Tom Swift and His Triphibian Atomicar (4 page)

The Flying Lab needed no large crew despite its great size and advanced capabilities. Bud and Tom would copilot the craft, and other than his cousin and the girls he had invited only one further crew member, Swift Enterprises’ talented modelmaker Arvid Hanson.

"I hope I’ll be of some use to you, boss," he told Tom. "I’ve never really gotten involved in automotive design—except in my head."

"It’s your expertise in miniaturization that I hope to tap," Tom replied. "If this new lead pans out, the power capsule will have to be completely reconfigured. I’d like to be able to test it out right away, at the Citadel."

They boarded the skyship, and in minutes it had risen aloft on its bank of jet lifters. Bud set a course for New Mexico as Tom made his guests comfortable in the lounge, which was at the front of the topmost of the
Sky Queen
’s three decks.

"I love this ship," exclaimed Ed. "Sure beats the commercial jetliners. Wish I could borrow it for all my travels."

Reclining luxuriantly on a padded sofa, Sandy asked, "Tomonomo, will Chow be joining us?"

"That’s the plan, sis. I phoned him last night. He’ll meet up with us at the Citadel—tomorrow or the day after."

Big Texas-born Chow Winkler, Swift Enterprises’ executive chef, was a close friend of the Swift family. He had flown to his native Texas the week previous to attend a funeral, and Tom and Bud felt his absence.

The
Sky Queen
’s mode of travel made New York and New Mexico near neighbors. Streaking westward at supersonic speed, the sleek wingless craft reached New Mexico in an hour.

As the rugged desert rolled by beneath them, Sandy pointed out the lounge’s floor-to-ceiling windows. "Look, Ed—that’s Purple Mesa, where Bashi and I and Bud were marooned!"

"Oh, right," nodded her cousin. "When Tom’s helicopter was wrecked. How long were you trapped up there?"

"It was a terrible ordeal," replied Bashalli with twinkling eyes. "We were completely cut off from civilization for—how long was it, Sandra?"

Sandy reddened. "Long enough. It was getting dark and turning cold."

"Luckily, we managed to survive," continued Bashalli, "the entire five hours!"

As the painted canyons and mesas flattened into barren scrubland, the Citadel came into sight below—a pinwheel formation of ultramodern laboratory buildings and dormitories, grouped around a massive central dome of white concrete which housed the main reactor. The whole research plant was ringed with barbed wire and guarded by drone planes and radar.

As soon as they landed, Tom buried himself in his private laboratory. He was still deep in work the following morning. Bud, Ed, and the two girls, knowing it was useless to disturb him, drove off in a jeep for a picnic at one of their favorite spots off the highway to the nearest town, Tenderly.

Suddenly Bud braked the jeep to a halt on the sandy side road. "Hey, what’s that joker doing up there?" he muttered suspiciously.

On the low mesa just above them, a figure was seated on a small camp chair, peering through binoculars. They could see his car parked at the foot of a rough trail leading upward to the mesa top.

As they watched, the distant figure raised what appeared to be a camera. "Looks like a photographer," said Bashalli. "I’m told nature studies are very popular. I myself have seen many such photographs in dental offices."

"Then why is he snooping at the Citadel through those glasses?" Bud demanded. "It’s not exactly one of nature’s wonders!"

The man again raised his binoculars, and the glasses certainly appeared to be trained toward Enterprises’ nuclear research facility.

"I’m suddenly overcome with sheer curiosity," declared Cousin Ed. "Shall we strike up a conversation, Budworth?"

"I’m game, Edgar." Bud and Ed jumped from the jeep and scrambled directly up the boulder-and-brush-strewn slope, ignoring the heat. The two girls, rolling their eyes, decided on the more leisurely trail route.

Ed Longstreet, in a competitive mood, beat his younger companion to the top. "Say there!" he panted out. "What’s the idea of those glasses?"

The figure, a youngish, wiry-looking man with tousled, carrot-red hair, jumped to his feet, startled, almost dropping his binoculars.

"To see better," the man replied tersely, but with a hint of a mocking grin. "Why d’you think—old-timer?"

Ed unconsciously ran a palm across his scalp. "I’ll bet," he growled, knotting his fists, ready to defend his honor as a Balding American. "I think you’d better hand over that camera, Red."

His opponent drew away protectively. He paused long enough to carefully set the camera on the ground behind him. "Touch my camera, man, and you touch me first."

Ed stepped forward to do just that, when a voice behind him threw off his rhythm.

"Aw, good grief," exclaimed Bud Barclay. "Now I
know
we’ve got trouble!"

"HEY THERE, Bud!" called out the diminutive redhead with a broad grin. "Been a while, hmm?"

"I take it you two are acquainted," Ed noted sourly.

Bud looked a bit grim. "You might say that. Ed Longstreet — Gabriel Knorff, ace photographer and freelance expert on getting underfoot."

"Just call me Gabe," said the young man, offering his hand. "I like it better than what Bud here calls me under his breath."

As Ed shook his hand warily, Bud explained that Gabe had been part of the Swift expedition to Little Luna, Earth’s phantom satellite Nestria. "He has a real talent for inserting himself in other people’s business."

Gabe laughed. "Well—it’s something."

Bud wasn’t ready to be friendly. "In case you don’t know it, pal, that’s a top-secret research station you’ve been poking your nose into!"

"I’m not likely to steal any secrets at this range." The red-haired young man looked Bud up and down. Then he raised the binoculars to his eyes again.

Irritated by Knorff’s careless attitude, Bud snatched the glasses from his hand.

"Come on! Give those back, please," the photographer demanded.

"I’ll give you a poke in the jaw if you don’t explain what you’re doing here!" Bud stormed, grabbing him by the front of his polo shirt.

"Oh,
Bud!
Stop it!" Sandy commanded as she and Bash came running up from the trail. "Honestly!"

The young co-pilot snorted but calmed himself and let go. "Okay. Sorry, Gabe."

Knorff shrugged. "I know I get under your skin. It’s my hair—like when a bull sees red."

Bashalli giggled. Bud seemed less amused.

"Nice to meet you—I
think!
—but we still have a right to know what you’re up to," said Ed evenly.

"Can’t blame you for being suspicious. I guess I shouldn’t have been conning the Citadel with binoculars." Gabe seemed to be weighing how much of an account he ought to provide. "Well—I was just doing a job. Real freedom-of-the-press stuff, you know. I was working on a freelance assignment over in Socorro when someone called me with a big money offer if I’d get some photos of Tom Swift inside the installation and email them to him."

"But why?" asked Sandy.

"He said he wanted to verify, absolutely and definitely, that the reports he’d received were accurate—that Tom was really there. Swift Enterprises has been quick on the ‘no comment’ lately, you know."

"My cousin’s a little tired of the world always getting in his way," Ed noted dryly. "Mighty eccentric method to verify where somebody is, though."

"The guy
is
pretty eccentric. But he sure does have money!"

"Okay, so who is it?" Bud asked.

"Ever hear of Milt Isosceles?"

Bud had indeed! His jaw dropped. "Good night, the car guy?"

Sandy asked Bud to explain. "He’s the president of Imperative Motorskill," was the response. "A major magnate!"

"Imperative Motorskill," repeated Bashalli softly. "Yes, the car company. I believe they call it ‘Number Four’. And I
have
read that he is regarded as a bit peculiar in his temperament and ideas."

Gabe chuckled. "He says it makes him creative—helps sell his product. Anyway, he didn’t say much more than what I’ve just told you. I’ve managed to get a couple nice telephotos of ol’ TS walking around, and I’ll be sending them to Isosceles later today. If Bud doesn’t chew up my camera!"

Bud scowled but admitted that he had no right to prevent Knorff’s actions.

"This may even be a good thing, in a way," Ed suggested. "Milt Isosceles isn’t exactly some sort of phantom spy. Whatever he has in mind, it may be something Tom and Damon will be glad to find out about."

This proved to be the case. When Bud phoned his friend from the jeep, Tom told him to relax. "There’s nothing out in the open here that we wouldn’t want getting out. As for me—well, if Mr. Isosceles needs to know, absolutely for sure, that I’m here at the Citadel, it must be because he plans to fly in and meet me here for some reason. I’d like to find out what it is."

"Must have to do with the atomicar," Bud suggested. Tom agreed.

Gabe Knorff, his mission concluded, had ambled down the trail to join them. At Ed’s query he began to talk about the two previous occasions on which he had become involved in the affairs of Swift Enterprises. The saga was cut short as Sandy gasped in dismay. "My ruby ring! It’s—
gone!
"

The ring, a bit too large, had evidently slipped off her finger when she had returned to the jeep. They all embarked on a frantic search. Bud’s face flamed with embarrassment when he discovered the ring under his foot—the metal band badly bent.

"Bummer," said Gabe, wincing. "But listen, here’s an idea." He suggested that the ring could be repaired by a famous jewelry designer in Taos, some miles away. "I was planning to head that way anyhow, to transmit my photos. Maybe, if it works out, we could pick up my old chum Mr. Invention and make an afternoon of it."

Both Sandy and Bashalli were delighted at the idea of visiting the famous art colony. Before the conversation ended, Gabe had accepted an invitation to join their picnic. If Bud was somewhat unenthused at the notion of spending a day with Gabriel Knorff, he managed not to voice it.

Returning to the Citadel after the picnic, Bud and the others persuaded Tom to take an afternoon off from his lab work and drive with them to Taos, taking a company minivan and following Gabe’s car. The highway wound along the Rio Grande amid rabbit brush and wild flowers. Taos itself proved to be a quaint old Western town nestled at the base of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Some of the huge cottonwoods shading its dusty streets had been there since the days of Kit Carson, its most famous citizen.

They strolled about as a group for a time. Then, Gabe leaving them, Tom drove through the bustling plaza to the Indian reservation three miles distant. Taos Pueblo, built before Columbus discovered America, rose from a plain at the foot of the smoky-blue range like a child’s brown mud castle. It was rectangular and terraced, with crude wooden ladders leading from one story to the next higher one. Black-haired Indians, garbed in blankets, sat before the turquoise and red doors of their apartments.

"How fascinating!" Bash exclaimed.

Ed Longstreet nodded. "It is. And yet—not so different from the traditional village lifestyle you find all over the world. Something like this must be the default state of the human race."

After touring the settlement, Tom drove back to the town. Here an Indian shop owner directed the five visitors to the adobe studio of Benn Garth. The jeweler’s eyes lighted as Sandy showed him her mangled ring.

"I’ve never seen a ruby quite like this before," he said, examining the stone through a jeweler’s loop. "Looks rather like the kind from Afghanistan, but this has much finer fire."

"Do you think it came from Kabulistan?" Tom asked casually.

Garth looked up at him. "Oddly enough, I do. I’ve seen only a few museum specimens from the Kabulistan mine—it’s lost, you know—but this certainly resembles them in color. I’m not a mineralogist, but I’m told these rubies have some unusual structural features."

At that moment Bashalli gasped and pointed toward the window. As the others turned, they saw a dark-featured man in an Oriental turban suddenly duck out of sight!

BUD whirled into action and darted out the front door of the studio. He collided head-on with the man in the turban!

The jolt left Bud speechless for a moment as the man stared at him with wounded dignity. Recovering, Bud gripped the man’s arm and demanded, "Why were you spying on us?"

"I beg your pardon, but I was not." The dark-featured man shook off Bud’s arm contemptuously. "I was merely passing the window on my way to enter the studio and happened to glance in. Now will you please allow me to get by?"

"Okay." Bud stood aside and stared at him in baffled surprise. The stranger adjusted his white, gold-threaded turban, then walked in.

"My name is Mirza," he said to the entire shop. "Is Mr. Tom Swift here?"

Everyone looked at him in surprise. Tom spoke up. "I’m Tom Swift."

The man bowed and made a gesture of
salaam
. "I am the secretary to Mr. Nurhan Flambo, the head of Pan-Islamic Engineering Associates. Mr. Flambo is now at your atomic research station and urgently wishes to confer with you."

Mr. Flambo, the secretary explained, had flown from the Middle East via New York for the sole purpose of seeing Tom Swift. After landing in New Mexico he had taken a car directly from the airport to the Citadel. There, Mr. Flambo had learned of Tom Swift’s trip to Taos and had sent Mirza to summon him back at once.

"And
how
did your Mr. Flambo learn that our Mr. Swift was here in New Mexico?" asked Bashalli with a withering look.

Bud frowned. "From a guy named Gabe Knorff, maybe?"

"I do not know that gentleman," was the stiff reply. "From Manhattan Mr. Flambo spoke directly to Mr. Damon Swift in Shopton, by telephone. Knowing of Mr. Flambo’s international reputation, Mr. Swift was more than cooperative."

"Why didn’t he bring his ‘international reputation’ to Taos himself?" Bud demanded. Mirza merely shrugged.