Tom Swift in the Caves of Nuclear Fire (12 page)

Hank looked sheepish. "I’m afraid my background in particle physics is a little skimpy."

The professor smiled, for one moment appearing almost suave. "Photons are bosons—packets of energy that do not interact with one another, or with anything else. Like angels, any number of them can dance on the head of a pin! Fermions are the particles of which matter is composed, filling space to the exclusion of other such particles. They are quite different, you see. Of course, so-called ‘fermionic condensates,’ with mixed properties,
have
been created in the laboratory; but stable, enduring particles of that nature is the stuff of dreams, as it were."

"Well, we may have it right here!" Tom said excitedly. "And because it isn’t made of matter at all, it wouldn’t be affected by
anti
matter."

Hank agreed that the strange idea deserved to be thoroughly explored.

Eventually the others left for supper, and then for sleep, but Tom soldiered on in the metallurgical laboratory of the giant craft. Isolating himself, he worked feverishly to determine the bizarre properties of the material.

With barely time out for a snack, Tom worked far into the night. Finally, near dawn, Bud and Craig insisted that he rest for a few hours.

Smiling, he said, "Just to keep peace with you guys I’ll go to my bunk awhile for some shut-eye."

At daylight Tom resumed work. For him the day passed quickly, as he tried experiment after experiment. Again when night came, there was another intrusion by Bud and Craig.

"You two are like a couple of mother hens," Tom remarked, laughing. "But I suppose I owe you an explanation. The space-knot idea has held up well so far. I’ve been trying to concoct a paint for covering containers. So far, I’ve had no success.

"Do you think you’ll solve it?" Craig asked.

"I
will!"
Tom declared in a defiant tone. "Next, I’m going to try a paint using a gelatin base. To the gelatin I’ll add a portion of the finely ground rock. The combination will be a colloid. With luck, it might work!"

A long day became a restless night. At eight o’clock the following morning Tom continued his work. During the course of the day, various other members of the expedition traveled via the terrasphere tank to the taboo mountain, always taking great care to determine whether the antiproton gas had erupted. They returned with large quantities of the bluish-white rock substance. Hours went by but Tom knew now that he had the right consistency of paint, although the problem of drying still confronted him. At last, however, with the addition of some Tomasite he found the answer.

Excitedly he called in all the members of the expedition. "I think I have it!" he said. "Now I’ll put new containers to the test. Hank and Arv, will you help me make half a dozen of them and I’ll paint the containers inside and out, then bake them to get a smooth surface. In the morning we’ll go back to the mountain."

"Well, brand my empty bean cans!" exclaimed Chow. "Tom Swift, you’re smarter’n a pack o’ prairie wolves—and that’s mighty smart!"

The others added their congratulations, but Tom held up a hand. "Save your praise until the experiment has been completed," he urged.

"Your dad will be thrilled to learn this," Arv Hanson remarked.

"I’ll talk to him as soon as I learn a little more about the nature of the gas itself," Tom said.

As night fell, Tom enjoyed a hearty supper with his fellow expeditioners for the first time in days. Chow only smiled when asked what had gone into the odd-colored casserole that he had prepared, but it proved to be delicious nonetheless.

At the table Doc Simpson discussed some of his own experimental work, in which he had been engaged as circumstances permitted since the arrival.

"There’s quite an unusual selection of rare herbs and plantlife in this little corner of Borukundi," he explained. "Tom, do you suppose the radiation from Goaba might be producing mutations in this area?"

"The radiation level is completely normal around here," was Tom’s reply. "At least that’s the way it is now. But it may be that the levels were much higher in the past. What we’re seeing may not be new mutations, but the descendants of old ones."

Simpson nodded his agreement. "Yes, that makes perfect—"

His comment was masked by a loud crash rolling down the central corridor from further aft in the ship.

Chow groaned. "That better not be comin’ from my kitchen!"

"More likely the infirmary," muttered Doc Simpson, rising to his feet with the others.

A figure appeared striding briskly down the corridor toward them. "Professor Cully!" cried Mandelia Akwabo. "Is something wrong?"

Ry Cully paused, blinking in the light. "Tom Swift!" he thundered.
"What about the banana?"

Tom’s jaw dropped. "Did you say—"

The gray-haired geophysicist broke out in raucous laughter! "No, my love is like a red, red… "

The last words were choked off. Cully’s legs gave way and he collapsed to the deck!

IN THE infirmary of the
Sky Queen,
Doc Simpson frantically examined the unconscious geophysicist.

"His vital signs are all right," the medical man said to the onlookers crowding the door. "I’ll be darned if I can figure out what’s causing this." He looked up, frowning, and caught Tom’s eye. "You know, I’d almost diagnose Cully as
falling-down drunk
. Could that be possible?"

"We have no alcoholic beverages aboard the ship," Tom stated.

"Not even cookin’ sherry," Chow added.

"Besides," said Hank, "I’ve gotten to know Ry fairly well over the last week—he’s hardly the drinking type. Doesn’t even drink coffee or soft drinks."

"I don’t smell any alcohol on him… " Simpson passed a hand over his eyes. "You know—I’m starting to feel… " He paused, then looked at the others blankly. "What was I saying?"

"Better set yerself down, Doc," urged Chow. Suddenly he chuckled. "Now thet’s a fool thing fer me t’say—he’s already settin’. That bell, though… s’makin’ me a mite… " The big cook sagged against the doorframe, trying to hold himself up.

"The air!" gasped Tom.

"What about her?" asked Bud waveringly.

Tom struggled to speak coherently. "She—I mean,
it—
something—everybody
run!
Go!"

Leaving Cully in the infirmary, the others staggered a wobbly path back to the dining area, where Tom switched on powerful fans to draw out and replace the air. They began to feel better almost instantly.

"What in the world happened to us?" mumbled Mandy. "My head is throbbing… and that
smell!"

Bud wrinkled up his nose. "I didn’t notice it before, but I sure do now! Man, it’s like somebody emptied a whole bottle of cologne on the carpet—
Tropical Nightmare!"

Yet Arvid Hanson was mystified. "I don’t smell a thing!" he protested.

"You weren’t affected mentally, either," commented Tom. "Whatever this is that we’re reacting to, you’re immune to it, somehow."

"Could someone be pumping a gas or drug into the
Queen
from outside?" asked Craig.

Tom shook his head. "The instruments are sampling the air constantly for outside impurities, and it’s well filtered. This must originate inside the plane."

Bud mentioned the crash they had heard. As he seemed unaffected, Arv walked back down the corridor, first to the galley, then through the infirmary. He returned holding a small glass flash with a stopper in its neck. The flask was cracked on one side.

"This was lying on its side under one of the shelves in the infirmary," Arv reported.

Simpson took the flask from Arv’s hand to examine it closely. Immediately he winced.
"Phew!
You don’t smell that, Arv?"

"Not a bit!"

"This flask contains one of the samples I took earlier today. I must’ve carelessly set it on the edge of the shelf." He glanced at some black markings written on the flask. "Now I recall—it came from some bright pink flowers that the insects seemed to be avoiding, though they looked the same as all the others. I didn’t notice any particular odor then, but—"

"Now’s a different story!" choked Craig Benson. "It’s awful!"

"Guess we’ve found the culprit," Tom said.

"This may be one of the ingredients the people of the Maba village use on the tips of their spears," mused Doc Simpson. "It must generate a vapor that affects the central nervous system. Say, that could be why Arv is immune—the shaman’s treatment must provide a degree of protection."

"Wa-al, get rid o’ that skunk juice!" begged Chow, holding a gaudy bandana to his generously sized nose..

"Not on your life," responded the doctor. "This could be a great discovery. But I’ll bag the flask so the vapor will be isolated."

Meanwhile Ry Cully had regained his feet and stuck a woozy head into the corridor. "What’s the excitement out there?" he demanded. "What am I doing in the infirmary?"

"What’s the last thing you remember, Ry?" Tom inquired.

"I heard a sound in the infirmary, and went in to take a look. I seem to recall… something on the floor, and—" He frowned in perplexity. "Something about a banana."

"That there’s powerful stuff!" muttered Chow to Tom.

The next morning Tom, Bud, and Craig prepared for their trip back to the mystery mountain. They worked steadily in the clearing next to the
Sky Queen,
stocking the terrasphere tank for the next phase of the project.

"This time," Tom declared, "we’ll stay at the mountain until the phenomenon takes place." He had packed away a number of the new containers he had fabricated, coated with the antiproton-resistant material, before breakfast. Then, in the light of a pale sunrise, he had carefully sprayed a coating of the protective stuff over every inch of the terrasphere tank, as well as the descent sphere itself, which had been unloaded into the clearing but was not yet emplaced on the tank platform, as it would not yet be used. In honor of its peculiar immunity to matter-antimatter reactions, the young inventor had conferred the name
Inertite
upon the coating substance.

"What if the magic gas shows up in the middle of night?" Bud asked. "Should we go on guard duty?"

"None of us need lose any sleep on that score," the young inventor replied, smiling. "I’m attaching a miniature radio transmitter to the automatic valve of each container. When the valves open a signal will be sent out. It’ll set off an alarm inside our vehicle."

"Very ingenious, Ingenious Boy!" Bud commented. "So if the alarm goes off, we’ll get some kind of answer to this mystery. I don’t suppose there’s a ‘snooze button’ for the alarm—in case we want to catch a few more winks?"

"Sorry!" Tom laughed. "By the way, we’ll take the earth blaster along. I may do a little digging to see what the mountain is made of further down." In response to an expression of curiosity by Craig, Tom described the earth-borer machine he had invented. This special small model would not drill by vaporizing the material in front of it, but would use diamond-hard hypersonic vanes capable of reducing solid rock to dust. Specimens would accumulate in a small container at the rear of the device.

"All the vittles are loaded," Chow announced presently. "Enough fer a week, five meals a day. Mebbe you all won’t have nothin’ else to do but eat fer a while."

"Thanks," said Tom. "I’ll radio if we decide to spend more than one night at the mountain, though." Then he turned and yelled out, "All aboard!"

At that moment a terrifying ragged roar came ripping through the nearby trees. "A lion!" Bud cried.

"I thought I heard someone’s voice too!" said Tom. "Maybe he’s in trouble!"

Tom ran to the edge of the clearing and peered off into the dense jungle bush. A second roar was followed by the crack of a rifle and the whine of a bullet. The missile tore through the sleeve of Tom’s jacket! As he looked down at the hole in stunned surprise, Bud’s muscled arms closed around him, pulling him aside to safety. As the youths dodged behind the trunk of a tree, another shot ricocheted off the bark.

A third bullet came whistling past Tom, this time from behind. The tree trunk was no longer a shield! Tom and Bud threw themselves to the ground. Still more shots rang out. Chunks of bark exploded from a tree just behind the young inventor. Then at last all was quiet.

Tom heard worried shouts from the
Sky Queen,
and from Craig Benson, who had sought cover behind the terrasphere tank. But Tom and Bud remained in their prone positions, listening. They could detect the faint sound of snapping twigs. As the noise grew louder, Tom watched intently. He thought he could hear the deep, heavy breathing of a lion—or was it imagination? Some of the brush began to swish violently. Someone, or something, was approaching their camp!

A few seconds later a husky figure, wearing the traditional tan-and-khaki clothes of a big-game hunter and holding a rifle in readiness, stepped from the brush into the clearing. To Tom’s surprise, the hunter proved to be a woman.

Tom cautiously rose to his feet, ignoring Bud’s hissed protest. "What’s the idea of shooting at me?" he yelled angrily.

"Oh, hello there! Do you mean one of my shots nearly hit you?" the hunter gasped.

"More than one. What were you trying to do?" Tom pointed to the holes in his shirt sleeve and the shattered bark of the trees.

"I must apologize!" the stranger replied. "I wasn’t aware there was a camp here. When that lion came toward me, I just kept shooting! Whuff! Guess I scared him off. But this settles it! From now on I’ll leave big-game hunting to the experts. Why, goodness, I might have killed you!"

Bud, unable to remain quiet any longer, retorted, "You sure might have! You’d better leave that rifle here, lady."

The woman, tanned and somewhat burly, glared at Bud. "The name, young man, is Ophelia Wootenscarp." Bud took a half-step backward—the woman still held her gun, after all!

"I’m Tom Swift," said the young inventor coolly, then introduced his friends. "Are you in Africa for sport?" he asked the hunter.

"No, no," she replied. "I accepted a position with a small company here that transported cacao down the Congo River for export. After a year, the firm went bankrupt. I decided to stay for a few months,
experiencing
the
real
Africa, before returning to my tame and dreary life in England."