Tom Swift and His Electronic Retroscope (8 page)

"Then I’ll assume the retroscope is at fault," Tom responded. "The old Mayas just didn’t make mistakes when it came to dates. By means of astronomy they were able to figure out the length of a solar year right on the button. And they were wizards with numbers."

Tom went on to explain how the Mayas had developed two kinds of numerical notations. One, using a system of bars and dots, was simpler and easier to figure out than Roman numerals. The other, using pictures of human heads to represent the numbers from one to thirteen and also zero, was much like our present-day Arabic numerals.

"What’s even more amazing," Tom told Bud as the others listened, "the old Mayas were first to develop an accurate calendar and to reckon time from a fixed date. They were able to figure out the length of a year so closely that their calendar was actually more accurate than the one Americans were using at the time George Washington was born."

"Must’ve been a bunch o’ smart cookies,’’ Chow said, impressed.

"It’s strange how such a great civilization as theirs could decline," mused Doc Simpson. "I’ve read that many of their cities and ceremonial sites were abandoned abruptly, almost overnight."

"Yes, it is true," nodded Hu-Quetzal.

"As to that," began Hutchcraft in a lecturing tone, "several theorists have suggested—"

Tom pretended not to notice. "You
must
read this book, Doc. Right now I’d better stop talking and pack down the retroscope for the night. Then—next order of business—installing the new helium tank in the paraplane."

Tom and Bud efficiently completed the stowing of the retroscope. Leaving the village, the two set off down the jungle path again carrying the helium tank, Chow following closely with many a nervous glance at the shadowed underbrush. When they reached the paraplane, Bud made another quick check of the craft, both inside and out. "Doesn’t look like anybody’s fooled around with it, Tom," he declared.

Tom nodded, wiping the perspiration from his brow. "That’s good news, at any—"

"Pssst!"
Chow interrupted with a hiss of alarm. As the youths looked up at their friend, startled, the westerner whispered. "We’re bein’ watched! I seen eyes back in those shadows over there—an’ I mean big ones, an’ high up, too!"

Tom tried to undertake a subtle glance, but it was too late to hold back Bud. The dark-haired pilot impulsively plunged among the trees but had gone only a short distance when he stopped short with a startled cry.

"The giant!"
Bud gulped, as a huge, hairy, half-naked white man loomed out of the tangled shrubbery, blocking the boy’s path. He was clad only in a loincloth, with sandals made of palm fibers. His long flowing hair hung down to his shoulders.

Seeing Bud’s horrified look, the man threw back his head and gave a deep booming laugh. As Bud stepped back, seeking to dodge out of his way, the giant reached out and grabbed up the husky young flier as if he were a baby. Grabbing his collar and supporting him on the palm of one huge hand, the eight-footer spun Bud’s athletic six feet around him with no difficulty at all.

"Now you are the slave of the King of the Jungle!" the man roared in English.

"Cut it out! Let me down!" Bud yelled. He squirmed frantically in an effort to free himself, but the giant clutched him in a viselike grip!

"Okay man, you asked for it!" Bud gritted. Twining both hands in the giant’s flowing locks, Bud yanked the man’s hair until he yelped with pain. He promptly loosened his hold and Bud jumped to the ground.

To Bud’s surprise, the giant seemed to bear him no ill will over the hair-pulling. Instead, he gave another of his bellowing laughs. "Nice going, young fellow!" the giant said, patting Bud on the shoulder with a ham-sized hand. "I respect anyone as brave as you! Weren’t frightened a bit, were you?"

At that moment Tom and Chow came running up, having concealed themselves in the jungle during the struggle. As he drew near Chow stopped short and regarded the looming form with amazement. "G-Great jumpin’ jehoshaphat!" Chow stuttered, his jaw sagging open.

"Don’t worry," Bud assured him. "The guy’s friendly—I think!"

Before Tom could venture a comment, there was a further interruption. Several Mayan men came trotting into view, evidently drawn by the shouts and bellows. One look at the giant sent them melting away into the jungle like shadows.

"Ho, ho, ho!" the huge man guffawed. "Look at ’em run! I terrify ’em!"

"Just who are you?" he asked the giant.

"Maximilian Jones, that’s me!" he answered, thumping himself on the chest. "Former heavyweight wrestler from California, U. S. of A!"

"Why shor as shootin’!" exclaimed Chow. "Now I reconnize you! Used t’ watch you on TV."

"So you’re from California?" Bud grinned. "Say, that’s where I come from!"

"But I’m never going back," the giant added. "Not Max. No sirree!"

"Why not?" Tom asked.

"Because this jungle is the finest garden of health to be found on earth. You take it from me—I know. It made a new man out of me!"

"You mean you weren’t always this big?" Bud asked.

"Sure, I was big," the ex-wrestler replied. "But y’see, boys, I had some bad chromosomes, they said, and I didn’t stop growin’ like normal folk do. It’s not good for a fellow to grow that way—strains the whole system. So I had to give up my wrestlin’ career and had myself a long siege of illness. Sick in bed half the time, all sickly and pale and weak. Doctors couldn’t do a thing for me. Then I came down here."

"Sounds like one of those ‘Before and After’ health ads," Tom chuckled.

"Now don’t you laugh!—this is on the level," Max boomed. "I came here t’ die, but first I thought I’d consult a Mayan medicine man. He gave me some real potent stuff—herbs that he brewed himself. Had me back on my feet in no time! Of course the outdoor life helped too—that and the
wonderful
native food. The sun gives me energy, the rain gives me purity, and between them all, boys, they’ve turned me into a glowing picture of health!"

To emphasize his words, the ex-wrestler threw out his chest and flexed his mighty biceps. Tom barely managed to suppress a grin. He glanced quickly at his two companions. Bud responded with a wink, while Chow whispered out of the corner of his mouth:

"Punchy as a loco steer!"

Unfortunately, his words carried to Max. With a bellow of rage, the giant leaped at Chow!

TOM AND BUD hastily yanked Chow out of the way, a two-man task, and stepped in front of the enraged giant.

"Hold on!" Tom commanded. "That’s no way to treat a fellow American, is it?"

‘‘Well, that ain’t no way to
talk
about a fellow American, either," Max complained. "I heard what he said about me." The giant suddenly sounded like a sulky little boy. An injured look covered his broad pug face.

"I’m sure Chow didn’t mean any harm," Tom said soothingly, and the wide-eyed chef nodded emphatically and at great length. "Besides, we’d like to hear more about these health foods you’ve been eating down here."

Max brightened immediately and began to talk about the fruits, nuts, and roots that he lived on. From his enthusiasm, the three realized that the ex-wrestler was not only crackbrained on the subject of health, but a food faddist of the most rabid kind.

Chow, who had been keeping a respectful and wary distance from Max, now became interested. The cook was always eager to try out exotic new concoctions. In the past he had served such unusual dishes as armadillo soup and whaleburgers, and those who had sampled them had lived to tell about it. Perhaps some of the items Max the Magnificent mentioned might be worth trying, he thought.

Chow began questioning the giant and this seemed to please him immensely. Soon Max forgot his anger and became very friendly. "You fellows ought to come around and visit my cave some time," he boomed cheerfully.

"Do you really live in a cave?" Torn asked.

"Sure! Got it fixed up nice and homelike," Max boasted. "I even have a pet parrot and a lot of old relics."

Tom’s eyes flashed with interest at mention of the relics. If they were of ancient Mayan workmanship, it might be that some bore space symbols like the sacred stone of Quetzal’s tribe!

Meanwhile, Bud decided that he would risk a blunt question while the giant was in a good humor. "What were you doing skulking around our plane last night, Max?" he asked boldly.

Max looked surprised. "Now, how’d you know that?" he exclaimed. "I’ll bet someone snitched on me! That skinny little guy, eh? Well, it so happens I was chasing
him!"

Tom and Bud looked at each other, mystified. "What skinny little guy?" Bud asked. "Someone from the village, you mean? One of the little Mayans?"

"Naw. I know what them pipsqueaks look like." The wrestler shrugged. "It was dark and I got only a glimpse this time—shadow, mostly."

Tom frowned intently. Now they were getting some place! "‘This time’—you’ve seen him before?"

"Yeah," he replied. "More’n once, always at night. The guy irritates the heck out o’ me, lurkin’ around in my jungle! So I chased after him. But I gotta tell ya, one thing I
can’t
do so well, is run." Max looked embarrassed. "Big guys are no good at it, you know; and the doc said my old bones are a little soft in places. He got away, but I hung around—I just wanted to get a look at your plane, that’s all. Guess that’s what he wants too, from the way he acts."

"What do you mean, exactly?" Tom inquired.

"Aw, nothing much. Just that I spotted him near that plane a couple other nights lately, that’s all. Say, man, what kind of a plane is it, anyway?"

As Tom provided a brief explanation, his mind was racing. If Max were being truthful, it seemed likely the "skinny phantom" was the saboteur of the helium tank.
And now that I think of it,
he said to himself,
he might’ve been our mystery arrow-shooter, too!
He glanced at Bud and could read the same thoughts on the face of his friend.

"Where’d this guy seem to be heading when he ran off?" Bud asked. "Toward the Mayan village?"

"Nope. Now you mention it, he headed in a different direction—over that way." The giant pointed north. "O’ course he could’ve just gone the long way around."

Tom and Bud mulled over this information thoughtfully. Chow was still staring at the barechested strongman with keen interest.

"So you live out here in the jungle! Ain’t you skeered o’ jaguars?" the cook asked.

"Jaguars?" Max laughed scornfully. "Naw! I just kill ’em with my bare hands!" He went through the motions of crushing a jaguar. When he caught that Tom and Bud were a bit skeptical, he stooped down and picked up two small rocks. He slammed them together like cymbals with a mighty
Crack!
and they exploded in a flurry of dust and pebbles!

Chow clucked in amazement. "Brand my coyote cutlets! You kin count me a believer, Max!"

The conversation seemed at last to rouse the wrestler’s curiosity about Tom’s group. "What’re you Americanos doing here in the jungle, anyway?" he asked. "You and your fancy blimp-jet an’ all!"

"We’re interested in studying the old Mayan stone carvings," Tom said cautiously. "I’d like to see some of those old relics you’ve collected if we get a chance. Maybe we’ll take you up on that invitation to visit your cave.

"Sure, you do that!" the giant boomed. "Come on over for dinner some time. Just give me a little warning, willya—so I can wear my best loincloth!" He bellowed out a hearty laugh. "My cave’s over that way, in the hill, far side." He jerked his thumb toward the east, then gave each of them a resounding slap on the shoulder. Bud and Torn winced, while Chows knees almost buckled.

"Well, so long, fellows! See you later!" With a parting wave, the giant sailed off into the bush and quickly disappeared from sight.

"Whatever he’s been eating, it’s given him some build, I’ll say that for him," Tom commented.

"Some, and then some!" said Bud admiringly. He flexed his own muscles and regarded them critically. "What I need is less adventure and more gym time."

Chow glanced about cautiously, then said in a low voice: "He may have some dang good recipes, but I still say—loco as a loon!"

Bud grinned and cupped his hands as if making a 1oudspeaker announcement at a wrestling match. "Beware all jaguars! Here comes Magnificent Max! This man is
dangerous!"

Tom laughed. "Better hope he didn’t hear that, pal. I’d say your fellow Californian doesn’t like having people make fun of him! But anyway," he went on, "we’ve lugged this helium tank out here. Let’s install it in the ship right now."

"Roger!" Bud agreed eagerly.

"Whatcha want me t’do, boys?" asked Chow.

"You hold down the ground, cowpoke!" Bud joked.

Tom opened up the paraplane’s machinery bay. Then, with the aid of a parbuckle sling, the two youths hoisted the tank of liquified helium aboard, jettisoning the empty one. Then Tom went to work.

"So far, so good." Tom laid aside the wrench he had used to connect the helium feed line and dethermal-compressor unit, and wiped the sweat off his forehead. "Let’s try the engine."

Bud nodded. The young inventor warmed up the jet engine, checked various instrument readings, and gunned the throttle enough to make sure that everything was functioning properly. "No problems!" he called out to Chow.

"Gonna try ’er out up in th’ air, boss?" asked the cook.

"Tomorrow," was the reply. "I’m anxious to get back to the hut and do some work on fixing the retroscope before sundown."

After resetting and activating the magnetic alarm system, the three headed back to the Mayan village along the meandering jungle path.

Even before reentering the clearing of the huts, they could hear a hubbub of excited voices. A large crowd had gathered at the center of the village. Hutchcraft, Castillez, and Doc were a part of the circle, literally head and shoulders above the rest.

"What’s cooking?" Tom asked as he approached.

"Ah, Tom, you must come greet our new visitors," responded the Professor, beckoning him over.

The new visitors surprised Tom. A pudgy, round-faced Asian man in thick glasses stood talking politely to Castillez. On his far side, eclipsed, was a twiglike Asian woman, small and delicate in appearance. Both appeared somewhat advanced in years, though healthy looking. The man was very animated; the woman stood in demure silence, her head slightly lowered.