Tom Swift and His Subocean Geotron (9 page)

The older district of the village of white-painted houses with iron roofs was fenced off from the surrounding grazing land. As they motored through, Ruykendahl pointed out the many hotels, large and small, new and old, and seemed personally acquainted with their owners. "But many visitors prefer what you call ‘bed-and-breakfasts’," commented Moreno. "We have modernized greatly over the last generation, since a popular book made us well-known. Now we have
two
supermarkets!"

The residence of the island governor, appointed by the Chilean government in far-distant Santiago, was contemporary and decorous.
Gubernadór
Contreras, who wore a khaki uniform with gold epaulets, welcomed them in a comfortable living room and peppered his guests with polite but animated questions.

They dined sumptuously at a linen-clothed table the size of a landing strip. Just as they were finishing the meal, an elderly American was escorted in, greeted warmly as an old friend.

"This is the very man you wished to see," smiled the governor. "Professor Tyburn is a man of many distinctions, always welcome here. He lives near; I had my servant call him after you made mention of his name, Mr. Longstreet."

"Wonderful to see you again, Ed," said the white-haired American.

The professor was delighted to meet the other two fellow Americans. But his handshake with Nee Ruykendahl was proper but chilly. Tom knew that showy adventurers like Ruykendahl were sometimes poorly regarded by scientists and students of traditional cultures.

Tyburn offered to show the boys the great statue quarry at Rano Raraku, a crater near the northeast corner of the island. "It’s a sight you’ll never forget," he said. "Even you two, who have been to the moon—the
moons
! And I’ll be glad to tell you whatever I know of these subjects you’ve brought up—the myths and folktales, and just plain gossip, of the old-time people of mata-ki-te-rangi."

"Is that here on the island?" inquired Bud.

"It
is
the island, Bud," the man replied. "One of its early names in the indigenous dialect. It means ‘Eyes that talk to the sky’."

The boys exchanged veiled, startled glances.
Talking to the sky
! "That’s a pretty poetic name," Tom ventured. "How did they hit on it?"

Tyburn shrugged. "Beats me. These things go back centuries, and the ancient people wrote no histories—no books at all. No doubt is has to do with the statues, who look upwards as well as out to sea."

"They watch protectively," pronounced the governor. "Sentinels guarding this island eternally."

"Guarding against what?" Nee asked. "What do these giant eyes watch for? To whom do they talk, hmm?"

"Oh, no one knows anymore," Tyburn said. "Some ancient fear lost in the shadows of history."

An ancient fear.
But not so old it can’t come back to life!
Tom mused.

What if the memory crypt proved to be Pandora’s Box? Yet Tom Swift was determined to open that box!

THE NEXT morning was Sunday, and Nee Ruykendahl urged the three Americans to join him for a church service to hear the talented choir of native singers, a well-known attraction. He then went his own way, to call on a few friends and local business contacts in the interests of Bluegreen Safari-Adventures.

"I’ve arranged for horses for us, guys, to ride over to Rano Raraku to meet Drake Tyburn," Ed told his companions. "Best way to get around."

"Do we tell the cab driver ‘Rent-A-Horse, please’?" Bud joked.

Tom suggested, "Let’s walk to the stables, if it’s not too far."

"
Nothing’s
far in
this
town," Ed laughed.

They strolled down the main boulevard. As they neared the patio of a streetside restaurant, crowded with late-breakfasting tourists, Tom suddenly grasped Bud’s and Ed’s elbows and drew them back, out of sight behind a parked truck. "There he is, at a table eating—Mr. Tourist!" hissed the young inventor.

The others were startled! "You’re
sure
? Skipper, we just left him in—" began Bud in protest.

"I recognize him," Tom insisted. "He’s still setting off my ‘familiar face’ detectors!"

Ed suggested calling the town police, or Lieutenant Moreno. Tom seemed to consider this. Then his face hardened. "No. I’m sick of all this. We’re in public surrounded by people. I’m taking the direct approach."

He immediately stepped back into view and began to stride purposefully toward the patio and Mr. Tourist’s table. Ed remarked nervously, "Tom’s direct approach looks to me like a
direct attack!
"

The man was reading a newspaper as he ate alone. Sensing an approaching shadow, he glanced up. At first his interest was casual; then it seemed to Tom that his face froze.

"Hello," said the Shoptonian, thrusting his hand forward. "Nice to see you again."

Mr. Tourist stared at the hand, then warily offered his own. "Good morning," he said to Tom. "I—have we met?"

Tom pulled up a chair unbidden and plopped down, grinning. "We sure have. Don’t you recall?"

"I’m afraid I don’t. Might you have mistaken me for someone else, Mr.—?"

"Please, Mr. Halspeth. You know I’m Tom Swift. I imagine you have a few good closeups of me in your wallet. Can’t have you following the wrong guy, right?"

The man glared at Tom coldly. "Yes, of course I recognize you. But that other name—Halspeth? Where did you hear it, if you don’t mind my asking?"

"In Africa, oddly enough."

"A friend?"

"Not especially; of course it’s early in the day. Don’t be offended, but I
didn’t
recognize you until just now, when I heard your voice. Breeman Halspeth, data science and counterfeiting."

"I see."

Tom nodded. "You can’t place the meeting, Bree, because you never knew it had taken place. I was disguised. We sat next to one another in a movie theater and spoke just a bit. You introduced yourself."

"It seems I did," said Halspeth. "A movie theater?"

"
Underground
movies, you might say."

The man was silent for a moment. Then a smile grew and broadened on his face. "Why yes. The Helmsman’s idiot film—the secret base beneath Goaba. I shook your hand."

"You must’ve had some luck, not getting caught up when they raided the place."

"Luck—right. I left on my assigned task some days before it all fell apart," he calmly replied. "Of course, subsequent events made that assignment unnecessary. But our inspiring friend the Black Cobra values talent. I was recalled to duty, Tom. And here we are."

"Here we are," Tom repeated jovially. "In fact, I’m sitting with you at your table. Care to kidnap me?"

"Mmm, I’d rather not."

"Tired after your flight? The boss must’ve provided top-of-the-line jet transport. Or did you manage to stow away in the
Sky Queen
? C’mon, Bree, brag a little."

Halspeth gave a thin laugh. "No, I’m a little too thick in the middle for that sort of thing. We presumed your stop in Las Mambritas would be followed by a trip here. Ruykendahl and your cousin obviously told you where they had found... certain objects of interest. I am to forward to the Comrade-General regular reports on your doings, Tom, just as I did regarding Longstreet. No kidnapping in either case. Oh, and no counterfeiting, by the way. The police are welcome to question me. I’ve committed no crime.
Li Ching?
—just a pair of words."

"I think ‘Black Cobra’ works better as a brand name, don’t you?" Tom suddenly leaned across the table, eyes fixed on Halspeth. "Think about this, Halspeth. By being seen here, chatting openly with your designated quarry, you’ve caused the boss a moment of concern—don’t think he isn’t watching
you
as carefully as you’re watching
me
. You’d be smart to look seriously at changing sides."

"Perhaps I would be, Tom. But I don’t choose to do so. We all have our agendas, don’t we?"

"Sure. What was the Helmsman’s agenda, going after me above Lake Carlopa? Just curious."

The man chuckled. "Yeah, I’m sure you are. The man seems to have some kind of obsession with all things Swift. But you know, they don’t bother telling us peons more than absolutely necessary—to forestall conversations like this one."

"Haven’t been promoted to Righthand yet?"

"Strange you should mention that. I expect such a promotion rather soon. And now, friend..." He rattled his newspaper. "Dow-Jones awaits. Go. If you don’t value your
health
, as they say, kindly value my
time
."

Tom rose and left, proud of himself and amused. But also with a twinge in his back that spoke of the possibility of a bullet.

"That was crazy!" declared Bud as his pal rejoined them. "Tom Swift, you’re my hero!"

"Let’s head on to the horse place," Tom said with a gulp. "I’ll tell you about my little drama along the way. If Mr. Tourist wants to skulk along after us on a skulking horse—let him."

Receiving a map at the rental stables, the three set out on horseback. The trail across the island was strewn with sharp volcanic rocks which would have cut their shoes to ribbons.

"Now you see why everyone rides," said Ed. "There are actually more horses on Easter Island than there are people."

Bud noted that he had seen many a car, truck, and scooter, and Ed replied: "It’s a concession to the modern world. Some people don’t like it—environmental problems."

It was nearing noon when the group reached the quarry. The boys were awestruck at their first sight of the huge stone figures, called
moai
, littering the grassy slopes of the crater. All the heads, weirdly proportioned, were long and thin, the skull-shape flattened in back and on top—and all with the same jutting chins, long ears, and tight, sneering lips.

As Drake Tyburn called out a greeting and came walking up, Bud gasped, "Good grief! This is as weird as finding a herd of elephants at the North Pole!"

"Many of these statues are thirty feet high and weigh close to a hundred tons," said Professor Tyburn. "One lying up there on the side of the volcano measures sixty-nine feet. Imagine what the weight is!"

Some figures were buried in earth up to their chests, while others lay flat on their backs. A few were only partly quarried. Stone picks and adzes lay about as if workmen had suddenly dropped their tools and fled—fled
some ancient fear
, the boys thought. "Easy to see why people think of them as ‘the heads.’ But if you look a bit closer, you can see that they’re complete torsos, with their hands on their stomachs."

As they ate lunch with a small group of other visitors, Professor Tyburn explained that the figures on platforms around the shore had worn red stone topknots. He told of the legendary chief, Hotu Matu’a, who had first sailed to the island from out of the sunset. "But Easter’s ancient story is still shrouded in mystery," he ended. "No one really knows when the statues were carved—there’s radiocarbon evidence for the 1500’s, but there are many competing theories."

Tom said thoughtfully, "They remind me of something I saw in Yucatan and read further about. Didn’t the Maya use boards to deform the skulls of ‘sacred’ babies so that they looked a little like this?"

"Yes, a priestly tradition of some sort, not well understood. And in fact there are theories of some direct influence by the Americas on the original culture of the island."

"And... you know..." began Bud tentatively, "the extraterrestrial guys that Tom is in contact with landed in Yucatan way back when. Do you think—well, maybe they really looked this way and inspired the priests."

Tyburn nodded tolerantly. "I’ve certainly heard theories like that."

Lunch over, the elderly man guided them into the statuary section along descending trails marked by ropes. As the four stood alone in the strange shadows, Tyburn asked what sort of legend and lore Tom was interested in. "We have a lot of it, passed orally along the generations."

"A couple small carved objects have been discovered on the ocean bottom a few hundred miles northwest," Tom explained. "Unless my instruments are giving some sort of false result, they’re extremely ancient, and they have... an unusual composition. We’re planning an underwater search operation, but we’d like to narrow the scope as much as possible."

"I see—old stories and reports from fishermen might help you." Tom showed Tyburn a photo of one of the artifacts. "Well," he said, "I’ve certainly never seen or heard of anything like it. Legends of peculiar things being discovered at sea?" He thought deeply for a long moment. "Nothing that specific. Sorry."

"Well, look," Ed interjected, "do the native cultures regard any spots in the ocean as important or sacred in some way?"

"Oh, that sort of thing is common in all oceanic societies," nodded Tyburn. "I suppose the most distinctive such spot in Rapanuian tradition is rather in the area you’re interested in, now that I think of it. Further north and east. More a direction than a location, to tell the truth.

"In old times there was a group that gave special worship to one of the local deities, a sort of ghost-man god called Moai-kava-kava. One variant myth speaks of his sacred bedchamber beneath the waves, where each sunset he tries to lasso the sun and pull it down to tame it. All he ever gets for his trouble is a bit of fire, which can be seen burning beneath the sea, down deep."

Tom rubbed his chin. "Well—you never know. Maybe it’s a lead. It’s in the general area of the search, at any rate."

After clambering about the craters to inspect the statues, the three visitors bade the archaeologist goodbye and started back. Their horses jogged southward along a coastal trail. Professor Tyburn had said this would take them past several of the stone burial platforms.

Suddenly a volley of weird yells split the air. Tom and Bud glanced around in surprise. Darting out from behind one of the looming statues, three horsemen were galloping toward them, wearing strange, ferocious-looking masks!

"Jetz!" Bud exclaimed. "Who are they—South Sea highwaymen?"

"I don’t know," Tom said in a puzzled voice, "Maybe it’s just high spirits."

Ed was frowning. "Cousin, I sure don’t like their looks. Never heard of anything like those masks."