Tom Swift and His Triphibian Atomicar (10 page)

"Sure. It might be fun. What can we lose?"

Tom contacted Provard’s office to confirm the arrangements.

Late Friday afternoon, as prearranged, the financier’s private plane arrived at the Enterprises airfield to pick them up. The sleek twin-engined jetcraft landed and a grinning, auburn-haired figure climbed out to meet them.

"
Orton Throme!
" Tom was amazed—and wary. "What’s going on here?" he muttered under his breath.

"FANCY meeting you here!" said Bud dryly as he shook hands with the artist-pilot. "Missed out on it the first time."

Tom merely grinned, somewhat cautiously. "Hi, Ort!"

"I suppose you guys are pretty surprised to see me." The ex-military airman looked a bit embarrassed. Even two bits! "Hop in. I’ll tell you all about it after we take off."

The two boys climbed aboard and took seats inside the luxuriously fitted cabin. Ort revved the jet engines, and on signal from the tower taxied along the runway for takeoff.

When they were airborne, he flashed the boys a grin. "
Well
, here’s the story. I fly, off and on, for Asa Provard," Ort explained. "You see, Provard was mighty good to me when I first tried my hand at painting after I got out of service. He paid for two years of study in Paris and bought my paintings when no one else would. I guess you could say he believed in me, and that’s mighty important when you don’t fit well with the world of business."

Tom nodded. "I know the feeling, Ort. I’m on the edge of that world, but it’ll never give me the kind of creative life I really want."

"It can be rough. They make you feel like a kook, a misfit. You know what it’s like." Ort continued, explaining that Asa Provard allowed him to live at his country estate year round. "I guess I’m a sort of live-in caretaker and handyman, and it’s a perfect environment for my painting. Asa doesn’t ask much of me. I get to travel, too—sometimes I carry out various special assignments for him around the world, sort of as a special personal representative."

"I’m beginning to think our meeting in New Mexico was no accident," Tom remarked.

Bud added with a wink Tom’s way, "Scientists don’t believe in coincidence, y’know, Ort."

Ort flushed. "You’re right. I’d been planning a painting trip to the Southwest. Provard learned from his business contacts—believe me, they know everything!—that you were leaving to work at your nuclear installation. He asked me to—well, sort of size you up."

"Which was the purpose of the dinner," pronounced Tom with a nod. "You’d have suggested it if we hadn’t. And that bit about trying to place me, wanting to meet the girls― "

"What can I say, Tom?" Throme grinned apologetically. "I’m afraid I sort of...
trailed
you from the Citadel to Taos. But needless to say, my report back was highly favorable."

"This is what happens when you leave your right-hand guy behind, genius boy," stated Bud with a nudge.

"I’m curious," said Tom, "to know why Mr. Provard sent for me. What was I being sized-up
for?
"

"Honestly, I don’t know," Ort confessed. "All I can tell you is that he’s the head of one of the biggest banks in New York. He has several other bigshot financiers waiting at his lodge to meet you. Trust him, Tom. He’s a great guy, and I know him as well as anyone. Better."

Tom and Bud exchanged meaningful glances. It was clear that whatever Provard wanted, it must be
highly
important—in his own mind, at least.

The flight took them over a green wilderness of rugged, forest-clad slopes and sinuous mountain lakes. Presently their pilot murmured, "Here we are!" and set the plane down on an airstrip carved out of the mountainside

Bud gave a whistle as they climbed down. "Some layout!"

Just below the airstrip stood a magnificent low rambling lodge built of rough-hewn logs and fieldstone. On one side lay a row of tennis courts, and on the other a huge swimming pool.

A bald-headed man, with twinkling blue eyes and gold-rimmed glasses, came strolling up the slope to greet them. He was wearing a polo shirt and khaki shorts.

"I’m Asa Provard," he announced, smiling and thrusting out his hand to Tom. "Delighted you were able to accept my invitation."

"Sorry my father wasn’t able to make it," Tom said. "This is my friend, Bud Barclay."

"Ah, Barclay! I know who you are, son."

Don’t say it, moneybags!
Bud grumbled to himself as he shook hands.

When they reached the lodge, three other men, named Tompkyns, Ruthers, and Grane, were introduced to the boys. To Tom’s surprise, there was no talk of business. Provard suggested a few sets of tennis. Later came a dip in the pool, a hearty leisurely dinner, and early bedtime.

"I still don’t know what’s going on," Tom said to his pal.

"I just don’t want it to stop!" was the happy reply.

After breakfast the next morning, Tom and Bud wandered into their host’s gun room. The walls were lined with several racks of rifles and shotguns, with fishing and hunting trophies mounted overhead.

Bud idly picked out a foreign-made shotgun with damascened barrels and silver-ornamented stock. "What a beauty!" he murmured.

"Expensive enough, but not half so much gun as this good old American twelve-gauge semi-automatic," said a voice. Ort Throme had come up behind them.

Bud read superiority in the man’s tone and felt a surge of irritation. "You’re quite an expert on a lot of things, aren’t you, Ort?" he needled.

The painter grinned. "
Some
things. I’m not much of a hunter, but I do a bit of shooting."

Bud, who was a skillful marksman, decided that the time had come to show some superiority of his own. "How about shooting a few clay pigeons? We’ll make it a match."

Ort agreed politely. Each chose a gun and they went outside. Tom volunteered to throw the targets from a hand trap.

Taking turns, Bud and Ort each hit five of the first ten targets. The next one Bud missed, while Ort scored another bull’s-eye. Angry at himself, Bud missed two of the next four. Ort, however, continued to blast every clay pigeon thrown, with monotonous accuracy.

Bud began to perspire and turn red in the face. When the match was over, he had knocked down eighteen out of twenty-five targets. Without breaking a sweat, Ort had racked up a perfect score of twenty-five hits!

"You’re probably off form today, Bud," he said good-naturedly. "I just had a lucky streak."

"Lucky my eye," grumbled Bud. "You’re good!" Later, as he and Tom returned the pieces to the gun room, Bud mopped his brow. "Whew! I’m glad
that
warfare wasn’t for real!"

Tom chuckled and slapped his chum on the back. "I guess the moral of that little contest is, never shoot against a guy whose life depended on shooting!"

The rest of the morning was spent on a leisurely hike through the woods. Then, after a lunch of sizzling fried trout, Provard gathered his guests on a circle of lawn chairs outside the lodge. "No doubt you’re wondering what’s behind this weekend invitation, Tom," the banker said.

"Frankly, sir, I am."

"Forgive the air of mystery. I’ll explain," Provard began. "My colleagues and I are underwriting a private foreign aid project of our own—with no assistance from Uncle Sam. It’s a way to put forward what’s best about our country without getting enmeshed in today’s international political disputes. As you might guess, ‘official’ development help from the U.S. is unwelcome in some parts of the world."

"Tiresome nonsense," pronounced Mr. Grane.

"We need the kind of technical help, however, that only you Swifts can provide." The project, he went on, was an attempt to industrialize the new country of Kabulistan almost overnight. "Lift it by its bootstraps, so to speak," Provard added.

Kabulistan!
Tom and Bud were excited by this announcement.

"Understand, we aren’t starry-eyed idealists," put in Ruthers with a cough. "We’re out to make a profit. But at the same time we believe we can help Kabulistan raise the living standards of its people— with no strings attached."

"Our aim," Provard said, "is to develop the country’s resources as quickly as possible."

"Before others do?" asked Tom in all innocence.

"We’ll do a better job, young man," declared Tompkyns over the bristle of a gray mustache. "They’ll thank us some day."

"We’ve identified one impoverished region to start in," continued Asa Provard, "and in fact we already have a troop of workers in place. Ultimately this project will mean building industrial plants, dams, roads, bridges, schools, and hospitals.

"We think the project is important to the whole free world, Tom. And you’re right. If we don’t succeed, Kabulistan may soon fall victim to foreign powers who wish to use its strategic location to foment war against the ‘infidel’ West. Certain neighboring countries are already being unduly friendly and offering technical help."

The banker said he and his group were only financiers—money men. They would need an engineering firm to mastermind and carry out such a big-scale technical program. All were agreed that Swift Enterprises was the scientific organization best fitted to tackle the job.

The talk went on throughout the afternoon and evening. Tom was thrilled by the scope of the project. On Sunday, before Ort Throme flew him and Bud back to Shopton, he gave Provard and his group a tentative Yes on behalf of Tom Swift Enterprises—subject to his father’s approval when he returned from his work on Fearing Island. "Oh, by the way," he added before boarding the jet, "I was wondering—are you acquainted with Simon Wayne? Or Milton Isosceles?"

Provard shrugged. "Our paths have crossed now and then, of course. Can’t say I know them. Why?"

"Nothing important. They both seem to have an interest in working with Enterprises, just as you do."

"Good businessmen," stated Provard noncommitally.

After bidding farewell to Ort Throme on the Enterprises airfield, Tom sat down with his father and his father’s longtime friend Jake Aturian, head of Swift Construction Company.

"Dad, I think it’s a fantastic chance to help the Kabulistanis. Also, it’s a chance to prove how free scientific knowhow can benefit all humanity."

"Chalk up points for enthusiasm! What’s your opinion, Jake?" Mr. Swift asked.

Mr. Aturian frowned thoughtfully. "Our manufacturing setup isn’t geared for something of such magnitude." he said. "But it seems Provard’s group is more interested in our technical consulting expertise—and maybe the Swift imaginative bug—than in any massive production turnout. Damon, I agree with Tom. This project is something we can’t afford to pass up."

Mr. Swift’s blue eyes brightened. He was as stirred by the idea as his son. "Glad you think so, because I agree wholeheartedly!" Turning back to Tom, he addled more seriously, "This will be a terrific undertaking, son, and you’ll have to bear the brunt of it. But it’s hardly the first time. ‘If we can put a man on the moon—’,
etc.!
I’m confident you’ll do an A-1 job."

"Thanks, Dad." Tom’s voice was quiet, but his heart was pounding.

"It’s settled, then," his father concluded. "Jake, suppose you get in touch with Provard and see about the paper-pushing end of things."

As the three rose to leave the Swifts’ office, Jake Aturian suddenly snapped his fingers. "Oh—wanted to mention something. Got a call this morning from none other than Milton Isosceles!" His mistook the expression crossing both Swift faces for a lack of recognition. "You’ve heard of him, haven’t you? President of Imperative Motorskill?"

"We’ve heard of him," pronounced Damon Swift somewhat wryly.

"In fact, Uncle Jake, I was expecting to hear from him some time ago," Tom said. "What did he want?"

"As you say, it was you he was concerned with, Tom. He wanted to set up a private meeting with you to discuss working out some kind of arrangement to manufacture the new atomicars for public purchase. I told him right off we might have an interest—
no way
are the Swift companies going to turn themselves into automobile plants!" Aturian smiled knowingly. "I think his purpose was to get me to use a bit of my personal ‘pull’ with you gentlemen. But I’ll let the guy carry his own water."

"I’ll ask Trent to get back in touch and set up a meeting," promised Tom. "This should solve at least
one
of our mysteries!"

Two days later the young inventor was hustled into the big, strangely cramped office of the auto magnate, which had a view of the beautiful capitol dome of Madison, Wisconsin.

A gaunt, waspish man of few words, years younger than his wizened appearance, Isosceles got right to the point. "Thanks for taking the meeting, Swift. I guess you know my objective here. What do you say? Interested in working with IM? We may be Number Four, you know, but we have Number Two in sight."

"I’d say we’re very interested in looking at some ideas, Mr. Isosceles," replied the scientist-inventor. "Our company has a project that will be occupying us for a time—but you’d hardly start turning out our atomicars right away."

"Of course not!" he snapped. "We have to make sure the public wants to buy it first. We have to talk about the advertising pitch, about price. I make it a practice to get ahead of my board of directors, but ultimately they’ll wade into the whole pile of slush before committing."

Tom nodded. "That’s good to hear. I was a little concerned, frankly. You seemed to be going to some—er, extreme ends to meet with me."

"What’s that? Extreme? Calling Aturian direct was standard business practice."

"I meant the business about using Gabriel Knorff to photograph me at the New Mexico facility. He told me all about your call to him."

Milton Isosceles glared at the young man sitting across his desk. "Gabriel Knorff? Photographs? Swift,
what in the name of holy petroleum are you talking about?
"

SHOCKED though he was, Tom knew instantly that Mr. Isosceles was telling the truth.

"I’m sorry to have mentioned it, sir," Tom said after a moment. "It seems I’m mistaken."