Tom Swift and the Mystery Comet (10 page)

Tom was taken aback by the audacity of the proposal! "Good night, why should we give a radio personality, an entertainer, a free pass to our ongoing operation? Your ‘ratings,’ Doctor, are not my problem!"

"No? And just what
is
your problem right now, young inventor Tom?"

The young inventor flushed with frustrated anger. He felt it unwise to disclose the strange repelatron phenomenon to the general public. And yet—

Would declining Sarkiewski’s peculiar "challenge" be equally damaging? Might it lead to public distrust—even alarm? He was well aware that the whole matter of the Swifts’ extraterrestrial contacts had generated controversy, uneasy speculation as to the space friends’ never-stated intentions in communicating across the great cosmic gulf. What was ultimately in store for Earth? Was the fate
of the entire world
resting upon the instincts of one young man? There might be greater dangers to humanity than "alien vampires!"

Tom approached the bars and looked the man in the eyes, intensely enough to bring his march to a halt. "Come inside, sir," he said quietly. "Dismiss your media gang. There won’t be anything more to see today. You can announce that I’ve accepted your challenge, details to be worked out. I think your methods are disruptive and—insulting—but if I can settle these issues, well... maybe I
do
owe it to the public."

The look of sheer astonishment on the skeptic’s face showed that he had never dreamed his challenge would be accepted!

The actual negotiations and limits were handled by Tom’s father, Harlan Ames, and the Enterprises legal department. Tom begged off, asking only that Sarkiewski agree not to distract workers from their work—including worker Tom Swift. "But ask your questions, Doctor," Tom told him. "If you find hard scientific evidence that I’m hoaxing the public, I’d say you have an
obligation
to publicize it."

"Please understand," replied the man who preferred to be known as Dr. Sarcophagus, "I’m not so delusional as to doubt the reality of your inventions or your various explorations. My doubts fall into two categories—the existence of these aliens and their communications, and the validity of the traditional Swift style of ‘doing science.’ It seems to me your family status as national heroes falsely emphasizes the role of the intuitive lone inventor in our modern world. I have a reasoned suspicion that behind the studied hype and image, the invention work here involves just as much collaboration as is true elsewhere. It’s not all about the invention adventures of the celebrated Tom Swift!"

"I never pretended otherwise," pronounced Tom coldly. "But assuming you intend to be fair, best of luck."

"And you’ll take me with you to the comet? In your luxury space hotel the
Challenger
?"

"I will," Tom promised, "as soon as our physician pronounces you fit for the stresses of extended space travel."

As Sarkiewski spent his days nosing around Enterprises like a billy-goat and Lett Monica experienced American space training and more earthly pursuits, the repelatron degeneration continued to taunt Tom and his father. Tests on the space outpost showed continued instabilities and fluctuations, and the now-unoccupied hydrodomes beneath the sea quivered and leaked in a regular rhythm. "At least we’ve learned a few things, Dad," Tom said one overcast morning. "The effect follows a rising and falling pattern with a basic cycle of 24 hours."

"In other words," nodded Damon Swift, "whatever the source of the phenomenon, wherever its point of origin, its effects are somehow keyed to the rotation of the earth." He pointed out the most likely deduction: that the flux-burst was weakened when the bulk of the planet was interposed between any vulnerable repelatron fields and the source. "It must radiate through space in a straight line, like light or other electromagnetic phenomena."

"Dad, it may not be that simple," objected Tom thoughtfully. "So far only certain repelatrons seem to be affected—located at three places. And even in the hydrodomes and in Sky Haven, not
all
the repelatrons there are vulnerable to this interference."

"Yes, and that’s a clue—experimental evidence! We’ve seen no trace of this in the
Challenger
’s super-repelatrons, thank goodness, or in the atomicar lift system. Nor the skyway trons in Ngombia—and they’re monitoring that
very
closely."

Tom wandered over to the big office window and gazed out over the grounds of Enterprises. "Could it be intelligently directed after all? A weapon aimed at Earth?"

"Or aimed at Tom Swift by the good citizens of Comet Tarski?" teased Mr. Swift gently. "Let’s take care not to adopt conspiracy theories even less probable than those of the good Dr. Sarcophagus."

"Right," said Tom with a smile. "But now and then I have to wonder—what if scientific deduction starts to falter in the same way as the repelatrons?"

"Then, Tom, we’ll be out of a job, and Shopton will have a four-mile-square white elephant on its hands!"

Mr. Swift left the office to spend time at the plant observatory, where the megascope space prober had been studying Tarski almost continuously since the comet’s arrival in the solar system. Tom worked at his desk flatscreen, planning the scientific itinerary for the
Challenger
comet probe mission.

Presently Trent announced an incoming call. Tom’s brow crinkled at the name: Karl Feng!

"Dr. Feng!" said the young inventor. "This is a nice surprise." His mind deftly reviewed an important question: had he ever finished reading Feng’s book?

"
Güten morgen
, Tom!" the academic said. "I thought I would call you personally to let you know that I received your message and have been able to clear my schedule."

"Well! Fine... er, what message are you referring to, sir?"

"The letter was passed along to me by my publisher."

"I’m sorry, but... I guess my mind’s on other things this morning. What letter do you mean?"

When Feng spoke again after a pause Tom could hear surprise and dawning dismay. "Tom, perhaps I ought to be very specific. My publisher received a letter two days ago, on your company letterhead, bearing the signature ‘Tom Swift.’ The gist of it was to invite me to Shopton at my earliest convenience, to discuss with you and your people my findings pertaining to comets. The message stated that you had run across some information that would make my theories relevant to your upcoming space mission. Are you saying—
surely
you are not telling me that the letter was fraudulent!"

Tom spoke grimly. "I’m sorry, sir, but that’s exactly what I have to say. I’d be pleased to talk with you, but I never sent you a letter."

"
Ach
! Then I must apologize, with a red face."

"There’s no need, Dr. Feng," the youth assured him. "This may be related to that Tom-lookalike who approached you at the convention. It could be just a prank―"

"I find it less than humorous," snapped Feng. "And when I read in the news that my persistent adversary Sarcophagus has wormed his way into Swift Enterprises—! One can’t help wondering how far he is willing to engage in his stalking of nonestablishment science and scholarship."

"You could be right," Tom said. The situation had aroused his own suspicions, and focused them in the same direction. "Sir, you said you’d cleared your schedule. Why not go ahead and visit us after all? Your theories are fascinating—and I know our security department would like to examine that letter." Tom thought, but did not say:
Let’s see what happens when Feng and Sarkiewski get within arm’s reach.
It would be an interesting chemical experiment!

Feng agreed readily, and seemed to be flattered by respectful attention from America’s headline science-celeb. Tom promised to have Bud pilot him to Shopton from his temporary residence in Durham, North Carolina, three days hence. "I don’t think the local airport can accommodate the
Queen
, though," Tom told his pal when the young pilot dropped by.

"Don’t suppose. Say, how about I take the atomicar? It’s a fun ride. The prof might enjoy it."

Tom nodded, adding cautiously: "But—maybe you should fly close to the ground." The repelatron problem loomed in Tom’s mind.

The young inventor tried to concentrate on perfecting his X-raser transmitron and mate it to the new full-size telesampler. Late in the day he took time to demonstrate it to Sarkiewski and to Lethal Monica, inviting them to observe a test on a long runway of the Enterprises airfield, cleared of traffic and personnel. "The target is at the other end, almost four miles away," Tom explained. "You can’t see it. It’s basically a big aluminum drum containing various materials in concentric layers."

"Brand my Brungarian spurs, if you can’t see it, how do you aim this freaky gizmo?" asked Lett, gazing at the transmitron, which had been mounted on a flatbed truck. The completed model consisted of a pair of the long, tubular antennas that Bud had seen in Tom’s lab, which now functioned as the X-raser output. The base of each rod was encircled by a thick hooplike ring which enclosed an array of the polyhedral wave generators that Tom had tested previously.

"We have to have a certain amount of locational info at the start," answered Tom, "which the computer uses to aim the dual antennas. The finer calibrations are made by reading the bounceback from the microwave capture beam, emitted at low energy prior to activating the X-raser component. The transmitron setup handles both the microwave and X-ray beams simultaneously."

Dr. Sarcophagus nodded, and the nod was dripping with acid. "Yes indeed, he latest in laser disintegrators! I’d imagine the Defense Department is
most
interested in your demonstrations."

Tom turned away without responding, but Lett remarked, "These antennas do look like gun barrels, Skipper. But I suppose one might say the same of the ruby rods used in standard lasers."

"The X-raser creates a tight beam, but it doesn’t work anything like optical lasers or microwave masers," Tom commented. "Instead of using crystal lattices or, for example, ammonia molecules to release excess ‘pumped’ energy as precisely tuned parallel waves, the transmitron acts directly on space itself. Using technical principles we developed for the polar-ray dynasphere, we modulate the local electrical and magnetic constants of a very small enclosed space, which in turn affects what’s called the quantum vacuum-flux coefficient. We then induce a very intense electrostatic charge, and the energy is released through the wave-guide tubes as electromagnetic waves of whatever frequency we select, far more coherent than anything coming out of the standard laser, and perfectly parallel."

"Typically impressive," pronounced Sarkiewski, though he seemed unimpressed. "Why do you need two of those antenna tubes?"

"It allows us to control the wave-cutoff point and produce a terminus where the two beams cross. By precisely controlling the position of the terminus, which is where the target particles are pried loose, we can set it to a precise depth."

Tom’s lecture ended with no further questions. He made final adjustments to the dual antennas, which angled toward each other almost imperceptibly. As he began the final procedures, Lett Monica asked hesitantly:

"Tom... about Mr. Sarco’s question...
couldn’t
this be used as a ray-gun weapon? That is to say, you have two beams full of energy—what if someone were by chance strolling innocently across the runway right now?"

"
Pffft
!" uttered Dr. Sarcophagus.

"It’s not as though the thought never occurred to me," the young inventor retorted irritably. "The initial microwave distancing beam functions as radar, and we repeat the sequence with each pulse of power, many times per second. The transmitron will shut down instantly if anything unwanted gets in the way." He added that the twin beams, separated until intersecting at the terminus point, had only partial power individually.

"Now," Tom said. "I’ll set the terminus just outside the barrel, then inch it forward into the center, taking samples along the way."

He threw the master switch.

At the
click
! of the switch the antennas and transmitron chassis exploded like a bomb, in a blast that rocked the watchers off their feet!

"WELL NOW," gasped Dr. Sarcophagus from his position flat on his back. "I should have remembered that the testing protocol of Tom Swift inventions invariably includes one or two explosions!" He felt about for his glasses.

Tom had risen to his knees. "Actually, I’d intended to skip that part of the routine," he said dryly, and with a shaky voice. "Are you two all right?"

Lett Monica, engaged in collecting himself and wiping off his stubbly dome, said: "Sure, boom boy, I’m of tough Brungarian iron. But this time I wasn’t quick enough to pick you up! Of course—I
am
a trenchcoated saboteur, eh?" He laughed at his possible wit.

Meanwhile Tom was walking around the truck, gazing up at the blackened, smoking antenna tubes of his new invention. "Before either of you asks—no, I don’t know what went wrong. I think the explosion occurred in the first stage matter-receiver, where the captured particles are fed into the conduit to the analysis tank."

"And was it the usual sabotage?" sneered Sarcophagus. "The thrills and chills that have enticed ‘
science-minded boys
’ from time immemorial? Or a natural phenomenon unanticipated by intuitive Swift science?"

Tom ignored him, pulling out his cellphone and contacting the plant infirmary. "Larry, could you sent a med-nano out to runway sixteen? Please tell Doc to expect two patients for a lookover. I’ll drop by myself a little later."

"But I feel fine!" protested Lett.

"We mustn’t stand in the way of liability mitigation, Monica," smiled Mr. Sarkiewski. "Have to keep those insurance rates down."

After the two had been driven away, Tom took the wheel of the flatbed and drove it to one of the hangars which possessed an electronics test lab. He opened up the telesampler, transmitron to tank, seeking the cause of the explosion.

Eventually arriving at a plausible conclusion, the youth ridewalked across the plant to the looming dome of the observatory, where he knew his father was continuing his megascope observations of Comet Tarski. "Hi, Dad," Tom hailed the older man, who stood at the monitor console beneath the huge ring-antenna of the space prober. "We had a little―"