Tom Swift on the Phantom Satellite (7 page)

When everyone readily agreed, Tom donned an oxygen rig and helmet, turning his pressure suit into a true spacesuit, and exited the
Titan
. An extravehicular tech crew from the outpost was already at work, inspecting the brackets that joined the ship’s crew compartment to the central cylinder.

"Horton here," came Ken’s Texas drawl over Tom’s earphones. "The beam is almost completely detached, Tom, but we should be able to fix it up quickly."

"Wait a sec," replied the young inventor. "I’d like to take a look." Using tiny gas jets built into the forearms of his suit, Tom soared around the curving bulk of the craft to the spot where the repair crew had gathered.

Ken Horton greeted Tom and gestured toward the metal bracket. Tom floated closer and whistled softly. "The bolts didn’t give way," he said. "The whole beam has cracked open."

"Must have been a flaw in the casting," commented Horton.

"I’m not so sure!"

Tom radioed the
Titan
and asked Kent Rockland to suit up quickly and join him outside.

"Glad to!" Kent exclaimed. "I can hardly wait to put my practice time in your zero-G chamber to use!"

When the young metallurgist arrived, accompanied by Bud Barclay, Tom asked him to take a close look at the beam and give an opinion as to the cause of the break. "It wasn’t some random flaw," Kent declared presently. "I’d say sabotage!"

Tom nodded, unsurprised. "How did they do it?"

"Without giving you the full course in metallurgy and fabrication—someone managed to introduce a thin strip or ribbon of fragile material into the beam, probably during the casting phase. It didn’t extend all the way through, but it weakened the girder enough for it to slowly twist apart."

"We’ll use the portable scanner to examine the other brackets," promised Ken Horton.

Tom added, "Better check out the landing struts as well."

Tom jetted backwards to clear the way for the tech crew. But just then, a crewman who was jockeying a heavy piece of equipment across the gap between the outpost and the
Titan
bumped it a glancing blow with his air tank. The bulky machine, knocked loose from its path, began to tumble and swung straight at Tom’s back!

"Look out!"
Bud and Kent cried out at the same time.

Both launched themselves with a flying kickoff from the hull of the spaceship and hurled themselves at Tom to knock him out of harm’s way.

But the effort misfired. Though Kent was able to shove Tom aside, the whirling bulk slammed hard against the back of Bud’s transparent bubble-helmet, sending the young pilot hurtling into open space.

"Barclay! Use your jets!" cried Ken Horton.

"He’s been knocked out!" Tom exclaimed. He could see Bud’s head lolling inertly inside his helmet.

Tom activated his own suit jets and streaked to Bud’s rescue. Only seconds had passed, but his pal was already more than a hundred yards from the outpost! Tom retrobraked, found that he had overcompensated, then retroed again. Finally he was able to snag Bud’s limp form and draw him close. But when Tom tried to activate the jets again to return to the space station, they sputtered once—and died!

Good grief, I’m out of fuel!
Tom thought in alarm. And Bud’s suit jets would provide no help, as they could only be operated from within the spacesuit, and Bud was unconscious.

Suddenly a glittering movement against the blackness of space caught his eye. A thin cable, painted a brilliant green, snaked out from the direction of the outpost like a striking serpent! As the end streaked past, Tom grabbed the line. A moment later it snapped taut.

"Nice shooting, guys!" Tom radioed, relief in his voice.

"You didn’t forget about our pressurized rescue lines, did you?" joked one of the men.

"After all, you invented it!" added Ken Horton.

Tom used the rigid line to propel himself back to the vicinity of the
Titan,
his arm around Bud, who was beginning to stir and groan.

Kent said, "I thought you were goners!"

"Of course, any of us could have jetted over to pull them back," noted Ken Horton evenly. "Even you, Rockland. You were nearest."

The metallurgist looked abashed. "I—I know. Guess I froze up for a second."

"No harm done, Kent," Bud muttered woozily, conscious again, but aching where the back of his head had snapped against his helmet.

"Better knock off for a while and catch your breath," Horton suggested to the trio from the ship.

"No time for that," said Tom urgently. "We must hurry."

At last the repair and inspection was completed. Tom and Ken Horton exchanged a warm spacesuited handclasp.

"Sure sorry you aren’t coming with us, Ken!"

The space veteran laughed. "Next time, boss. Maybe I’ll come visit you on Little Luna—once the volleyball courts are set up!"

The members of the expeditionary force now reboarded the
Titan
. At the last moment, a crewman from the space outpost came floating through the connecting passage bearing a large, pressurized case.

"For Dr. Wohl," he explained tersely, handing the case to Bud, who looked at it curiously. "What is it?" Bud asked, but when he glanced up the crewman had already departed.

Bud brought the case aboard and handed it to Violet Wohl, who expressed pleasure and carefully unsealed it in front of the other crew members. The case proved to contain a cage full of white rats!

Chow’s face wore a doubtful expression. "Brand my gyro, ma’am, what’re you doin’ with them varmints?"

Dr. Wohl, carefully strapping the case to her own bunk, replied with mild indignation, "These are valuable cargo, Chow. They’ve been raised in low gravity on a special diet, and I’m taking them along for research experiments on the satellite. I don’t want to risk having them injured before we even get there."

"Wa-al," responded the range hand, "if’n they get loose in here, we’re gonna wish we’d brought along a few space cats."

Dr. Wohl stood tall and looked Chow in the eye. "They won’t get loose. But if anything happens to these little guests of mine, you’ll find that I can be worse than a wet space tiger! Is that
clear?"

"Yes sir, ma’am!"
gulped the chef. But as he slunk meekly away, he snorted under his breath, "Huh! First time I ever heard o’ treatin’ those thievin’ calamoots so good!"

Smiling, Tom ordered everyone to buckle his safety harness. Then he accessed the flight computer which would control their revised course to the satellite, and radioed farewell to the space outpost.

"Here goes!" he cried as the countdown ended.

The main thruster roared, and the
Titan
responded instantly. But instead of a gradual, steady acceleration, the ship hurled itself into space as if struck by a home-run batter! The force of the acceleration was more powerful than the crew had expected, and they were all jolted backwards into their cushioned seats, violently.

Hank Sterling choked out a lungful of air, as if he had been slugged in the stomach, and Col. Northrup, who sat next to him, remarked through clenched teeth, "This is nothing, my friend. On the shuttle we had to take more than—"

The next instant the cabin resounded with a sharp crack like a pistol shot! The acceleration seat occupied by Henrick Jatczak flipped backward, hurling the elderly scientist to the deck!

"Tom!" yelled Gabriel Knorff, struggling with the sudden pressures of acceleration. "The guy’s bleeding—he’s hurt bad!"

"TOM, what happened? What’s going on?" Bud cried out fearfully. There was no answer! Desperately the copilot tried to turn his head for a look, but the crushing weight of acceleration pinned him against the back of his seat with paralyzing force. And instead of letting up, the force was increasing! Bud’s lungs convulsed under the pressure. His face muscles pulled taut, baring his teeth in a skull-like grimace.

Like a streak of light, the
Titan
hurtled through space at unchecked speed!

Exerting all his strength, Bud raised his right hand. Inch by inch, he groped forward, clawing for the main cutoff for the automatic pilot. At last his hand reached the switch and slammed it downward. Instantly the huge spaceship slackened its terrifying lunge.

As the pressure eased off, there were groans and gasps from all the passengers—even, perhaps, from Jess Northrup. At last able to turn his head, Bud saw that Tom was half-slumped in his seat, held in place by his safety restraints. Bud unbuckled himself and rushed to Tom’s side. "Tom, are you all right?"

Tom was conscious but could only reply with a faint moan. Bud freed him from his harness and shouted for Dr. Wohl.

"No, Bud," Tom protested weakly. "I’m all right. She needs to check on Dr. Jatczak!"

"I am already doing so!" called Violet Wohl. Clutching her medical kit the physician knelt by the side of the astronomer, who was unconscious. She ran her hands over Jatczak’s limbs and body, checking for possible fractures, and also peered into the pupils of his eyes through an ocular instrument. As Tom approached, she said, "He’s coming around, but he may have had a slight concussion."

"Should we return to Earth, Doctor?" Tom asked grimly. "I won’t risk a life just to be first to plant a flag."

By this time Henrick Jatczak had regained consciousness. "Wh-what happened?" he muttered groggily. "Why am I on the floor?"

"Looks as if your seat support broke under the strain of acceleration," Tom replied gently. "You made a crash landing."

The elderly man winced. "I remember now. My boy, I saw every star in the Milky Way, and without the impediment of a telescope! But if I have any say in the matter, I insist that you travel on—even if you have to ship me back to your space station in a crate."

Dr. Wohl smiled. "I’m sure I can treat him en route without any danger."

"Come take a look at Mr. Graves," Teodor Kutan called out. "I think he’s backed out!" It seemed the big industrialist’s drive and determination had proven unequal to the stresses of runaway acceleration. Wohl administered smelling salts, and Graves gurgled. As he revived, he brushed the doctor’s hand aside. "Get that stuff out of my face!" he growled. "What do you think I am—a sick old lady?" He struggled to his feet, clearly in an angry mood. "Why didn’t you warn us about that big burst, Swift? Every pen in my pocket is broken!"

"It was unplanned, Mr. Graves," Tom said. "Something must have thrown the automatic pilot out of kilter. Now we have to get back on course—fast!"

"Leave that to me, Tom," Hank Sterling offered. "I’ll run a diagnostic."

Then everyone flinched as a bright flash lit the cabin. "Gabe, I’m gonna take that camera and ram it right down—" Bud began.

"Freedom of the press, pal!" replied Knorff, lowering his camera. "It’s why I’m here. Besides, I had to make sure the camera wasn’t damaged."

"Let’s take a look at the damage to that seat," Tom said. As the ship was coasting and zero-gravity conditions now prevailed, it was an easy matter to lift Jatczak’s acceleration seat from where it had wedged itself. Holding it over his head, Tom examined the broken underpinnings. The swivel joint which had held the cot to its pedestal had fractured. As a result, several bolts had been sheared off or been wrenched loose under the strain.

"What’s the verdict?" Bud asked. "More sabotage?"

"This time it was probably just an accident," pronounced Kent Rockland over Tom’s shoulder. "It wasn’t made to take such a high acceleration."

"Neither was I!" jibed Rafe Franzenberg. "But say, Violet, you might want to check the blood pressure of your rats."

"We
all
thank you for your concern," she replied with a frown.

Tom and Bud now returned to the front of the compartment, and Hank reported his findings. "It was a programming glitch that came into play when we had to load in the new course data," he explained. "We should have no further trouble."

"That’ll be the day!" muttered Chow. "I’m jest glad I didn’t have a cake in the oven."

In fifteen minutes Dr. Jatczak’s acceleration seat had been repaired with spare parts. Next, Tom took a reading of their position with a device nicknamed the Spacelane Brain.

Kent Rockland came forward to peer over the inventor’s shoulder as the machine whirred into action. On one dial a needle flickered to the 27,600-mile mark. On another dial colored dots registered a navigational fix.

"What is that gadget?" Kent inquired with keen interest.

"A combination stellar sextant, cosmic-ray altimeter, and computer," Tom explained. "We were way off course, but this gimmick will tell us our position and velocity and feed the results into the main navigational computer."

Turning to the crew, he ordered, "All hands back to your seats and secure your safety belts! We’re going to accelerate again!"

"This time, let’s not burn a hole in the sky, pal," Bud cracked as he took his seat.

Tom chuckled. "I’ll watch it."

Cautiously he flipped on the automatic pilot and the atom-powered oxygen thruster thundered to life. The
Titan
speared forward at terrific but bearable acceleration.

Mere minutes later, the rocket’s automatic cutoff switch shut off the power. The
Titan
then coasted along an elongated trajectory carrying it further and further away from the earth. Finally, hours later, Tom brought the ship into an orbit 54,000 miles out. "Now we play catchup," Tom remarked.

Soon the phantom satellite glided onto the crew cabin viewpane. At first only a round blob of light, it began to look more like a midget world as the ship drew closer—a dark world mottled with strange patches and streaks of color. As it grew larger still, the tense, silent crew stirred with excitement.

"Wow!" Bud gasped. "We’re here! I can hardly wait for the first close look!"

Tom turned on the tracking-control computer and the rocket went into a slow-cruising pattern around Little Luna. Ripping off their seat belts, everyone crowded up to the window. In silence, they gaped down at the weird moonlet. A feeling of awe akin to terror gripped the crew as they eyed the mysterious intruder from outer space.