Tom Swift and His Triphibian Atomicar (3 page)

"A big
if!
" Tom thought wryly.

A cubicle of concrete and magtritanium metal, radiation-shielded by the company’s amazing superstrong plastic, called Tomasite, filled one corner of the high-pressure test laboratory. A special exhaust system was provided to dispose of dangerous atomic vapors. The booth also had a Tomaquartz view window and an outside instrument panel. Inside, mounted on a test stand, lay the power capsule—about the size of an ordinary automobile battery but far lighter in weight.

As Tom was busying himself with the final hookups, Bud, always welcome, came ambling in. "Hi! I want to see how the Mighty Midget over there pans out."

Bud watched eagerly from the doorway of the test booth as Tom tightened a cable connection and inspected a few final details.

The power plant was housed in a small, rectangular, capsulelike casing. It had a copper boss at each end, one positive and one negative, through which the electrical output would be drawn off. A sheathed cable led from the capsule to a small control box, which was connected to an outside control panel.

"Keep your fingers crossed, pal," the young inventor muttered as he emerged from the booth and latched the door with the twirl of a lever—like that on a bank vault.

Bud, a young flier from San Francisco, the same age as Tom, had shared many adventures as Tom’s copilot. More than that, he had watched the development of all his chum’s major inventions, and he never failed to feel a thrill when Tom tested some new brain child.

"Good luck, genius boy!"

Tom handed him dark goggles for extra protection, donned a pair himself, then threw a switch.

The needle of the output wattmeter swung sharply to the right. "This is great!" Tom breathed. "Good night, we’ve already more than quadrupled Monday’s highest― "

The final words were never uttered. Both boys were jolted off their feet as the entire laboratory shook from a terrific blast!

A DISASTER siren, activated by automatic sensors, wailed across the experimental station as an orange-red inferno glowed behind the Tomaquartz window of the test chamber.

Slowly Tom and Bud sat up, struggled to their feet, and eyed the wreckage in the laboratory with dismay. Books, file cabinets, electronic gear, and other valuable equipment lay tumbled about the floor, amid the shattered glass from fallen racks of test tubes. Smashed bottles of chemicals sent reeking fumes through the lab.

"Good grief! What happened?" Bud gasped.

"Isn’t it obvious? The atomic power capsule exploded—generated too much pressure and blew up," said Tom grimly. He stepped up to the instrument panel, which had not been damaged, and replayed its final readings.

"What’s the verdict?" asked Bud eagerly. "Did the capsule live up to expectations?"

"It exceeded them," was the dull reply. "In a big way. I thought the matter-lenses would retain coherence all through the process, but they failed in the end. The ion pressure was just too great to be contained."

"But you’ll be able to patch ’em up, Skipper. Won’t you?"

Tom shrugged. "I don’t know. I don’t see how. This was a pretty edgy approach, but it was the only method that seemed at all promising. Now― " His voice trailed off listlessly, and Bud put a comforting hand on his pal’s arm.

Though dazed and bruised from their fall, neither youth was injured. Already shouts could be heard outside the laboratory as plant employees rushed to investigate the explosion.

"Bud, tell everyone to keep out!" Tom directed, listless. As Bud hurried to comply, Tom glanced quickly at a radiation-level indicator. "Thank heavens!" he muttered. Evidently the reaction products had been safely confined within the test booth.

Tom snatched up the telephone and contacted Ames at Security. "Bud and I are okay," he reported, "but an atomic reaction got out of hand. Get the decontamination squad here pronto, won’t you, Harlan?"

"Will do, boss. I’ll calm the place down, too, as best I can."

The next few hours were spent in harried efforts to cope with the lab disaster. Tom finally organized a procedure to draw off the radioactive residue safely from the booth after the reaction had cooled. This would take several days. Then the chamber itself would have to be dismantled and construction materials carefully disposed of. Fragments of the power capsule, super-propelled, had become embedded right in the solid walls!

He and Bud were just completing their tasks when a wavering signal tone erupted from the lab phone. Recognizing it, the two jerked to attention. "The main radar alarm!" gasped Bud. "Somebody’s messing with our air space!"

Tom Swift Enterprises, which often took on projects funded by the government, was treated as a heightened-security facility. The entire plant was protected by a "bubble" of constantly scanning radar that alerted security personnel, and company executives, in the event of any unauthorized intrusion by air. Flicking on a monitor and accessing the main patrolscope, Tom saw a blip of light moving in a rapid curve about the center of the screen—evidently an aircraft!

Tom snatched up the wall phone and beeped the airfield control tower. "What’s going on out there?"

"A small jet’s circling the plant," the tower operator reported. "There was no advance—oh, now they’ve heard from him. The pilot requests permission to land. Says his name is Simon Wayne."

The name sounded familiar, but Tom couldn’t place it immediately. "What’s his business?" he asked.

"Let’s see... He claims he wants to see you personally on an important matter. They’re saying he refuses to elaborate."

Tom hesitated. "Okay. Set him down. I’ll meet up with him on the airfield."

Bud volunteered to remain behind to attend to the final cleanup details. Tom left the lab building and went outside. He shaded his eyes as he looked skyward. A sleek jet, bearing a red-and-black insigne, came whistling down onto one of the concrete runways. Tom hopped into a midget electric vehicle, called a nanocar, and sped out to meet it.

Another nanocar from the Enterprises Security Office in the administration building joined Tom as he reached the station airfield. Its driver was slim, dark-haired Harlan Ames. Ames leapt out of his car and stood beside Tom as the young inventor waited to greet their visitor, wary and annoyed.

The pilot of the jet proved to be a huge, ruddy-cheeked man of about forty. But even more imposing than his size was an enormous blond handlebar mustache which stuck out on either side of his bluff, weather-beaten face.

"Tom Swift?" he boomed. "Well, of course you are!"

Tom nodded and shook hands. "This is Harlan Ames, head of our security staff," he added.

The visitor shook hands with Ames. "I’m Simon Wayne," he explained, "American representative of Europa Fabrikant—as you probably guessed from the symbol on my little jet."

Europa Fabrikant was well known, at least by name, to both Tom and Ames. It was a European firm, belonging to one of the biggest industrial cartels in the world.

"Rather an informal way to drop in, wasn’t it?" said Ames.

Wayne’s eyes froze on the security chief, then he burst into a deep chuckle. "When I do things, I do ’em in a hurry!" Wayne said. "It’s why they pay me a salary, boys—only way to meet business competition these days. I wanted to see Tom Swift and happened to be flying this way, so here I am!"

"What did you want to see me about?" Tom broke in politely. He had decided he was too busy to be impressed by the big man.

Wayne abruptly turned serious. "Where can we talk business?" His eyes shifted to Harlan Ames. "If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to speak to Tom privately."

Minutes later, Tom faced his visitor across a broad modern desk in the big sunlit double office which he shared with Mr. Swift, models of many Swift family inventions looming on all sides.

"I’m listening, Mr. Wayne."

"I’ve been reading in scientific journals about your new miniature power plant," Wayne began. "Impressive stuff. But you don’t need flattery. Do you? To skip to the bottom line, Europa Fabrikant can use that process. We’re aiming to go beyond materials fabrication and get involved in other areas of manufacturing—high-tech stuff. And we can use you, too, m’friend, to ride herd on developments. Name your price. I’m authorized to make a good-faith down payment on your retainer today." He took out a checkbook and poised a fountain pen over it. His bushy eyebrows were lifted in anticipation.

Tom grinned. "I’m flattered after all, Mr. Wayne, but the rights to my midget power plant are not for sale. Nor am I looking for a job. If you’ll pardon me, my dad and I think we have the finest scientific setup in the world right here. And I don’t care to work overtime."

Wayne named a huge figure, then doubled it. Tom shook his head. "Sorry, but my answer remains No."

Wayne laughed. "Very well. I like a young fellow who knows his own mind." He replaced his checkbook and pen, then took a card from his wallet and handed it to Tom. "But if you should change your mind, the offer’s still open. Please think it over—personal favor, hmm?"

As the man blustered off, Tom wondered why, precisely, he was presumed to owe Simon Wayne a personal favor.

Tom had arranged to meet with his family, Ed, and the Prandits for lunch, at the Yacht Club restaurant.

"What a wonderful morning," said Moshan, Bashalli’s older brother, with whom she lived. "The lake is superb, is it not?"

"My own morning was pretty eventful," commented Tom. He briefly mentioned the capsule test, downplaying its more dangerous elements and his own disappointment in the outcome. Then he gave a humorous account of the Simon Wayne visitation. His impression of the robust industrialist brought the others to laughter.

"I have heard of this man," said Bashalli abruptly. The Pakistani’s face was no longer gleeful.

Tom asked if Wayne had a poor reputation, and Moshan answered, "Perhaps so, if you live in our part of the world. Europa Fabrikant is one of the great multinationals who are rather careless of our customs and our national feeling, our sensitivity to the appearance of exploitation by Europeans."

"Yes, and by us Americans as well," noted Mr. Swift understandingly.

"May I say also," added Mrs. Prandit, "that there have been industrial accidents, spillage of dangerous chemicals. Whole villages are thought to have been made sick. Some have died, it is said. Our own government does not like to admit these things."

"But let us be fair," Bashalli broke in. "It is surely not this Mr. Wayne himself that we object to. He is sometimes in the papers, the face of his employers. But he cannot be held responsible for what is done by Europa Fabrikant."

"Well, Tom’s pretty good at sticking to his guns," said Sandy. "We’ve seen the last of old Handlebar Hank."

The conversation turned to other matters. Tom’s mother asked Ed Longstreet if he had ever visited Kabulistan in his travels.

"Oh, I tried to, not long ago," was the reply. "But independence has sent world business interests flocking there—a real flood of The Suits. The few scheduled flights are sold out far in advance." Ed threw a glance at Tom. "Speaking of big wheels and big deals, last week in London I met a banker named Provard who was very much interested to hear that I was related to the famous Swift inventors."

"An American?" Tom asked.

"Yes. I got the impression Mr. Provard might get in touch with you."

"Maybe he wants Tom to invent a new burglar alarm for his bank vault." Sandy giggled.

"More likely he’s checking up on our credit," Tom said dryly. "Dad, you’d better make sure my atomic power capsule experiments aren’t putting us in the red."

Mr. Swift laughed. "No danger yet, son. I have an idea the capsule could be the most profitable project Swift Enterprises has ever undertaken!"

It was late afternoon when Tom finally slumped into a chair in his office to relax over a pot of hot cocoa with Bud. The young inventor had been working for hours in front of his design flatscreen, attempting to find some new route to success for the atomic capsule. Thoughtful and discouraged, he told his pal that nothing had yet turned up.

"Tough luck, Skipper," Bud sympathized. "Did you expect this might happen?"

Tom shrugged. "I knew the risk was there. But I thought I had the pressure problem licked. This time it looks like the scientific establishment is right. ‘Tabletop’ fusion just can’t be tamed."

"So it’s back to the drawing board," Bud declared. "Flatscreen, that is."

Tom plowed his fingers through his crew cut and grinned ruefully. "This means our atomicar announcement will have to be postponed, and I won’t even be able to use the special lab for the next few days."

That evening, after the others had retired, Tom brought his father up to date on the day’s events. Then he said, "Dad, I’ve just been reading some reports from the Citadel. They’ve made a little progress in this area that I was unaware of." The Citadel was the Swifts’ atomic research plant in New Mexico.

As Mr. Swift listened with interest, Tom explained that he was impressed by the data on a stable isotope of one of the new manmade elements. Its physical and chemical properties sounded as though the isotope might be promising in developing a new fusion technique for the atomic power capsule.

"In fact, I think I’ll fly out to the Citadel and work on it in the lab there for a few days," Tom said.

An excited voice suddenly burst down the stairwell from the upper floor. "Oh! What a
super idea!
" cried Sandy from her invisible perch. "Bud will be going, I suppose, and school’s out, so why don’t Bashi and I go too?"

Another voice joined the discussion from above. "Don’t forget Cousin Ed, world explorer!"

Mr. Swift laughed. "Tom, for your next invention, how about a silencer for our
house!
"

For better or worse, the matter was settled. The next day at noon, the five young people watched as the
Sky Queen
was lifted into the sunlight from its underground hangar at Swift Enterprises. The
Queen
was a staple of the young inventor’s exploits. This huge solar-powered skyship, often called the Flying Lab, had carried Tom on his first adventure when he found himself enmeshed in intrigue in South America. Most recently, it had carried Tom to Madeira in connection with his search for a lost space probe with his electronic hydrolung.