Tom Swift and His Electronic Retroscope (2 page)

"That there’s mighty thin, all right!"

"Anyway," Tom continued as the paraplane drifted to a gentle stop and hung suspended, "I fed the transifoil a trickle of current, and it unfolded and became rigid on its own." He added that it was the expansion of the liftbag as it was made rigid that sucked the helium up into it at supersonic speed, rather than the reverse. "The transifoil’s strength helps resist the pressure of the surrounding air, so we can get by with helium at very low pressure and weight. That allows us to keep the bag fairly small, too."

The liftbag had taken over completely the function of supporting the plane, and Tom cut his jet power. They were floating almost motionless above the jungle.

"Shucks, I knowed all the time it was goin’ to work jest fine," Chow told his young boss.

"Wait till he starts letting the gas out of the bag," Bud teased. "We still have to get down, you know." Chow swallowed hard but said nothing.

"I know you use pumps to release and recompress the helium," Simpson commented. "Where do you store it?"

"We store it in liquid form," explained the young inventor. The helium tanks, supercold and well-insulated, were mounted in a small compartment at the rear of the cabin. As it was now time to descend, Tom switched on an electric pump and compressor apparatus to suck the helium back into the main tank. A humming noise filled the cabin. "We take it much slower during the recompression phase," Tom said, "so we won’t drop too quickly."

"Boss, fer that I thank you kindly!" said Chow.

"You know," Tom continued, "the basic idea for the paraplane came from Great-Grandfather Tom, who worked a lot with dirigible inventions. In the early 50’s, after he’d retired, he tried to get Swift Construction interested in it, but no go."

"What’d he call it?" Bud inquired.

Tom grinned. "The Flexible Flyer!"

As the bag deflated, the paraplane descended, very gently, toward the lush treetops.

"Looks like we’re drifting away from the village," murmured Doc.

"The wind." Tom touched the controls. "This special jet engine can throttle-up almost instantly from zero, and it can idle, like a car in a driveway. That should be enough to nudge us where we want to go."

"I’ve got to hand it to you, genius boy." Bud slapped his chum on the back. "This new invention of yours may save a lot of lives some day."

"I hope so," Tom replied modestly. "In the meantime, let’s also hope we don’t get hung up in one of those trees down there."

Although Tom made no mention of it to Bud or Chow, a new worry came to mind. Despite all preparations, how would the natives greet these strangers from the sky who wanted to take away some of their citizens for scientific study? The medical college of Grandyke University, located near Shopton, had made careful arrangements through the University of Mexico and the
aduana—
the combination immigration and customs department of the Mexican government—for five healthy young Mayan men to be flown back to the States. But what if the strange aerial arrival panicked them into hostile action!

Still keeping his thoughts to himself, Tom steered the ship gently downward by means of the rudder and elevators, then finally retracted the wings. He aimed for a tiny open space in the forest about one hundred yards beyond the perimeter of the village. Presently a crowd of bronze-skinned native Indians came into view through the densely clustering green foliage.

"A reception committee!" Bud exclaimed.

"Reckon they look friendly enough," Chow added, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down nervously.

Tom smiled in cautious relief as he saw the natives waving at them. He waved back and urged his three companions to do likewise. The crowd gave way good-naturedly as the paraplane puttered closer to the open space.

Suddenly, as the craft was about to clear the last of the tall trees, the paraplane gave a shudder. Her crew lurched sideways against their safety restraints.

"Good grief!" Tom gasped. "We’re losing pressure in the liftbag—fast!
Hold on!"

For a few frantic moments the paraplane dropped like a stone, crashing through the boughs of the trees. Then its flight ended with a violent thud as it smacked down hard against the jungle floor!

TOM SWIFT swiveled frantically in his seat, springing his safety straps with a single quick sweep of his hand. "Everyone all right? Anybody hurt?"

"I’m okay, Tom," Bud replied.

"Me too," said Doc Simpson. "I think our public image may have suffered, though."

"As fer me, I got a few aches an’ pains," Chow grumbled. "Then again, I’ve had ’em fer years, so I reckon it don’t matter. Think my new tooth may’ve got a little rattled, though." He felt with his tongue. "Naw. Guess it’s all right."

When the four airmen emerged, unsteadily, they were greeted by shouts of welcome. The Mayas surged forward in friendly yet dignified fashion to inspect their visitors. Some offered large bouquets of gorgeous-colored flowers.

Tom whispered to Doc, "I don’t think they realize our hard landing wasn’t exactly as planned." The medic chuckled in response.

"Sure are happy little critters!" Chow observed, grinning the whole distance from ear to ear in relief.

The natives were handsome and brown-skinned, with fine figures. But none were over five feet tall, and many of them were considerably shorter. The men were clad only in shorts of some rough fabric, while the women wore simple, straight white dresses, with low square necklines embroidered in gay colors and a matching trim on the skirts.

A swarm of naked little children hugged the legs of their parents and peeped out bashfully at the strangers from the sky. Many of the natives chattered to one another in a strange tongue.

"What kind o’ lingo is that?" Chow asked.

"Old Mayan,"
came a voice in cultured English, touched with accent. "But many of these people also speak Spanish." A tall, distinguished looking man in glasses had entered the clearing from the underbrush. His skin, burnt dark by the sun, contrasted vividly with his snowy-white hair.

"Professor Castillez?" asked Tom, extending his hand.

The man nodded, offering a firm handshake. "I am glad to meet you, Tom. I thought you would be landing within the village, so I waited behind."

"I didn’t want to risk bumping any of the houses," Tom said. "The paraplane is a new invention, and, as a matter of fact, we had a bit of trouble during the descent." He glanced back and noted that the liftbag, all but devoid of helium, was now leaning far over on its side and resting against the trees, its shape still held rigid by its transifoil strips.

"Tell me, Professor—do you know what became of the team of workers that were to construct a landing field for our big jet?" Doc inquired as he shook hands.

"I had assumed it had been completed," was the reply. "Then again, the workers had not planned to stay here in Huratlcuyon. I merely assumed they had done their job somewhere out of sight in the jungle. One can hardly see more than twenty feet ahead, you know." Castillez turned back to Tom. "This delegation of our most eminent citizens has come to welcome you, my young friend."

Before Tom could essay a speech of reply to this friendly welcome, a stalwart old Maya raised his hand. Castillez whispered that he was chief of the village. At the chief’s signal, the crowd parted and a group of men dancers came forward. All were adorned with tall headdresses of parrot feathers. While several other Indians beat oddly fashioned drums and blew on conch shells, the group began to perform a ceremonial dance.

"Brand my turkey giblets," Chow gasped, "they’re actin’ like birds!"

"I think that’s what they’re supposed to be imitating," Tom replied softly.

The dancers gracefully hopped about, flapped their arms, and made pecking motions at each other.

Finally the performers finished and the three Americans applauded loudly, to which the dancers responded without smiles but with sober dignity. As they withdrew, the chief stepped forward again.

Tom clasped his hand and spoke a few words to him in Spanish, which the chief appeared to understand. The young inventor then handed over several papers from the Mexican authorities, identifying the American visitors and stamped with an official seal. The man responded in halting Spanish.

Embarrassed, Tom confessed that he had not caught what the chief had said.

"Ah! He says he’s the
ahau,
or king, no less, of these people!" explained the Professor. "And that his Spanish name is José," he added. "But we’re to call him by his Mayan name—Hu-Quetzal."

"Quetzal?" Chow shoved back his ten-gallon hat and scratched his bald dome. "Ain’t that a bird too?"

Tom nodded. "It’s rare now, but the quetzal is a beautiful bird with brilliant long green plumage. It was sacred to the ancient Mayas."

"They seem to be very fond of their feathered friends," Bud chuckled.

When Quetzal finished looking over the documents, he handed them back to Tom very gravely and ceremoniously. Then he beckoned forward five of the young Mayan men. All were very short in stature. "These are the favored ones, the best of our village," the chief said to Tom.

"Oh, you speak English, sir?" Tom responded in surprise as Quetzal introduced them by name to the Americans.

"I do
now
. Now, we have been introduced as two chiefs, by these papers. But I say, I only speak it a little bit, like a small pebble. Now then,
muy bien,
my tribe and I desire that you stay at our village for the night," Quetzal went on. "We will have more entertainment for you."

"Thank you for your kindness," replied Tom with a slight bow. "If you will permit us, we would like to stay with you several days." The
ahau
nodded his approval.

Chow scowled suspiciously and murmured into Tom’s ear, "You figure that’s safe?"

Tom grinned. "Still worried about those stewpots, Chow? I’m sure that we can trust these people."

"We are a safe people. Hospitality is a sacred duty to us," stated the chief.

Chow reddened but said, "Well, sure—jest like in Texas, Mr. Quetzal."

Turning back to Hu-Quetzal, Tom added that they must first notify the other Americans, who by now had landed in the
Sky Queen,
that they had arrived.

The chief nodded. "You come to the village when you are ready. My people and I will return there and make preparations. I must tell you, Tom-Swift, that few of our children have ever seen a man with gold hair like yours. They may…" He paused and murmured something to Castillez.

"They may stare at you," the Professor translated; "but no discourtesy is intended."

Then Hu-Quetzal turned and led his people away down a narrow, all-but-invisible jungle path.

The four visitors reentered their plane and Tom reported by radio to Slim Davis.

"The
Queen
’s down and safe," Davis replied. "Same as you boys, sounds like."

Tom snorted. "Well, we’re
down
. Batten down the hatches for the night," he said. "I’ll call you tomorrow morning when we’re ready to leave in the truck."

"Roger!" Slim acknowledged. "We’ll have the camera equipment packed up and ready."

Chow was still grumbling about staying overnight in this strange place as he climbed out of the paraplane with Tom and Bud. Suddenly the well-weathered Texan broke off with a gasp of fear and grabbed Tom by the arm.

"What’s wrong now?" the young inventor asked.

"L-L-Look!" Chow gulped, pointing with a trembling finger.

Tom heard a bloodcurdling snarl. Then, on the lowest branch of a nearby tree, he saw a ferocious-looking jaguar, its mouth open and its teeth bared.

The next moment the crack of a rifle rang out!

As the sound of the shot died away, the jaguar leapt up the trunk of the tree and disappeared among the upper foliage.

"Quick! Into the paraplane!" Tom ordered. "That big cat might come back!"

"Who fired that shot?" Bud demanded. The muscular, dark-haired young flier was pale and shaken by their narrow escape—
and
their unexplained rescue.

"Just what I want to know," Tom said, peering out the window. "And was it meant for us, or for the jaguar?"

Bud straightened up with a fresh shock. "Hey! Are you implying that we have human enemies in this jungle? I thought
this
time we were going to get a vacation!"

Tom shrugged thoughtfully. "That rifleshot was fired at close range, yet it missed the jaguar completely."

Bud exchanged worried glances with Chow and Doc Simpson. Dangerous adventures were nothing new to Tom Swift, as they all knew from perilous experience. Soon after perfecting the Flying Lab, his first major invention, 18-year-old Tom had been forced to match wits with deadly rival factions in South America. Other adventures had followed, not only undersea and at the South Pole, but even in outer space. In his latest exploit with his space solartron, the young inventor had rescued his father from mysterious space agents in his revolutionary spaceship, the
Challenger
.

Tom decided to test the unknown rifleman’s intentions. Plucking a white handkerchief from his pocket, he opened the cockpit door and fluttered it outside the plane.

The signal was greeted by a shrill laugh. A moment later a white man strode into view, carrying a high-powered rifle in his hands and a knapsack over one shoulder. He wore braided khaki breeches and an embroidered shirt, and a pith helmet. He gave them a friendly nod.

"Brand my iguana stew, who’s this critter?" Chow demanded in low tones. He stared at the newcomer in frank surprise.

"Let’s find out," Tom replied.

"And
don’t
mention iguana stew!" added Bud.

The four Americans clambered from the plane to meet the stranger face to face. He was of medium height, slightly pudgy, and conveyed an air of careless elegance, his eyebrows slightly raised in what might have been a smirk. Before speaking, he took out a silk handkerchief and dabbed his face delicately.

"You came along just in time." Tom smiled and held out his hand.

"De nada. Buenos dias."
The stranger shook Tom’s hand with the tips of his fingers. His grin seemed slightly mocking.