Tom Swift and His 3-D Telejector (14 page)

Grimsey was silent for long moments. "I wanted to work here. I was sincere about that. And now... I suppose it’s a police matter."

Tom shrugged. "I don’t know what Dad and I will decide to do, Dr. Grimsey. We prize loyalty here. We need to be able to trust our workforce—and I think we repay that trustworthiness. Yet there’ve been several occasions where we’ve been willing to set aside a person’s mistakes. The Cobra has no tolerance for human weakness and imperfection. We do."

The young inventor alerted Harlan Ames, and a security guard escorted Dr. Grimsey off the grounds—but with a hint of hope from Tom as to his future at Enterprises.

After several stops and necessary conversations, Tom finally arrived at the lab, where Hank, Arv, and Linda Ming has succeeded in restoring the telejector to operation.

He told them the latest startling developments. "So Grimsey was in on it, hmm?" said Arv. "Seems like any little thing can be disaster on the way. I finally remembered that a couple days before I got sick, I had what I thought was a minor problem with my air conditioner, in my car, on the way in to work. The vent blew out a puff of hot, dusty air, right in my face."

"And so you got sick," Linda declared. "Somebody must have got to your car when it was parked at home."

"Maybe the same guy who called Grimsey," Tom noted. "Li Ching’s current ‘area rep’."

They worked for hours on the problem of making the telejector image visible in the light, or in front of an illuminated background. "We’re making progress, boss," Hank Sterling told Tom, who nodded.

Toward evening, after his helpers had left for the day, Chow brought in a tray of supper. As Tom ate hungrily, the stout Texan produced a small postmarked envelope from the pocket of his gaudy red cowboy shirt.

"Got a letter here I’d like you to read, boss. It’s from a sheep-herdin’ friend o’ mine over in west Texas, name o’ Pedro Uzcudun. Knew him years back, when I worked on th’ Horton spread."

"Uzcudun? Is that a Basque name?" Tom asked.

"I’d say! Purty hard on the tongue, ain’t it?" Chow explained that the immigrants were so skillful at tending sheep that many came to the United States from their homeland in the Pyrenees Mountains between Spain and France to take jobs herding sheep in the Western states.

As he ate Tom skimmed through the opening of the letter, then read it again with care. Wondering why the westerner had brought it to him, his forehead wrinkled with interest as he read:

Heyo, Chow-Poke! The reason I am writing to you now, amigo, is because you are working at Swift Enterprises. Something most strange has been happening to me. You know I spend many lonely nights with my flock up in the hills. Well now, lately, I have begun to get messages and visions in my mind about Tom Swift. It is almost as if they are coming from the stars up above. I am sure I am not crazy, but people will think so if I tell them. They already think I am, eh, amigo? I am worried. Maybe it has something to do with radio. I have heard of that. Please ask Tom Swift if he can explain. Your friend from old times, Pedro Uzcudun

Chow looked somewhat embarrassed. "Mebbe it’s jest plumb foolishness," the cook said, "but I figgered I ought to show it to you."

Tom rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "What sort of a guy is this Uzcudun, Chow? Is he a sensible person?"

Chow nodded vigorously. "Yep, he is, Tom. I don’t cotton much to sheepmen, but Uzzy’s as nice an’ level-headed an hombre as I ever met.

"But y’see now, people jest don’t much take to what they cain’t make out. See what I mean, boss? Uzzy kin sometimes read th’ signs an’ see things. People come to ’im fer advice. That’s what has ’em spooked out there."

Tom frowned. "In that case, it may not be all that foolish after all."

"Then you think he ain’t tetched?"

"Chow, I may be tetched in the head myself, but this could be like what other people have been seeing—me and Bud, and you too, when you saw that fire."

"That there psycho stuff? Brain pictures?"

Tom smiled. "He could have extrasensory abilities like the little girl I told you about, Jennifer. But because he’s older and has lived with it longer, he may have a better handle on it. He might be better able to control it."

"Say! Mebbe so."

"It sounds as though he might be ‘plugged in’ to the Orb—one of those who started receiving impressions early, when the Orb hadn’t yet been detected visually. Pardner, someone like your friend might be a help to us, a link to communicating with these ‘green balloon people’ directly!" said the youth excitedly. "Thanks for showing this to me."

Chow nodded, but looked downcast. "Yer welcome, son, but that ain’t why I did it. I got that letter a few days back. Ever since, I been tryin’ to call him. He don’t answer! That ain’t like him no-how!"

Tom’s face went dark with concern. "You say Pedro has a local reputation for being a psychic. If the Cobra found out about that― "

"Ye-ahh, boss, that’s
jest
whut I ’as chewin’ over! What if that there snakeman took him, like th’ others?"

Tom tapped his long fingers on the supper tray, nervously. "There’s a man we’ve worked with before, an FBI agent in the Albuquerque office. I’ll ask Harlan Ames to get in touch with him concerning this." He thought for a moment. "Maybe there’s something else, too. That researcher in East Haven, Dr. Rogo, has collected a great deal of information about people showing these special talents, from all across the country. He showed me some of his files. It’s possible your friend is one of the ones he has a file on. There might be information in it that could help us locate him, things you might not know."

The ex-Texan brightened. "That there’s a fine idee! Never did know much about ol’ Uzzy’s family—mebbe he’s got one ’r another out there with him. But—we gotta wait till t’morrow, I’d guess."

Tom stood suddenly. "No need to. Dr. Rogo said he usually works late in his office at the college. I’ll call right now. I’d planned getting in touch with him again anyway."

"How come, boss?"

"I realized those files of his might contain some clues as to how the Cobra has been able to track down the psychics he’s kidnapped."

"Say, thet’s not bad thinkin’."

"Thanks, Chow—let’s see what Rogo has to say."

He dialed the phone number. There were six rings, then the click of the call being transferred automatically.

"East Haven College, main switchboard. May I help you?"

"Yes, ma’am. I was trying to reach Dr. Stanton Rogo. He’s not picking up."

"I shouldn’t wonder. You didn’t hear?"

A chill surged through Tom. "About what?"

"There was a break-in sometime last night, while he was working late, I guess. His office was trashed, and somebody set fire to it! They say there’s nothing much left."

"
What
!—but what about Dr. Rogo?"

"Well, sir, you should really be talking to the police, or maybe the Dean’s office. I just know they can’t find a trace of him anywhere!"

When Tom hung up, he explained the situation to Chow. "Looks to me like Comrade-General Li plans to wipe out every possible source of information that might be a help to getting into contact with the Orbites!"

"The jim-danged sidewinder!"

"He sure is, pardner! We had two links almost in our hands—your friend Pedro, and Dr. Rogo and his files. And now," he concluded bitterly, "both links are broken."

NEITHER the police of East Haven, Connecticut, nor the FBI of the southwest, turned up any information on the disappearances of Pedro Uzcudun and Stanton Rogo. "Rogo’s paper files are nothing but ash," Harlan Ames reported to Tom and his father. "And all his computer files, including those he was storing on his server, have been deleted."

"Anyone in those files could be in danger," muttered Damon Swift. "We can’t even tell the authorities whom to protect."

"But we
do
know that one of them is Jennifer December," declared Tom. Ames promised to contact law enforcement to arrange for Jennifer and the orphanage to be protected round the clock.

While the outpost in space was constructing Tom’s Video Viking 3-D TV probes according to the designs Tom had transmitted, the young inventor plunged back into perfecting the telejector.

"Tom, is it really important to the Orb probe to be able to project a vivid, stand-alone output?" Linda inquired. "It seems like gravy to me, no offense."

Tom replied tersely, "It could be crucial. If the thing has taken a notion to approach the earth, knowing everything possible about its nature and structure may be vital. Creating a better 3-D image to study is like an information enhancement technique: it gives us a richer range of data to play with."

"Sure. You don’t want a dirty microscope slide."

"No. And—er—besides," the youth added with sudden sheepishness, "I
have
to give my brain
something
to chew on!"

After days of work and many dead ends, the results of their labors were clear—and suspended in mid-air! "Gosh, genius boy, that’s just incredible!" exulted Bud, eyeing the vivid test images of downtown Shopton and the countryside surrounding. As the scene switched to an elevated view of Lake Carlopa, caught by holoceivers mounted on one of Tom’s Workchopper helicraft, Bud almost shaded his eyes from the sparkling vividness. "Quick, where’re my shades?"

"And this is a ‘live’ telecast, flyboy," Tom noted happily. "The same sort of thing we’ll get from the Vikings—I hope!"

Sam Barker, formerly renowned for his role as the Peg-Legged Ghost, had been invited to join the group observing the telejector test. "So how did you do it, Tom?—blank out the background glare, I mean. Would I understand it?"

Bud laughed. "Tom may not have ESP, but he has a real gift for explanations!"

Tom joined in the laughter before replying, gleeful with success. "I’ve learned to explain just enough but not too much. Actually, thinking about the Green Orb and the way it seems to be absorbing light energy sparked off a few ideas. I’ve added a sort of extra overlay to the 360-degree layer of projected holograms. You could say the second layer acts like a hologram in reverse, scattering and de-tuning the light that passes through it, making it invisible to the eye and producing what amounts to a dulled, blank background for the main image."

"Okay, but why doesn’t it affect the image you want?"

"Because I’ve added some coded phase-tuning to the projected image, which filters right through the damping layer."

"That’s― "

Bud finished for Sam. "I think ‘incredible’ sums it up, pal."

Next came an even more important test. The six Video Vikings had now been assembled and tested at the space outpost. Transmissions from their holoceivers produced amazingly sharp, realistic images of the rotating space base, glittering in stark sunlight, and the outpost’s personnel. "Good night!" Bud chuckled, "Even up close—man, I feel like I could reach over and shake Ken Horton’s hand!" Horton was the man in charge of outpost operations.

Grinning, Tom gestured. "Try it."

Bud walked forward, hand outstretched. The hand thrust right into Horton’s image, disappearing from view within it as the damping layer blotted it out. "Weird feeling—don’t think I’ve ever reached into somebody’s body before!" He stepped back and turned toward his friend. "This is great, but—aren’t you afraid the Orb will just slough-off the Vikings, like it did the Repelatron Donkey probes?"

"Well, it’s an experiment. It
may
be the Orbites are especially sensitive to induction effects, which means they might have a strong reaction to
metal
—as if to an allergy. Believe it or not, the Vikings are constructed entirely out of nonmetallic substances, even down to the wires in the circuits. T’weren’t easy, friend. But it might give us a chance."

Tom called in his father and other key personnel to witness the success of his invention. "We’re about ready to fly down to Fearing," he remarked.

Bud looked surprised. "Fearing? Why not just watch the show here in the lab?"

"Because several scientists with the expertise we need to analyze the results are down there already—part of Aciema Musa’s research group," explained the scientist-inventor. "They have special instruments there too, already set up and waiting."

"Guess we’re in a hurry."

"A
big
hurry, Bud. The Orb’s latest lane-change will bring it close to Earth—closer than the Moon, in fact, though angled above the South Pole."

"Is it official—the Green One is on a collision course?"

"So far it seems to be heading toward the inner solar system." Then Tom added worriedly: "But no one knows what it will do next."

Tom and Bud flew to Fearing Island by Swift Construction Company jetrocopter the next day, where they contacted the outpost by Private Ear Radio. "We launched the ‘longboat’ seven minutes ago, Tom," Ken Horton confirmed. "On its way to the Orb on repelatron power."

"How are the Vikings holding up?"

"Telemetry nominal from all six."

When Tom clicked off the communicator unit, Bud asked, "You say it won’t be until tomorrow night when they start the probe?"

"Longer than that, actually." Tom explained that the Video Vikings’ unmanned carrier vehicle was accelerating at a much lower rate than the
Challenger
’s customary 1-G acceleration. "I wanted to keep down the G-stresses to forestall any warping of the structures—those delicate grasshopper-legs of theirs." He told Bud that the actual probe operation would begin just before dawn.

The boys could not sleep that long night. Tom arose hourly to check with the communications center on the outpost, tensely verifying that the space-longboat was proceeding smoothly on its planned course to the weird image-object.

Finally, at four AM, Tom alerted the study-project team that the space encounter was imminent. They assembled their arrays of instruments on a pair of flatbed trucks and slowly rumbled out onto the Fearing airfield, not far from the looming
Challenger
.

Tom unloaded his own equipment. The improved 3-D telejector, with its triple antennae of gold-metal ring columns, had been mounted atop a wide base set on casters. Tom rolled it into position fifty feet from the trucks, angling the antenna array slightly upward.