Tom Swift and His Polar-Ray Dynasphere (10 page)

Tom’s brow furrowed. "When they opened up the cockpit, the pilots were alive but unconscious; still are. The first examinations were inconclusive. No sign of anoxia—the hull was tight. But... it’s strange..."

"What?"

"They were badly bruised all over their heads and faces."

Simpson shrugged. "I suppose they got tossed around in the cockpit."

"But that’s the thing—there wasn’t any turbulence. The passengers report a perfectly smooth flight."

Doc smiled but looked Tom in the eye warily. "Skipper, if you even
try
to tell me some invisible sky gremlin attacked them, I’m putting you in cold storage for a week!"

Tom smiled weakly. "I don’t have a theory this time, Doc."

Keeping in frequent touch with Sandy and the other Vishnapur tourists, who were anxious that he and Bud rejoin them, Tom spent several days working on the more powerful dyna-field machine and the special vehicle he had in mind to carry it.

The device finally had its name-christening. "Genius boy, that dynaxio-whatsis name you came up with is birdseed on toast, not to mention tough on the tonsils. How about polar-ray dynasphere? Hmm? Whataya think?"

Tom grinned at his friend and frequent rescuer. "That’s amazing—I came up with the same name!" He sneaked a hand over the notebook open on his desk, where he had scrawled the word
spatiodynex
.

The young inventor then showed Bud the design for the vehicle. Bud stared at the flatscreen for a long moment. "Now
that’s
something I never expected to see. It looks a little like my old portable phone."

The carrier craft was flat-sided and had a sharply angled, three-sided U-shape. The leg of the U that served as the prow was topped by the pilot’s dome, with the big crystal sphere—the
dynasphere
—at the end of the other leg, which was longer and higher. "Are these parabolic dishes along the ‘spine’ repelatrons?"

Tom nodded. "Yup. You see, I’ve realized that this invention, which I started off thinking of as just a test instrument, has some practical uses even beyond the Kronus rescue. The same principle could be used on dead Earth satellites and other space junk, to clear the spacelanes and keep falling hunks of metal from, say, wiping out Detroit."

"We sure could’ve used something like that on the GenRev job."

"Exactly. So—the repelatrons will be used to guide and cushion whatever the dyna-field reels in, so we can cart it home on our back."

"I see." Bud pointed to the lower side of the hull. "What about these metal ears?" The objects had a curving horn-shape with oval, angled-off rims that scooped outward and downward.

"Those are more repelatrons," Tom explained, "but with a special new design. As you know, the repulsion field isn’t stable too close to the surface, because the lag effect prevents the radiator antennas from being readjusted quickly enough to match the changing composition of the ground."

"Right—no room on this little baby for a set of super-repelatrons like the
Challenger
has."

"Not enough power, either. So I’ve outfitted it with what I’m calling horizon-scan repelatrons. On both sides, they’ll push against the horizon, which is so far off that the element details are blurred together into a generalized ‘signature.’ The main problem to solve at this point is the liftoff. Since the thrust is sideways, the vertical vector of the push is practically zero."

"Good hunting, pal."

Tom had already directed his engineers and construction team to commence assembling the midget spacecraft, which he had named the
Dyna Ranger
. Seeing that progress was satisfactory, he told his mother and father:

"My staying in Shopton won’t speed construction at this point, and I can run my computer as easily in the Himalayas as at Enterprises. Bud and I—and Harlan Ames—might as well take that trip to Vishnapur. It’ll be another nine or ten days before I can make the attempt to fix the Kronus problem."

"The basic conformation for the carrier craft is all worked out?"

"Right, Dad. I’ll ask Hank to assign the systems engineers. Art Wiltessa can follow through on the new dyna-field device as I transmit the specs to him."

Mr. Swift considered a moment. "A great deal rests upon this, Tom, with respect to planetary research. Then you can have the project well under way by the end of the week?"

Tom nodded eagerly. "Yes, and the mission control people are sure we have at least a couple more weeks before the Kronus orbit goes critical. But the construction and testing will need supervision while I’m gone. Could you—er― "

His father smiled. "I’ll be happy to boss it, son," agreed Damon Swift. "It’ll be cutting it close, but there’s really nothing to be done to shorten the time. I see no reason why you couldn’t work out the final details of the new dynasphere in Vishnapur and send your instructions back to Hank Sterling and Arv Hanson."

"Dad—thanks." Tom grinned. "My aching arm and I need a vacation. And having a little inventing work will be a vacation from my vacation—which makes
two
vacations."

Tom’s mother spoke up. "It’s a wonderful opportunity, dear. And you surely
must
need a vacation. It’s not like you to leave a mystery behind unsolved."

"Don’t worry, I’m not," he explained. "I plan to make a stopover in India to look up those exporters who sent Mr. Singh the Mocking Buddha. That counts as keeping my nose to the mystery, right? And don’t forget, there’s also the other mystery of that space-lightning from the Himalayas." He added with a frown, "—though whether its a scientific mystery or a
human
mystery, I don’t know. But I will!"

LATE Sunday evening the
Sky Queen
took off for Asia. Included in Tom’s party were Harlan Ames and several crewmen.

Tom had also invited Crown Prince Vusungira and the other engineering trainees to take the luxury ride back to their homeland. They all were delighted at the chance to ride in the huge, sun-powered Flying Lab, famous across the earth.

"I have to stop off in Mumbai on some company business," Tom told Vusungira as they streaked across the moonlit Atlantic into the westward-sweeping dawn. "It shouldn’t take long."

The prince smiled slightly. "Business? To investigate a threat to one’s safety is business indeed."

Bud Barclay chuckled at the comeback. "You’re one mighty sharp prince, Your Highness."

"Call me Vusungira."

An hour later, as the
Queen
overflew the African continent, Tom joined Harlan Ames in the view lounge on the top deck. The security chief was more excited than Tom had ever seen. "Boss, this is already a marvelous experience. I’ve only had a few chances to travel in this giant cloud-skimmer of yours."

"Say, you’re getting poetic, Harlan!" Tom laughed. "She’s quite a ship, though. And I’m glad to have you along. I may need a few security tips in Vishnapur."

"Need ’em or not, you can expect them."

Just over three hours later the Arabian Sea, doorstep to the great Indian Ocean, gave way to the teeming subcontinent that was their first destination. It was midmorning in Mumbai as the skyship swooped down over a land of mud-brown and palm-green, and increasingly asphalt-black. They landed at Santa Cruz Airport on the outskirts of India’s bustling west coast metropolis.

After clearing customs, Tom inquired about the export firm’s address, which was on Dadhahai Naoroji Road near the waterfront. As the other passengers, including Prince Vusungira and his retinue, dispersed for some sightseeing during their brief stay, Tom and Bud took a taxi into the city. "Mystery first," remarked Bud, "tourism later."

Part of the route into the city led through grimy factories and tenement districts. It was also a route through time. When they approached the heart of Mumbai’s business district the past was left behind. The boys were thrilled by its leaping skyline of office buildings and modern glass-tiered apartments along wide palm-fringed avenues, elephant-free. Red double-decker buses and sleek sports cars jockeyed their way through the heavy traffic. And India’s principal product, people, flooded past endless advertising billboards, often in English—India’s second language.

"You know, this place has come a long way since the twelfth century," Bud wisecracked.

The taxi stopped at a modern glass-fronted building shouting
Mukerji & Sons, Ltd
. in crimson letters. The establishment seemed to be both a streetside retail store and a warehouse.

It turned out that the shop portion was much the smaller, and not well populated. Entering, Tom and Bud noticed only a few patrons in the store, their dress suggesting that they were tourists seeking bargains.

The Shoptonians walked up to a counter heaped with inviting merchandise pinned in track-lighting. A
babu
, or clerk, in a high-collared white coat and a
dhoti
, came forward.

"May I help you, sirs?"

Tom chatted with the clerk and mentioned the import shop in New York. "Mr. Singh told us he obtains his goods from your firm," Tom went on, "so we thought we’d stop in and look around."

A stout, mustachioed man in a business suit had come out from the stacked aisles behind the counter. He beamed at the boys. "Ah, Mr. Singh! A good customer of ours for many years. I am most happy to have you visit us and mention his name! Permit me to introduce myself—Ved Mukerji, the present owner of this firm."

Tom introduced Bud and added, "I’m Tom Swift."

"Not the famous young inventor?" Mr. Mukerji exclaimed. "But yes! This is indeed an honor."

The bustling man insisted upon showing the two over his entire establishment. The back of the building was used as warehouse space. On the upper floor, clerks were busy checking goods from all over Asia, while in the office three young Indian women, clad in graceful flowing saris, were engaged in keyboard work. Tom found it hard to believe that any of the three could be connected with a spy plot. But then he recalled that he had been threatened with death by a team of young women not many months before.

Returning to the shop area, Tom told Mukerji: "You have a lot of tempting merchandise, sir. Actually, there’s something specific I’m interested in, which Mr. Singh, mm, ran out of."

"Ah! You will surely find it here. We import for resale from all Asia. What do you wish?"

"A little bronze statue of Buddha, small enough to fit in your hand—the Mocking Buddha. I’m told they come from Vishnapur."

The man looked surprised, but nodded. "Why yes, I know precisely of this. We have many of them at present." He gestured and Tom’s eyebrows lifted. The shelf was stocked with dozens of them, identical.

He picked up a few, tapping them with a fingernail as he looked them over. He finally selected one to purchase, along with several shawls from Kashmir and some silver cuff links as gifts.

As Tom stood at the front counter to pay, Bud suddenly crouched down as if to tie his shoe. Standing up again, he whispered in his pal’s ear, "Behind the counter, bottom shelf." Tom stepped around the end of the counter nonchalantly and glanced down.

He tried to keep his expression steady. On the lowest shelf, half in shadow, was a bas-relief picture in an elaborate frame.
The image resembled that tattooed on Susak’s neck!

"Mr. Mukerji, that picture down there fascinates me," smiled Tom. "What is it?"

Mukerji also smiled—but the smile suddenly died. "
Nahim! Ise mat chhuo
—No!" He collected himself as Tom looked startled at the man’s outburst. "Hmha, I am sorry, Mr. Swift. You surprised me. That is not for sale. It is my own—something of sentiment, you see, that I keep to inspire me."

"
Rawther
ominous," said a smooth voice behind the visitors. "Are we to trust a shopkeeper who keeps something like
that
as an ‘inspiration’?"

The British inflection belonged to a youngish man, evidently one of the other patrons. He was dressed in European style, but appeared to be of Hindu descent.

"What—er—is the thing?" asked Bud.

The man chuckled lightly. "Hard to make sense of the little fellow, isn’t it? But that’s what it is, a god, Yamantaka. Tibetan deity. All of nine heads, the chief one that of a bull. Terrifying bloke, powerful enough to wrestle Yama himself—Satan, more or less—to the ground, and all the way under it. Must be nice, to have dominion over death."

"What you say is only one manifestation of Yamantaka," said Mr. Mukerji coldly. "He is a complex divinity in the Hindu pantheon. I call upon his
devis
, his messenger spirits, to bless me with the virtue of endurance."

The customer shrugged and extended a hand to Tom. "Beg pardon for interrupting—bad habit. Hugh Mortlake." Tom introduced himself and Bud and asked Mortlake if he were a fellow visitor to Mumbai. "Yes, just touring through. In case you’re wondering, I’m a native of little Sri Lanka. I was adopted by a British couple at the age of six months. Spent most of my life in London."

"It’s good to run into you, Mr. Mortlake," Tom said. "Thanks for telling us about Yamantaka."

"A pleasure. Well, have to run. Don’t let old Mukerji sell you any wooden
devis
, eh?"

As he left the shop, Mukerji glared at him. "Arrogance, arrogance. British! But now, let us complete our more pleasant business."

As Mr. Mukerji rang up the purchase, Tom remembered another point of investigation. "I happened to meet, through Mr. Singh, a couple men who know of your company. Benni Susak and Jaisit Radamantha."

Mukerji did not glance up. "Ah? I fear I am not acquainted with them."

Tom shrugged casually. "Nice fellows."

After leaving, Tom and Bud waited until their cab pulled away before commenting. "Do we know more than we did when we came in?" Bud asked.

"A little," was the uncertain reply. "I could tell that the Mocking Buddhas on display were solid metal, no electronics. Which is not to say Mukerji or a crony couldn’t have doctored up a few to send to Susak."

"He seemed pretty upset when you noticed Deathboy-Times-Nine."

"True. But he might’ve just felt sensitive about trying to explain his religious feelings to non-Hindu patrons. At least we have an idea what the tattoo represents."