut out completely!

Concerned and fearful, Tom punched buttons on the communications control panel, changing the signal route. In seconds he had made audio contact with Ted Elheimer, who ran the California link of the videophone system, the Swifts’ private communications network.

Tom hurriedly explained the situation. "Can you pick up their signal from one of the videophone satellites?"

"I’ll try, Tom!" After a few moments, Elheimer reported that he had acquired the signal from the jet. "Pretty weak, but I can hear them."

"Are they all right?"

"No!" exclaimed Elheimer grimly. "They’ve activated the emergency locator tone!"

Tom went pale. The automatic distress signal!

"I’m hearing Bud—I think," Elheimer continued. "Something about…instruments are haywire, and…"

There was a long, ominous silence over the speaker. "Ted! Do you still have them?" demanded Tom. "Can you hear them?"

"Sorry, Tom," came the slow reply. "The signal is gone—both the vocal and the distress call. It cut out all at once. I—I’m afraid they’ve crashed!"

RIPPING OFF his earphones, Tom darted to the main videophone terminal and flipped on the switch. As the screen lit up, Ted Elheimer’s face came into view.

"What happened to the signal, Ted?" the young inventor cried out. "Any trouble in the relay hookup?"

Elheimer shook his head gloomily. "No, Tom. The transmission just stopped, that’s all."

Tom was numb with shock and fear. "Good night, in country like that, they won’t stand a chance!" Struggling with his emotions, Tom clenched his jaw grimly. "The important thing is, Bud and Slim may have parachuted to safety. They’ll be depending on us!"

Tom hurried back to his office and immediately began organizing a rescue expedition. Issuing orders at high speed, he dictated a number of memos to Trent, then phoned the news to his mother and father at home.

Mrs. Swift was extremely proud of her husband and son. She found it difficult, however, not to be fearful of the dangers they often encountered while pursuing their scientific work.

"Oh dear," she murmured. "Please be careful, son. A rescue flight to uncharted jungle country is…" She interrupted herself with a deep sigh of resignation. "But of course, you
have
to do it."

"Don’t worry, Mom," Tom soothed her. "I won’t take any unnecessary chances, but I certainly can’t leave Bud in the lurch."

Tom then spoke at length to his father, discussing the details of the rescue flight and receiving the elder scientist’s complete and trusting support.

But the hardest call, which Tom insisted on making himself, was to San Francisco, where Bud’s parents lived. They reacted tearfully, but with bravery and hopefulness.

That night brought Tom only worry, not sleep.

To transport the rescue expedition, Tom had chosen his huge solar-powered aircraft, the
Sky Queen.
This amazing stratoship, nicknamed the Flying Lab, had been designed by the young inventor to help him carry out scientific research work in any part of the globe.

The following day, descending to the underground hangar where the
Queen
was berthed, Tom beamed an electronic key to open the door. On the floor below, there was a bustle of activity. Mechanics swarmed over the mighty three-decker craft, which filled the entire underground hangar space with its streamlined silver form.

"Engines all check?" Tom asked the crew chief.

"Not yet, skipper. Couple of burned out units. We should have her all loaded and ready for takeoff by five o’clock."

"Good work. Buzz me as soon as you’re ready, Hanno." Tom turned to go when a loud, gravelly voice came booming across the hangar:

"Gangway, you cowpokes an’ buckaroos! Gimme lots o’ room now! Here comes the grub!"

Chow Winkler had returned! But for a moment it looked as though a whole supermarket had grown a pair of bowlegs and was clumping across the concrete under its own power. The legs were clad in blue denims, stuffed into high-heeled cowboy boots. Above, the rest of the figure was blocked from view by an enormous carton, loaded high with groceries and canned foods.

"Gangway, all you waddies! Chuck wagon’s comin’ down, so—"

"Chow!" Tom let out a yell as he saw one of the man’s boots miss a step.

The next instant, cans, bottles, blue denims, boots and all came tumbling and clattering headlong in a spreading circle of catastrophe!

There was a moment of stunned silence as the echoes died away and the cans and assorted objects stopped rolling and came to rest. Then a stout, weather-beaten figure emitted a faint groan and raised itself painfully from the debris.

"Chow, are you all right?" Tom gasped as he hurried to assist the middle-aged Westerner.

"Don’t reckon I’ll know till I try standin’ up. Here, gimme a hand, son."

Tom slipped a shoulder under one arm while Hanno Turrosh, the crew chief, supported Chow on the other side. Together, they managed to hoist the bald-headed, roly-poly man to his feet.

Gingerly Chow Winkler tested his limbs. The Texan grinned wanly. "Left eye feels like I might wind up with a shiner. Them soup cans kin pack a mean punch! Mebbe I better slap on a hunk o’ beefsteak jest in case.

"Don’t bother, Chow," a mechanic guffawed. "With that shirt you’re wearing, who’ll notice your eyes?"

Forgetting all about his bruises, Chow turned from side to side to display his purple and flame-orange cowboy shirt. "Ain’t it a jim-dandy?" he beamed. "I picked up this here lil ole number in San Antone on my—" A phone shrilled at the rear of the hangar.

"It’s for you, skipper!" a mechanic sang out. Tom hurried back to take the call.

"This is George Hedron," said the voice at the other end of the line. As Tom struggled to place the name, the man added: "We haven’t met, Mr. Swift, but I’m an instructor at the DuBrey Institute. Miss Prandit is my student."

"Of course," said Tom. "She’s mentioned you."

"I just heard the news from Bashalli about your rescue expedition to New Guinea, so I decided to call up and volunteer."

"Volunteer?"
Tom was puzzled for a moment.

"To go with you. You see, I’ve been down in the New Guinea jungles before, photographing animal and floral specimens, which I use as live models for technical illustration—my specialty and main occupation. I might be able to help you a good bit."

"Oh, I see." Uncertain, Tom stalled. "It’s kind of you to offer, but I’m not sure that we’ll be able to take another person. May I call you back?"

"Sure, you can reach me here all afternoon," Hedron replied, and gave Tom his phone number. "Really, I just want to help in any way I can."

After hanging up, Tom frowned for a moment, then dialed Harlan Ames, the plant security chief at Swift Enterprises. Quickly he told what he knew of Hedron’s background. "Check up on Hedron, will you, Harlan? Bashalli and the school should be able to give you more info. Find out if he’s on the up-and-up, and call me back as soon as possible. If he’s legit, I wouldn’t mind having a New Guinea expert on the team. The government there keeps telling us there’s little that they can do."

"Will do, Tom!"

In less than an hour Ames reported back. "Everything looks all right, Tom. Bash and the Institute hold him in very high regard. I checked Hedron’s university record and he holds a master’s degree in zoology. So far as I can find out on short notice, he has no criminal record."

"No sign of skullduggery? No secret meetings with the Brungarians or the Kranjovians?"

Ames laughed. "Not a trace!"

"Good enough, Harlan. Thanks!"

Tom felt that there was now no reason to turn down Hedron’s offer of assistance, especially in such a life-and-death emergency. So he phoned the zoologist and told him to prepare for immediate departure and report to Enterprises by mid-afternoon.

Soon after five o’clock, the roof of the underground hangar swung open in two halves, rotated by smooth-working gears. The hangar floor was then raised to ground level by hydraulic lifts, and the majestic
Sky Queen
emerged into the bright Shopton sunlight.

Sandy and Bashalli had driven out to the plant to wish Tom a last-minute farewell. "I’ll be worried every minute you’re gone," Bashalli confessed shyly, "and imagining your shrunken head on a stick. So do be careful!"