Tom Swift and His Triphibian Atomicar (6 page)

"That clears Flambo of suspicion—if he’s telling the truth," Tom mused. "Thanks for letting me know, officer."

As the morning progressed, the girls and Bud gathered in Tom’s laboratory, Ed Longstreet having decided to take a drive to Santa Fe for the day. They watched quietly as Tom prepared to test a new material he had been working on for some time at Enterprises. The young inventor had extruded several rods which he now installed in a strength-testing machine.

He explained as he worked, "If this stuff pans out, I’ll be using for the body of the finished atomicar."

"Did you say it’s a
plastic
, Thomas?" Bash asked in amazement.

"Technically, yes," Tom replied. "But in all its properties, the material is more like a tremendously strong, hard, featherweight metal. It’s a further development of the material I used on the hydrolung suits, which I named duraflexon."

"Uh-huh," Bud said, "molecule-sized chain mail that morphs and flexes when you push a button."

"Ordinary duraflexon is only super-tough on a small scale—that’s the problem. This new formulation, Durastress, can be manufactured in large, contoured panels. But let’s see."

When the rods were installed, Tom flipped a power switch and slowly advanced a control lever. He watched the gauge needle creep around its dial as hydraulic pressure built up inside the machine. Soon the sample rods were being subjected to enormous stress. One was being pulled at each end to test its tensile strength. Another was being compressed under crushing pressure. Still another was being bent, while a fourth was being twisted.

‘I don’t see much happening," said Sandy in a puzzled voice.

Tom grinned. "Neither do I—and that’s good. It means the stuff is as strong as I had hoped."

His jubilation increased as the torture tests continued. When the rods were removed from the machine and measured, they showed only a small amount of deformation! "And watch this, ladies and gentleman!" Tom attached wired alligator clips to each end of the rod he was holding, then fed in a trickle of current. Instantly he bent the rod into a U-shape, effortlessly. When he let go of one end, it sprung back like rubber.

"Jetz! Looks as if you really have something here, Skipper!" said Bud excitedly. "When do you switch out the
Silent Streak
’s body material and switch in the new stuff?"

"Soon as we get back," was the reply. "But I’ll be needing to do some body redesign work first. Arv Hanson’s working on some ideas right now, over in Building 7."

"Maybe you could start making the Pigeon Specials out of Durastress," suggested Sandy dreamily. "Then they
really
couldn’t crash—they’d just
bounce!
" Tom’s sister had a steady job demonstrating these compact commuter planes, manufactured by Enterprises’ affiliate, the Swift Construction Company.

The young inventor laughingly acknowledged the idea. But then his face grew serious. "I just wish I’d make more progress on the really important part of the trip here—solving the problems with the power capsule." He reported that his experiments with the new isotope had not born fruit, and the others were sympathetic and as encouraging as non-scientists could manage to be.

It seemed Tom’s work was foredoomed. He was interrupted by two more calls that morning. The first was from Harlan Ames at Enterprises. The security chief reported that he had checked on both Flambo and Pan-Islamic Engineering Associates. "So far as is known, there is nothing detrimental against either the man or his company. Actually, your Dad had already asked my opinion before giving him your whereabouts, but your own request allowed me to look in more detail. No apparent problems—the man’s worked productively with several governments, and with the United Nations."

"Good to know. Thanks much, Harlan."

Near lunchtime, as Tom was "cooking" a bubbling brown mass of chemicals in a complicated hookup of retorts and glass tubing, his father telephoned from the Swift home.

"Sorry if I’m interrupting a big scientific breakthrough," Mr. Swift teased, "but I thought you might be interested in this item of information I just dug up. It concerns the mystery rubies."

"I sure
am
interested, if it has anything to do with those rubies," Tom said.

"Well, son, I’ve been reading that gift book of Ed’s,
Travels in Remotest Araby,
and I’ve reached the chapters that deal with the Kabulistan region. Guess why the Amir’s Mine was abandoned?" he challenged.

"I give up. Why?"

"Because it’s cursed—by the devil himself!"

TOM couldn’t take seriously his father’s statement. "What’s the joke, Dad?"

"I’m not joking—and I don’t think the author was, either. An imam, or Islamic holy man, decreed that the mine was accursed by
Shaitan
," Damon Swift reported. "Shaitan, you know, is the Muslim name for Satan—and for evil demons in general. The thought of that curse scared everyone in Kabulistan so much that the mine workings were abandoned. It’s an easy guess that they were later filled in. That was two centuries ago and no one has even dared look for it since."

"I suppose the devil’s curse would scare a lot of people," Tom said thoughtfully. Then he told his father about Flambo, Mirza, and the attempted burglary.

Mr. Swift was intrigued by the news. "Looks as though you may be getting mixed up in this ruby mystery yourself, Tom," he remarked.

Tom gave a dry chuckle. "I hope not. After all, I
am
right in the middle of a hot experiment."

"In that case, I’ll hang up." The older scientist laughed. "But please keep me informed of developments, Tom. And not just for my sake. George Dilling is starting to get on my nerves!"

After working at his typically frenzied pace through most of the weekend, with only time out for a church service, Tom decided on Monday to accompany Ed and the girls to Taos to pick up Sandy’s ring. He wondered if Garth, or the police there, might have fresh news about Mirza.

"Will not Bud be joining us?" asked Bashalli. "Tom Swift without Bud Barclay seems rather lopsided!"

"I’ve asked Bud to stay and give a hand to Arv in the modelmaking shop. He’s helped Arv before, you know."

Chow, too, begged to go along. "Brand my apple dumplin’s, you ain’t headin’ off agin without me, are you, boss? This here’s
my
country, you know!"

"Sure you’re coming, pardner," Tom said soothingly, throwing his arm around the seasoned, and somewhat weathered, Texan. "We planned this trip on such short notice, I forgot to let you know."

"S’whut I figgered. Reckon I’ll mosey around in town a bit while you buckaroos are gettin’ that ring," he said. "T’ tell the truth, I prob’ly should buy a new shirt before I start in payin’ calls on my friends in Tenderly."

As soon as the minivan arrived in Taos Chow hurried off with a wave.

"Don’t buy any Indian shirts with purple-and orange thunderbirds on them!" Sandy called.

Chow turned to give a dignified sniff. He had hardly taken two steps forward again when a plump woman with orange-yellow hair and jangling silver earrings pounced on him with a glad cry. She wore a paint-smeared artist’s smock.

"Oo-ooh! What a
colorful
character!" she shrilled in a piercing voice. "A
perfect
Western type! Such rugged, sun-bronzed features!"

"Huh?" Chow gulped. "Beg pardon, ma’am?"

His remark sent her into fresh gales of excitement. "And the
voice
too! You positively
must
pose for a painting!" she declared. "Naturally I’ll pay you the top model’s fee!"

Chow’s face took on a pleased smirk as he realized that she was an artist and wished to paint his portrait. "Wa-aal now! Reckon it’s natural to want the real thing if you’re lookin’ fer a rugged, straight-shootin’ cowboy," he said, doffing his ten-gallon hat. "I don’t mind posin’ fer a spell."

Sandy and Bash giggled as the woman dragged him off triumphantly, and Ed joined in with a chuckle. The watchers saw them enter a low adobe house halfway down the street.

"I think that was Lady Thunderbird herself," Tom confided in a low voice. "Come on! Let’s get Sandy’s ring."

Benn Garth greeted Tom and his companions at his studio and produced the new ring setting he had fashioned for Sandy’s ruby. Ed gave a whistle of admiration and both girls gasped with delight.

"It’s
beautiful!
" Sandy declared, holding out her hand like a queen for all to see. "A perfect fit, too!"

The silver ring now consisted of twining serpents, their heads and tails forming the setting for the stone.

"It’s certainly a fine piece of craftsmanship," Tom remarked. Yet he frowned thoughtfully. The serpents reminded him of what his father had told him—the curse of Shaitan! He had refrained from mentioning this to the others.

"Sandra, you are most elegant," stated Bashalli admiringly. "You may even earn a look or two from our dear Bud—if you are ready for such a heart-stopping event."

Garth invited the four to have refreshments at his studio and Tom took the opportunity to inquire about Mirza. "The police have no fresh clues," the jeweler said. "The funny thing is, where could he have gone in the wide-open country around here? Of course he may still be hiding in Taos. Actually there’s no easy way to identify him without his turban. And the town’s always thronging with tourists at this time of year."

"Mr. Garth, are you very sure the burglar was Mirza?" Bashalli put in.

Garth frowned thoughtfully. "It’s true I couldn’t see his face in the darkness very well. But the burglar did have on a turban—and I’ve never seen anyone else around here wearing one."

"But that could be
just
what an impostor thief could be counting on!" exclaimed Sandy with a shrewd look. "It’s what I’d do."

"You would make a marvelous criminal, Sandra," commented her Pakistani friend.

Presently, and with many expressions of thanks to Mr. Garth, the four young people took their leave and strolled along the pleasant, quiet street, seeking out the cool shadows. Presently Sandy noticed that her brother was walking more slowly and had fallen behind.

"Come
on
, Tom! Oh, let me guess—you’ve got some new invention hatching up there under your crewcut, right?"

Tom’s answer was in low tones, his eyes narrowed. "Just keep walking, please. I think we’re being followed."

Ed Longstreet looked back up the block, startled. "You must have X-ray eyes, cousin. I don’t see anyone anywhere. Must be siesta time."

"No no," whispered Bash. "I understand, for I see him too. We are being followed from the front!"

Sandy gave her friend an incredulous look, but it was easy to see that Bashalli and Tom were both serious. Now she noticed, turning her gaze, that they were not alone on the block after all. Some ways ahead a lone figure was ambling along, his back toward them. "You’re right, Tom!" Sandy whispered, more enthused than alarmed. "I noticed him earlier too, watching us from a distance."

"Watching you from a distance watch
him
from a distance," added Ed dryly.

"He’s been keeping pace with us," Tom said, "carefully slowing when we slow and walking faster when we do. And he must have just waited somewhere while we were with Mr. Garth."

"Surely he is casing the joint—for another robbery!" hissed Bash. Sandy gave her a poke, and they both giggled with excitement.

Tom had noticed that the man risked a concealed backwards glance at them every ten steps or so. Immediately after the next such glance, Tom suddenly sprang into motion! Like a track-team runner he sprinted up the block, silent in his tennis shoes, overtaking the startled man in moments and grabbing the back of his shirt.

"Okay, mister, what’s with you?" demanded the young inventor.

The man tore himself loose from Tom’s grip with a powerful lunge. "What? Get away from me!"

Tom took his opponent’s measure. The man was on the youthful side of 30, it seemed, muscular and broad-shouldered. His close-cropped hair was an off-shade of dark auburn. The young inventor couldn’t help an inward gulp.
Sure wish Bud had my back right now!
he thought. His quarry looked like he wouldn’t be at all easy to handle!

"You’ve been spying on me and my friends for some reason," declared Tom flatly. "You’re not leaving until you tell me why!"

"I don’t have to tell you anything!"

The man started to turn away. Tom threw himself forward, again grabbing for the man’s shirt—but this time his opponent was ready for him! A forearm whipped up against Tom’s jaw, rocking him back. And the fight was on!

As the two bobbed and weaved along the sidewalk and into the street, Ed and the girls came running up, shouting words that Tom did not pause to comprehend in the heat of battle. But the girls managed to separate the opponents—and then the words made sense. "Tom—this is Orton Throme! He’s the famous abstract painter!" cried Sandy.

As Tom, panting, gaped in astonishment, Ed added, "And Mr. Throme is also a well-known war hero and jet pilot."

"We have studied him in art school," was Bashalli’s contribution.

Tom stopped short as he suddenly remembered various magazine accounts he had read about "Ort" Throme and his exploits in the wars of the Middle East.

"Good grief! I—I’m sorry, Mr. Throme," he said, thrusting out his hand. "Guess I acted too fast, without... well, just
without
."

"Pretty powerful left hook you throw." The ace chuckled, shaking hands. "Call me Ort, by the way."

"You are shaking the hand of Tom Swift, world famous boy inventor," pronounced Bashalli Prandit. "He cannot paint. But he
has
been to the moon!"

Now Ort Throme seemed as astonished as Tom had been! "Go
tell!
You never know who’ll you’ll run into in this town! But I don’t think you came at me to trade autographs, hmm?"

Tom explained shame-facedly, and Throme burst out laughing. "Okay, now it’s all clear. And I guess I
was
acting a little suspicious. You see, I noticed you earlier, Tom, and as an artist I have a pretty good eye, if not a great memory. I couldn’t place you, and it kept buggin’ me. I’m afraid the situation brought out my stubborn streak. That’s why I kept hanging around...well, and also― " To the onlookers’ surprise, the artist blushed! "Also, I—that is, two pretty girls, and I, I was trying to figure out― "