Tom Swift and His 3-D Telejector (8 page)

"Very flattering," pronounced the Other Young Inventor as he dropped into a chair. "Back atcha. But don’t wear out the invite. Come see me in person."

Tom nodded, puzzled. "Er—sure."

"And if you have jokes to play, make ’em funny, not irritating. Best to keep ’em light on the
jerk factor
. Agreed?"

"Absolutely. Now tell me what we’re talking about, Pete."

The young man leaned back, frowning. "I’m just saying direct to your 50’s-retro crewcut,
don’t
rub in the 3-D TV thing. You’re ahead of me—fine, acknowledged. Over and out. Remind me too much and I might get the impression you’re distracting me
deliberato
. To keep me from catching up? Consequence, cause. Easy bacon."

Tom kept his gaze level. His voice became cool. "I’ve pretty much
had
it with having to guess what people are talking about. Tell me what’s on your mind, or go play somewhere else."

Langley nodded. "Clarity. That’s a good thing. Okay. My subject of reference: your 3-D stunt at Wicko around, oh, two hours back."

"I don’t know anything about it."

"No?" The inventor stared at his younger counterpart, then shrugged. "Eyeballs say: maybe you don’t. Hard to believe, though. Everybody in the industry knows you’re near to coming up with a free-floating hologram projector. And as you know, so’m I. What should I think when I see a demonstration in my office?"

Tom began to grasp the situation. "You saw a projected image?"

"A very striking image—
you
!"

How much should Tom tell his visitor? "Pete, over the last week, I’ve seen things like that too. I don’t know what’s causing them or what’s behind them. If you don’t mind telling me—what exactly did you see?"

Langley seemed to accept what Tom was saying. He now spoke less confrontively, more thoughtfully. "I looked up from my notes and saw Tom Swift standing on the other side of the office in all his blue-striped glory. You were staring a hole in my forehead. Then you raised an arm and pointed up at the ceiling. And then,
hey, he’s gone
!"

"No sound?"

"No. Funny expression on your face."

The image of the apparition outside the
Challenger
’s viewport rose in Tom’s mind’s eye. "A pleading expression?"

"You could call it that. Pleading and pointing. Opera soaperama. Amy—uh, Miz Foger—thinks we should look at it as something... what’s that word?
Actionable
. Because it might suggest Edmund Grimsey’s been passing along a few techno secrets lifted from his work on my holophotowave TV system.

"But if you say you had nothing to do with it..." He stood up with a shrug. "Glad we had time to chat. One young inventor to another."

As Langley turned to leave, Tom’s words followed him out: "Best regards to Miss Foger."

"Yeah."

After reflecting for a time, Tom stepped next door into Harlan Ames’s office. The security chief listened intently as Tom described this latest infestation of phantoms. "Couldn’t it be someone in Langley’s own work force playing a prank? With his own gizmo, maybe?"

"If so, some employee has made progress Pete himself doesn’t know about. And listen to this, Harlan." He recounted his fast-food conclave with Eldrich Oldmother.

"I see," nodded the former Secret Service man. "More of that ESP stuff—or maybe Oldmother and Langley share the same mental disorder."

"But as you know, I’ve seen these things too," Tom pointed out. "And what about the disappearance of all those psychics? Have you run across any reports of that?"

Ames gave one of his rare chuckles. "Yes indeed—in a little squib on the Interpol website under the heading,
Humor in The News!
But I’ll see what I can dig out for you, boss."

"Thanks. You know... there’s a name that ought to get a mention at this point."

"The abruptly undead Li Ching." He gave Tom a sober look. "Have you considered that your ‘Taxman’ contact might be fabricating the story? We both know these supersecret types have multiple agendas going on at the same time. They’re not above misleading us deliberately."

The suggestion was disturbing, but Tom could not disregard it. Was he being used? For what?

Tom worked through the afternoon in his lab, trying to improve the new telejector with the help of Dr. Grimsey and Hank Sterling. He decided not to mention to Grimsey the innuendos against him by Langley and Amelia Foger.

Ignoring the clock, Tom worked on after his assistants had left him alone. It was almost six o’clock when Bud Barclay came bursting into the laboratory, wearing a white shirt, sport coat, and slacks. "Hey, genius boy! Don’t tell me you forgot our double date?"

Tom looked at Bud blankly, then gave him a sheepish grin. "Well, now that you mention it..."

Bud shot his chum a humorously stern look. "I understand. I mean it
has
been
half a day
since I called you about it. Oh well," he went on, "at least it’s the late show."

The young inventor washed and changed clothes in the one-room apartment adjoining his main lab, which Tom had learned to keep well-stocked with "emergency garb" of all kinds.

The boys picked up Sandy and Bashalli and drove to the Colonial Inn Dinner Theatre for dinner. The girls and Bud blithely refused to tell Tom precisely what form the evening’s entertainment would take.

"Perhaps not as creepy as that phony ghost you inflicted upon us the other night," declared Bash. "Yet there is a common theme."

"But as I said before," Sandy added with a giggle, "Tom should find it very appropriate, with that oversized Swift brain of his."

They entered through an unmarked rear entrance. After an over-lengthy encounter with the customary microscopic dinner, printed programs were distributed to the tables. They proclaimed gaudily:

Enter the mystic world of
LUNARIO
mind-reader extraordinaire!

"A mind reader!" Tom chuckled as he turned the pages. "I can’t get away from all this ‘psychic phenomena’."

Bud winked. "Listen, if the Great Lunario expects to read Tom Swift’s mind, he’d better know calculus and computer language!"

"He’s good!" Sandy insisted. "He’s been on TV!"

"Real TV?" asked Tom.

"Cable TV," Bashalli responded. "Local. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t good."

Soon after the disappearance of the rolling salad bar, the houselights dimmed, the live house orchestra started to play, and the curtains parted in a puff of backlit fog.

To tinkling Oriental music, the Amazing Lunario came on stage. He wore elegant evening clothes and a silk turban studded with a large emerald. "A turban! My! I feel as though I were transported home to Pakistan," remarked Bash dryly. To Tom the green-glowing gem had other associations.

An attractive young woman in a long, gold-sequined gown accompanied Lunario, assisting as he performed several feats of stage magic. Then he invited two persons from the audience to blindfold him. A black felt pad was laid over his eyes and tightly bound in place with a scarf.

"My assistant will now pass out cards on which to write any question you wish to ask me," Lunario announced. "Please raise your hand and she will give you a card and an envelope. Place the card inside and seal it, and Myzeella will collect them in a wicker basket. You will kindly note that at no time will she open the envelopes or even touch them. We don’t want to confuse the etheric vibrations."

The filled basket was brought forward. As his assistant held the basket high, well above his eye level, Lunario fumblingly plucked out an envelope and tore it open. Withdrawing the card but not lowering it, he pressed it against his forehead and held it there for a moment. "No clear image. The first few are like that, friends. I have to get warmed up a bit." He tossed the first card, and the next two, on to the top of the small bare table that had been set in front of the blindfolded performer.

He plucked out another. "
Now
we’ll get some results," Sandy whispered cryptically.

Lunario held the next card. "Something—yes, something! A question from... is it Olive? No—
Olivia
! Please stand, won’t you?"

A woman stood. "I recognize her," said Bashalli. "A real person. Always a sweet roll with her latte, at the coffeehouse."

"Your question involves... a trip! A vacation? Yes!—to Fort Lauderdale. It will all work out, Olivia. Your sister-in-law has forgiven you."

The woman squealed. "He’s right! It’s all true—that was my question!"

From that point forward, every card taken up yielded a relevant answer, confirmed by the audience members who had written the cards. "Okay, how’s he doing it?" muttered Bud. "I know some of those people too. They’re not working with him to trick us."

Tom shrugged, eyes twinkling. "Well, maybe he really
is
psychic. I should talk to him about the things that have been happening lately."
Or warn him!
his mind insisted on adding.

"Don’t tell me you brainy boys haven’t figured out the gimmick!" jibed Sandy in a smug whisper.

"And you have?" asked Bud skeptically.

"
All
you have to do is open your eyes and
see
, Buddo," she replied. "I had it worked out from the moment he set up that little table." Speaking softly Sandy called Bud’s attention to the fact that the first unproductive cards had been tossed down onto the tabletop. "We’re supposed to think he’s ‘psyching’ the card he’s holding up. But he isn’t! He’s looking down his nose at the
previous
card, which is face up on the table."

Bud gave her a puzzled look. "Oh? So how can he see it at all through all that stuff covering his face?"

"You can almost always wrinkle up your cheek muscles enough to open up a gap at the bottom of the blindfold to peek through. If you tie it tight, it’s even easier to work it around."

"Sandra, you are most clever!" said Bashalli. "You’ve spoiled my enjoyment of the magic act, but still I commend you."

Bud grumbled, "It’s those mystery stories she reads."

The four had been speaking in polite whispers, but their table was near the stage. Finishing the act and removing his blindfold, the turbaned performer turned their way. "Ah! I believe our famous young inventor, Tom Swift, is in our audience!" Lunario exclaimed.

There was a burst of applause and Tom had to take a reluctant bow. Then Lunario offered to read his mind, having had his assistant blindfold him again. Tom good-naturedly wrote a question and enclosed in an envelope as instructed.

Whatever trick Lunario might have had in mind was never performed. He stood silently, unmoving, with Tom’s card held up in his hand. As the moments passed, the waiting audience began to mutter.

"What’s he waiting for?" Bud whispered.

Tom half-rose from his chair, concerned. "Something’s wrong."

Suddenly the mind reader took a small step forward, then another. The card fluttered down from his limp fingers. "What—what is it?" He tore the blindfold off and stared out blankly over the audience. Blankly—but Tom could see confusion and fear in the man’s eyes!

He took another step forward. His face contorted in a spasm of terror as he croaked, "No! Oh, no! Tom, Tom Swift, you are our hope! Don’t let them stop you, or
all will end!
"

Lunario stepped off into space and fell from the stage!

THE audience gasped as Lunario thudded limply to the floor. In a moment the theater was in an uproar. Tom hesitated for an instant, then dashed down the aisle to the stage, with Bud following.

"
Joe
! Oh my!" choked Myzeella. She looked up and called out: "Is there a—I’m not kidding!—doctor in the house?"

A man stood up from his table and waved an arm. "Are you a doctor, mister?" the woman called.

"Yes, ma’am. I’m an orthodontist."

Myzeella frowned. "You can just sit yourself down again!"

As Tom and Bud knelt by Lunario, who appeared stunned, the lights were lowered and a spotlight swept across the stage. The theater manager, white-faced and anxious, came hurrying from the wings.

"P-p-please be calm, ladies and gentlemen!" he exclaimed. "Lunario’s fine, just a little exhausted tonight. We’ll let him take a nap in his room. If you’ll all remain seated, we’ll go on with the next act!"

The boys heard the voice of Bashalli Prandit. "After this, there’s a next act?"

"An
orthodontist
!" muttered Myzeella from the stage. "What kinda stupid burg
is
this?"

The orchestra began playing as Tom and Bud helped carry Lunario to his dressing room, guided by the manager. The performer seemed to be recovering his strength and senses and was able to walk unaided through the door.

"Nothing serious, apparently," the manager said, hoping it was true.

As Lunario lay down on a cot, Tom grasped his wrist. "He seems to have undergone a nervous shock, but his pulse is returning to normal," reported the young inventor.

Bud asked, "How’re his teeth?"

A few moments later, Lunario was sitting up when a knock was heard at the door. Outside stood Sandy and Bashalli, who had come backstage to join the boys.

"Is he all right?" Sandy asked anxiously, glancing at the figure on the cot.

"I think so," Tom murmured. "But he hasn’t said anything."

Lunario motioned for some water from the cooler by the wall. After sipping a bit of it, he stared at Tom. "I still can’t understand it," the performer muttered.

"You mean, what happened on stage?" Tom asked.

Lunario nodded and frowned. "You—you’re Swift, aren’t you? I’m feeling a little― "

"I’m Tom Swift, sir." The scientist-inventor introduced his friends, the said gently: "I don’t want to pressure you, Mr.― "

"My name’s Joe Mulver."

"What you said out there was directed at me personally, Mr. Mulver, and I have the feeling it wasn’t part of your act."

The man nodded. "I’m going to tell you the truth," he said. "I’m sure you realize I’m not any kind of psychic. I’m an entertainer. My mind-reading act is a stunt. All for fun. I’ve been on television, you know."

"
Local cable
television," Bashalli noted.