Tom Swift in the Caves of Nuclear Fire (3 page)

"I didn’t know that you were an artist," Tom commented.

"I’m not really," Craig answered modestly. "But it’s fun for a hobby."

After Craig had filled in a few further details, Tom described the strange experience he and Bud had had that afternoon and their suspicions that there might be a similarity between the mountain phenomenon and the contents of the opaque tube.

"This is amazing, Tom!" exclaimed Mr. Swift. "If Enterprises could locate the source of a silicon isotope not yet discovered on this earth, it would be a great boon to mankind."

"And to the manufacture of rockets for interplanetary travel," Tom added. He looked straight at his father. "If it wouldn’t interfere with our experiments here, I’d like to go to Africa at once, Dad."

"I knew this would be coming." Mr. Swift chuckled. "Go ahead, Tom!"

"Great!" Craig exclaimed. "I was hoping you would go there with me. Now that I’m officially alive again, I’m anxious to go back."

"But what about the natives?" Mrs. Swift asked, concern in her voice. "They banished you, Craig."

The pilot smiled. "I’m sure that we won’t have any trouble with the Maba—my rescuers. They’ll be impressed that I survived the taboo. But we might have a little opposition from a neighboring tribe known as the Onari. The General is one of them, and I wouldn’t want any of them for playmates!"

"Well, we’ll lick that problem when we get to Africa," Tom commented. "The first step is to plan the expedition."

Next morning the two young men ate a hearty breakfast, then walked to Swift Enterprises. Tom ushered Craig into the office he shared with his father. The pilot wandered around the spacious room, admiring the models of inventions by Tom and Mr. Swift that he had not seen before. He asked about the
Sky Queen,
Tom’s giant plane which could ascend vertically by jet lifters.

"It’s really a Flying Lab," said Tom. "It’s what we’ll use for the trip to Africa. We won’t have in-flight movies, but the meals are top-notch!"

"And what kind of a submarine is this?" asked Craig. "It has an open part in the center with rotor blades in it."

Tom smiled. "While in it, I found the rocket from another planet, but nearly lost my life doing it. You know, Craig, every time I start a new project, I can’t help wondering what adventures I’ll run into. Now take this African expedition—"

Craig interrupted. "Say, speaking of food—how did that cowboy fellow work out, the one you and your Dad had just hired as a chef? Quite a colorful character, as I recall."

"Chow? He’s everybody’s favorite around here." Tom glanced at the wall clock. "Matter of fact, it’s about time for his mid-morning snack run."

Sure enough, in a matter of minutes there came a loud and lazy knock on the door.

"Come in!" Tom called.

A balding roly-poly man, bronzed and wrinkled from the sun, strode into the office. Polished western boots flashed beneath the cuffs of his bluejeans and a garish plaid shirt in the southwestern style completed his outfit. Texas-born, formerly a chuck-wagon cook in New Mexico, Chow Winkler was now in charge of food on Tom’s expeditions.

"Howdy!" he shouted. "Oops! Didn’t know you had company— No, oh no! Cain’t be! But it sure is! Well, brand my lil lost palomino! Where’n creation did you come from, Craig Benson? You remember me?"

"Chow, it’s good to see you again. I finally escaped from that jungle cooking—crocodile stew with a few humans mixed in—"

"You mean you been livin’ with cannibals?" the cook cried out. But Craig could not keep his face straight and Chow said, "At your ole jokin’ again, eh? Well, I sure am glad you’re back—but I had a Texas hunch you wuzzen as dead as they made out. But don’t fly over none of them jungles any more."

Tom laughed. "Why, Chow, that wouldn’t worry you, would it?" he asked. "Craig and I are planning a trip to the African jungle and thought you’d like to come along."

Chow scratched his broad, barren head. "Are you kiddin’, too, Tom?"

"Nope. Serious as Sunday."

The cook sighed. "Where you go gallivantin’, I go too. But it sounds mighty risky. By the way, I jest rambled in to see if you wanted some o’ these—" Chow’s eyes suddenly fell on one of the sketches Craig had made the night before. "Well, I’ll be hog-tied!" he blurted out. "Who drew these?"

"Craig," Tom said.

"Mighty nice. Say, either of these hombres from Texas?"

"Why do you ask?" Tom queried.

"Jest thought I’d seen one of ’em before. This one here."

"That’s Taylor," Craig said. "Karl Taylor."

"Don’t recollect the name." The cook ran a ham-like hand through his sparse hair. "Not real sure where I saw him," he murmured. "Mighta been Abilene, years back. Let me ponder it a bit. If I saw him, you kin bet I’ll remember."

The remainder of the day was spent in preliminary preparations for the coming expedition. Tom and Craig studied charts of Central Africa provided by Enterprises’ geographical department and made a few tentative lists of equipment and supplies.

It was almost dark when they started on foot for the Swift home, glad of a walk in the fresh air.

"Since it’s so late," Tom said, "let’s take the short cut I use through the lane in the woods."

The two were striding briskly along the deserted dirt road when they heard the roar of a motor directly behind them. Tom and Craig whirled to see a car, without lights, approaching at terrific speed. The driver evidently did not see them.

"Look out!" Tom cried out.

Suddenly the car’s xenon-bright headlights blazed on, blinding Tom and Craig. The young men stared in frozen horror as the vehicle careened madly toward them on the narrow road!

THE APPROACHING lights seemed to have a hypnotic effect. It was only with difficulty that Tom was able to rouse himself to action. He pushed Craig into the roadside ditch and jumped for it himself. The car sped by, grazing Tom and spinning him painfully to the ground. Dirt and stones thrown up by the car’s wheels showered down on the two.

Dazed, Tom arose, brushed off the debris, and hobbled onto the road. "Craig!" he called. "You okay?"

"I—I guess so," responded the pilot shakily. He stumbled from the ditch, muttering, "This is a great reception you folks have worked out." He stood and looked off down the road. The car’s taillights had already disappeared. "Whoever was driving that car
meant
to kill us!"

Tom nodded grimly. "You’re right. I think there were two men in it. Did you spot the license number?"

Craig shook his head regretfully. "All I know is, it was a black Montserratti." He added in a somber tone, "Tom, I feel that it’s because of me that you became a target."

"Not necessarily, Craig. This sort of thing has happened to me before. Since you’ve been away, Bud and I have survived all sorts of dangerous situations."

Benson snorted, with a wry smile. "And they say you scientists lead a quiet, academic life!"

Safely home, Tom contacted Harlan Ames and described the incident. "Looks like there’s more to this African business than we thought," Ames observed. "As usual!"

The following morning it was decided that Craig should remain at the Swift home for a day of complete rest. Tom went off alone to one of his private laboratories, where he was soon joined by Bud, who had returned to Shopton late the night before from a purchasing trip, by jet to Atlanta.

"Good trip?" Tom asked.

"Got everything I went for." Bud grinned. "Even those white pith helmets you wanted, jungle boy—just like they wear in the movies. But after you’ve made the discovery of the ages, yours probably won’t fit," he jibed.

Tom pretended to throw a glass flask at him, then continued his work. Bud watched his friend sort an array of soupcan-sized, capsule-shaped objects which had just been delivered from Enterprises’ metallurgical department.

"They’re containers I had made up to get samples of that African gas," Tom explained. "According to Craig, it disintegrated his crockery and metal bottles, but I’m hoping one of these more refractory capsules will hold the gas."

He picked up a sheaf of papers from the workbench and handed them to Bud. "These are the specs on each of the containers—what material was used to make them and how. Read them off to me, please, and I’ll stamp the symbols on each one."

"Right." Bud began reading: "Heavy glass, lead, asbestalon—that plastic asbestos substitute of yours ought to do it." He went on reading, "Tomasite—giving it another chance, huh?"

"I’m trying a different composite formulation," Tom said. "Besides, it’s just a guess that the taboo mountain gas is similar to what we found in the tube from the rocket."

Just then a buzzer sounded. "Somebody’s at the door," Bud said. "I’ll get it."

Reaching under the workbench, he pushed a switch that operated the locking device on the laboratory door. Hank Sterling, head of engineering at the plant, and Arvid Hanson, chief modelmaker and prototype fabricator, entered together.

"Hi, Tom, Bud! Sorry to disturb you," said Hanson. The tall, big-boned man had a genial smile. "Hank and I have a few questions to ask about Terry."

Bud smiled at Tom quizzically. "New employee? Or personal friend?"

Tom chuckled. "You haven’t met Terry, flyboy? I’ll introduce you right now." From behind his workbench he lifted a plastic model into view.

"I had fun making that one," Hanson commented.

Sterling said in an admiring tone, "I’d like one of those for Christmas!"

The model consisted of an elongated, flat, triangular platform, the wide part of the triangle at the front. At each of the three corners of the platform was an assemblage of rings intricately mounted one inside another and set at different angles to one another. About a third of the way back, a round turret rose up from the platform. A metal beam extended forward from this, resembling the arm of a crane and composed of a number of segments that telescoped together. Behind the turret base was a round-roofed passenger cabin.

The most arresting feature of Tom’s invention was its exploration cabin, which nestled snugly on the narrow aft end of the platform, in a cup-shaped framework cradle. Spherical, with two wide windows curving around its middle, the cabin was removable. When the crane was in operation, cables hanging from it would lift the cabin away from the chassis, swing it around to the front as the turret rotated, and raise or lower it as the cables unwound from a spool-drum.

"The terrasphere," said Tom proudly. "Or if you’re on a first-name basis, Terry."

"Pleased t’meet you," said Bud. "When did you come up with this, Tom?"

"It’s the cave-explorer vehicle I’ve mentioned to you," the young inventor replied.

"Tom said you called it the
spelunker-clunker,"
Hank said to Bud with mock severity.

"Yeah, well, that was before we were properly introduced. But I thought it was going to be more like a tank, genius boy."

Tom nodded. "I got a few ideas along the way. For example, instead of tank treads, Terry has these tread-rings, as I call them. As you see, they’re like circular tread tracks, with each track being able to be swiveled to a different axis-angle independently of the others. That’s to give us extra traction and stability inside caves, where there’s usually a lot more wall than floor."

"And this metal ball must be the terrasphere proper."

"Right," Tom confirmed. "The main vehicle can’t handle a sheer cliffside or steep drop. In such a case we’ll park her and lower the explorers in the sphere, which has its own air supply and power system." Occupants of the cabin could safely explore and study deep chasms or caves which other vehicles could not penetrate, communicating with the tank section by means of intercom wires within the suspension cables.

"When Swift Construction said the terrasphere was finished, I decided to take it along to Africa," Tom explained to Bud.

"Really? Don’t tell me those wheel-deals allow it to drive on top of the ocean!" boggled the young pilot.

"Believe it or not, Terry will fit in the aerial hold of the
Queen
when she’s all folded-down," Arv said. "We’ll just have to leave the
Kub
behind." The
Kangaroo Kub
was a midget jet plane that was normally carried along in the flying hangar of the giant skyship.

Turning to the men, Tom asked, "What seems to be the trouble, guys?"

"Arv’s miniature working model ran as perfectly as the computer simulations," said square-jawed Hank Sterling. "But something must not have scaled-up quite properly. We’re not satisfied with the full-sized model. I’m worried that the locking device on the cables isn’t adequate."

"You know how Hank worries," jibed Arv.

"I’ll go down to the big hangar and take a look at it," Tom said at once. "Come on, Bud. I’ll need your help."

Taking Enterprises’ moving-rampway system, called the ridewalk, the boys accompanied the two men to the cavernous underground hangar beneath the main airfield. In addition to housing the Flying Lab, this hangar was the usual testing ground for large-sized inventions and housed an elaborate array of test equipment.

Next to the
Sky Queen,
in the center of the high-ceilinged main room, stood the polished gunmetal-gray terrasphere tank, firmly anchored to the concrete floor with giant expansion bolts. After Tom had thoroughly inspected the locking mechanism at the end of each cable, he announced that every part seemed to be in perfect working order.

"I want to give Terry a test, Bud," he said. "I’ll climb into the sphere. You get into the control cabin and swing me back and forth. I want to put maximum stress on these cables and watch the signaling system."

Bud climbed into the control compartment on the mobile platform, which was located at the top of the crane turret under a small view-dome. Tom entered the sphere through a round hatch. Then, after some practice at the controls under Hank’s supervision, Bud moved a joystick lever which lifted the crane from its horizontal position. He swiveled the boom and began to extend it, and in a moment the descent cabin was dangling at the end of its reinforced cables several feet off the concrete floor. "Ready for your ride?" he called to Tom over the intercom.