Tom Swift and His Electronic Retroscope (3 page)

"Are you Mexican?" Bud asked. He was puzzled by the stranger’s manner. Also, his brownish-blond hair and light complexion seemed unusual for a Latino American.

"Mmm, well, I was born in Boston," the man replied in a languid voice. "Actually, I consider myself neither an American nor a Mexican."

"Meaning what?" Bud asked bluntly.

"Meaning no offense. Let’s say I prefer to call myself an internationalist." As Tom and Bud flashed each other quizzical glances, he went on suavely, "I’m down here studying archaeology and philology at the University of Mexico. My name is Wilson Hutchcraft."

Tom introduced himself and his three companions. Chow added suspiciously,
"What’re
them two things you said you ’as studyin’?"

Hutchcraft smiled patronizingly at Chow’s question. "Archaeology and philology. The first is the study of the material remains of ancient cultures."

"Oh. I knew that one a’ready. You’re one o’ them fellers who dig up old stones an’ mummies an’ sechlike, hey?"

"You might put it that way. Philology, on the other hand, is the study of languages. I speak several, and just now I’m doing field work, learning various Indian dialects."

"Including Mayan?" Tom asked.

"Naturally," Hutchcraft replied. "Mayan, Chichimoc, Old Nahua. That’s why I’m here in this godforsaken jungle. No doubt you know that there are four branches of the Mayan tongue—Main, Aguacateca, Chuje, and Jacalteca. But I’m very much interested in the local tribe because they use certain words and phrases which differ from any of those dialects."

Chow fanned himself with his ten-gallon hat and shook his head. "Sure sounds like gobbledygook to me."

"I’d advise you to refrain from expressing that sentiment to your hosts here," said Hutchcraft. "They believe in revenge-killings and are crafty and determined hunters."

"Anyhow," Tom said with a laugh, "it’s lucky you happened along with a gun just now.’’

"If you’re wise, you’ll carry guns yourselves," Hutchcraft warned. "This jungle country can be dangerous."

Tom made no reply to this suggestion. In the spirit of the famous Swift family of scientist-inventors, he felt that scientists should work for the peaceful advancement of mankind. In line with this belief, weapons were used only as a necessity on Swift expeditions.

Changing the subject, Tom explained the purpose of his flight to Yucatan. He invited Hutchcraft to join him and his friends in their visit to Hu-Quetzal’s village.

"Delighted," the Bostonian replied. "As a matter of fact, I was on my way there just now. The road, if you’ll pardon the exaggeration, is just over that rise, to your left. I was let off by one of my colleagues, who will return for me a week from Thursday. But tell me, what sort of airplane is that?"

"An experimental one," was the brief answer. "And that reminds me, I need to fold and stow the liftbag before we leave—and before doing that, I want to see if I can determine what caused it to spring a leak on us."

Hutchcraft did not comment. He pulled out a bottled softdrink, a Mexican brand, and took a long gulp.

Tom again entered the paraplane’s cockpit and manipulated the controls, reducing the current to the transifoil. The liftbag began to bend and fold-in on itself, in the process forcing out whatever gas was left inside.

"You’re not recompressing it?" asked Bud through the open door.

"No point in that," Tom grimly replied. "By now it’s almost all air. Fortunately there’s a full helium reserve tank in back, which we can use once the rip is fixed—we’ll bring the mending equipment from the Flying Lab tomorrow."

When the bag was partially folded and within a hand’s-reach of the ground, Tom increased the electric current slightly to halt the refolding process. Then he climbed out and began to inspect the bag with his keen eyes, circling it. After a minute he called out, "Well, there’s the puncture!" He pointed.

"What’s that sticking out of it?" asked Doc. "A branch?"

"Let’s see." Tom climbed up on the fuselage and grasped the rodlike object, pulling it out.

"Wa-aal, brand me fer a popeyed armadiller!" exclaimed Chow. "It’s a arrow!"

"A mighty big one," Tom agreed. He scrutinized it, turning it over in his hands. "Funny. It’s made of some kind of hard, light, polished wood. And look at the arrowhead." The arrowhead, fluted along its length, had sides that curved smoothly inward to a point that looked fierce and unforgiving. "I’ve never seen an arrowhead like this—have you, pard?"

"Nope," Chow replied, puzzled. "And I’ve seen my share."

"If you don’t recognize
that,"
said Hutchcraft in smug tones, "you’re hardly prepared to do serious archeology here in Maya-land. It’s a
t’cunda."

"Oh—right." Bud had become irritated at Hutchcraft’s insulting manner. "Used for shooting down blimps!"

The archaeologist smiled blandly. "It’s a type of arrow—almost a javelin, actually—made by expert artisans for the Great Ahauxpa, the Priest-Emperor of all the Maya. It was a sign of status, and only the sacred warriors of the ahauxpa were allowed to carry them. For anyone else to even touch one constituted a capital offense. But," he added, "that was more than a thousand years ago, of course."

Tom leapt down and held out the arrow for Hutchcraft to see close-up. "This hardly looks ancient to me."

"No," Hutchcraft admitted; "obviously made rather recently. I suppose the technique has been passed down the generations."

"Well, it’s a mighty high-tech gadget if it can rip a hole through the material of the liftbag," Tom declared. "Even a high-powered rifle like yours would have some difficulty." Suddenly something seemed to catch his interest. He drew the point of the t’cunda closer to his eyes, turning it in the sunlight. "What’s this fastened to the tip? It reflects light like a sliver of crystal."

Doc Simpson asked if the traditional arrows had been finished in such a manner. Hutchcraft shook his head. "No. Never heard of such a thing. What sort of crystal is it?"

Tom was silent for a moment. Then he extended his hand, gesturing for Hutchcraft to hand him his soda bottle.

"A bit of brain stimulant, hmm?" was the man’s comment as he handed it over.

But Tom did not take a sip. Grasping the arrow firmly near its head, he scraped its point down the side of the glass container. All the watchers could see the fine white scratch it left behind.

Tom looked up at them. "To answer your question, Mr. Hutchcraft, the crystal is
diamond—
the hardest common substance known to man!"

THE ONLOOKERS from Shopton gaped in amazement at Tom’s quiet pronouncement, and a twitch of interest even seemed to ripple across Wilson Hutchcraft’s smug countenance.
"Diamonds!"
repeated Chow. "You mean that there arrow’s worth a bundle o’ money?"

"It’d be worth a bundle to
me
to find out where it came from," responded Tom dryly.

"This is quite unprecedented," Hutchcraft said. "Diamonds are not found in Yucatan."

Tom nodded. "I know
that,
at least. The whole peninsula is a limestone shelf underneath, not mining country."

"Well, skipper, I’d say somebody went to a lot of expense and trouble to bring down your paraplane," observed Doc Simpson soberly.

Bud had a look on his face that Tom recognized immediately—suspicion tinged with anger at the threat to his friends. "Right. Another one of those ‘somebodies’ who picks Tom Swift as a target and then runs off and hides. And say—" Bud suddenly turned to Hutchcraft. "You were traipsing through the jungle around that time, weren’t you, Hutch?"

The archaeologist frowned. "I don’t care for your insinuation, young man. From what has been said, I was a good half-mile down the road when your plane was attacked. And I
really
don’t care whether you believe me or not."

Tom tried to smooth over the awkward moment. "No one’s accusing anyone. Look, it’s getting late. Let’s take the chief up on his offer and head toward the village. Come along with us, Mr. Hutchcraft. I’m sure Hu-Quetzal will allow you to share the accommodations offered us."

The man smiled his irritating smile. "They do have a reputation for hospitality."

"Yeah," Chow muttered under his breath, "when they ain’t huntin’ you down!"

The paraplane was secured and locked up. Then, with Tom in the lead, the five started down the thread-narrow jungle trail toward Huratlcuyon. Twilight was falling over the steamy green rain forest, and the chattering birds began to hush. But the fading sunlight brought no cooling breeze to relieve the damp, oppressive heat of the Yucatan lowland. All five travelers were soon perspiring heavily as they tramped over the matted jungle path, and Hutchcraft’s big handkerchief was in constant flutter.

"The village is right ahead, guys," Tom announced presently. "I can see it between the trees."

Hu-Quetzal’s domain was little more than a huddle of palm-thatched huts. Cooking fires blazed in front of every dwelling. The women, crouched over open stone fireplaces, were patting tortilla cakes out of corn meal for the evening repast, while men chatted in squatting groups and children played nearby. Seeing Tom and his companions, the children fell silent, looking at them with wide eyes.

Professor Castillez emerged from a small tent to meet the troop. After Wilson Hutchcraft had introduced himself, Tom showed Castillez the arrow, which he had carried along with him in his hand.
"Milagro a Dios!"
gasped the man. "A diamond! But who would use such a thing to attack peaceful visitors?"

Hutchcraft snorted. "As I understand it, whole areas of southern Mexico are in a state of resistance to the central government. And I’m not speaking of quiet picketing."

Castillez nodded slowly.
"Si si, es verdad
—the Chiapas problem. Perhaps… but who can tell by one arrow, eh?"

As Ahau Quetzal came forward to greet the visitors, Tom showed him the strange arrow, then said, "This is a new friend of ours, also a North American," and introduced Hutchcraft.

As expected, Quetzal invited the newcomer to stay, then took the visitors to a central fireplace, which Tom assumed served for village ceremonies and celebrations. "I hope you will accept gifts of food from my people and that you will enjoy them," the chief said.

The gifts turned out to include a roasted wild turkey, a heaping supply of papaya fruit, guavas, bananas, and avocado pears, as well as several gourds full of coconut milk.

"Brand my lil ole cookstove, we got enough grub here for a reg’lar feast!" Chow gloated. "Afore we get gone, I’m gonna try fer a few recipes t’take back."

The Americans ate with hungry zest. Even Hutchcraft, who had made several sneering comments under his breath about the primitive cooking conditions, admitted that the meal was very good, if exotic in its mix of flavors.

By the time they finished, darkness had fallen. The sky over the jungle was brilliant with stars. "Sure is purty up there," Chow remarked, staring heavenward. "But it’s even better back home in Texas," he added quickly, doing his patriotic duty to the Lone Star Republic.

Quetzal, who ate in a separated area, announced the arrangements for the night. "You will all sleep in my own house—the house of the
ahau,"
he told them proudly.

Like the other dwellings in the village, the hut was made of saplings covered with mud. It was rectangular in shape, about twenty-five feet long, with walls ten feet high and a steep, palm-thatched roof. Although it had no windows, there was a doorway in the middle of each long side.

Hammocks woven of henequen fiber were slung side by side in a row between the two open doorways. Thick rough-hewn wooden posts, planted deep into the ground, held up each end. This arrangement, the chief explained, was to enable sleepers to catch the trade winds which occasionally wafted through the jungle. He also provided a modern innovation, mosquito-netting covers for each hammock.

"I think I’d prefer sleeping out in the fresh air," Hutchcraft announced, sniffing the atmosphere of the hut disdainfully. Not asking permission, he proceeded to unsling one of the hammocks.

"Reckon I’ll do the same," Chow said. "No offense, Mr. Quetzal, sir—jest think I might need t’stretch out a little."

But Hutchcraft’s next remarks made Chow change his mind. "After all, I have a rifle and you don’t," the Bostonian reminded him. "That jaguar might still be prowling around."

Chow gulped. "Mebbe I’ll wait with th’ stretchin’ until tomorrow morning."

Soon the village was wrapped in silence. The four Americans in the hut quickly fell asleep. But suddenly Tom was awakened by a thunderous crash, nearby enough to jar the mat-covered floor!

"Huh? Wh-what’s going on?" Bud muttered thickly, trying to sit up in his hammock.

"Don’t know yet," Tom replied tersely, fumbling in the darkness for his flashlight.
Was it another attack by the mystery bowman?
In a moment he extracted the flash from one pocket of his trekking breeches, which he had hung on the wall nearby. As he switched on the beam, Bud came wide awake and gave a roar of laughter.

Chow, still half asleep, was sprawled on the floor of the hut, hopelessly tangled in his mosquito netting. He blinked and snorted in the dazzling yellow glow of the flashlight.

"What in
thunderation
happened?" the ex-range cook grunted.

"Guess you fell out of your hammock," Tom replied, stifling his own laughter so as not to embarrass his friend. "Come on. I’ll help you up."

Chow was hardly back in his swaying billet when loud snores announced that he was fast asleep again.

Tom chuckled. To Bud he whispered, "The fall didn’t hurt him."

"Bet it hurt the floor, though," was the mischievous response.

The next morning, after a breakfast of melons, Tom was eager to be off to the
Sky Queen
in Professor Castillez’s truck. But again Ahau Quetzal delayed him.

"First we must have the ceremony of the second day," he told Tom politely but firmly. "You have spent the night with us, eaten our food with us; now we must give you the traditional blessings, for good fortune and protection."