Tom Swift and His G-Force Inverter (11 page)

Tom smiled mischievously. "Oh, I’ve made a
little
progress. Let me switch it on."

Sitting on a workbench, Tom’s invention consisted of three thick, flat-sided tubes—like long rectangular cartons—joined together in the form of an equilateral triangle. It stood on its base, point toward the ceiling, and was about two feet across. Just above the vertex Tom had suspended a small plastic tray on a swing-arm. A screwdriver rested on the tray.

"Well, she’s quiet," Chow remarked. "But what’s s’posed t’ happen?"

Tom looked puzzled. "Seems not to be—oh, I see. That screwdriver I set down is shorting out the field. Bud, could you take it away?"

"Sure." The black-haired pilot strode across the lab and gripped the tool, lifting it off the tray. But as he started to walk back to his friends, he grunted in surprise as the screwdriver was pulled right out of his hand! It floated in midair about a foot above the point of the triangle, rocking back and forth as it drifted aimlessly.

"Stop fooling around, flyboy," Tom said. "Just bring me the screwdriver, please."

Frowning, Bud reached over and plucked it out of the air. But again it slid from his grasp as he tried to pull it away.

Tom winked at Chow, and Chow smiled. "See, Buddy Boy, thet’s whut happens when you don’t eat reg’lar. Your muscles are givin’ out!"

Bud’s frown deepened. "I think Tom’s invention is doing a number on me." He made more efforts to remove the floating, bobbing screwdriver. He could easily enclose it in his hand and move it aside, but at a certain point in the empty air it seemed to get stuck. He applied both hands like a vise. His muscles bulged and his tennis shoes skidded on the tile floor. Finally, with a mighty heave, he yanked the screwdriver away from the machine—and stumbled backwards onto the floor.

"Ohhh-
kay
," he said. "I got it! Ego intact! Now that you’ve had your fun, genius boy—just what
is
this thing? I thought it had to do with the rail for the train."

Tom grinned. "What it is," he said, "is magic—
magnetic
magic!"

"MAGIC!" repeated Chow. "Tom Swift, you makin’ fun o’ me? Ain’t more o’ that voodoo stuff, is it?"

"Neither!—just being a little hyperbolic," Tom chuckled.

"Ye-aah, well, jest calm down. Causes heart attacks."

"It sure
felt
magnetic," Bud remarked wryly. "But Skipper, that screwdriver wasn’t being pulled toward that gizmo, or repelled away from it. It just floated around, like what those electromagnets do to stuff in your zero-G chamber. And then when I tried to take it with me, it was like running into a wall—except my
hand
passed right through it, but the screwdriver didn’t!"

"Uh-hunh, explain
that
one!" demanded Chow of his young boss.

Stepping over to the fieldstat, Tom proceeded to do so. "Remember the magnetaser? The magnetic deflector we used to punch our way through Li Ching’s antimatter cloud in space?"

"Yeah, that’s right," the cook recalled. "When those aster-noid pirates got us corraled up on Little Luna."

"I remember you saying something about how it made a ‘virtual monopole’ out in space," put in Bud.

Tom nodded. "The fieldstat takes the idea to the next level. Those three flat-sided generator prisms are doped with particles of galilectrum—that’s the material we discovered in Aldeb Crater on the moon, Chow."

"Uh-huh. Dangerous stuff!"

"But pretty handy. Pump in a small trickle of energy and it gives off coherent electromagnetic waves of hyper-frequency which produce an unbelievably intense magnetic flux."

Chow nodded warily. "So there’s yer magnet."

"
Ye-aah
, pardner. The fieldstat pushes the field out into the space above the vertex in a spherical form. Think of a soap bubble just touching the end of a bubble-pipe."

"Got the picture," said Bud. "A magnetic bubble!"

Tom nodded, pleased. "Exactly. Magneto-reactive materials develop corresponding microfields, by induction, and the magnetic forces exactly counterbalance any downward motion—so the screwdriver was able to defy gravity even
without
antigravity!"

"Is that why I couldn’t pull it out?" speculated Bud.

"The ‘bubble’ has a sort’ve ‘skin’ all around—where the field jams-up against itself, you might say. Outside the skin, the magnetic force is undetectible. But if you try to pull something metallic
through
it from inside, the energy density is so great that even Barclay’s mighty muscles get a real workout."

"Okay, boss," Chow said. "Thet’s all right nice. But what in Sam ’n Sadie does it have to do with railroad tracks?"

Tom didn’t answer. He plucked up a small metal disk, about the size of a silver dollar, from a table. Standing on tiptoe, he stretched his hand to a point several feet above the machine’s vertex. "There—I can feel the metal responding to the magnetic shell. Watch." He let loose the disk. Instead of falling or bouncing away, it moved downward in a curve, as if following the curvature of the invisible sphere of force. It ended up at the low point, almost touching the vertex.

"Looks like it was slipping along on something lubricated," observed Bud. "Except... why doesn’t it just fall off when it gets to the underside?"

Tom smiled. "Nice question, flyboy."

"I ’as about t’ ask that one m’self," said Chow with quick pride.

"The answer is that the metal disk is coated with a synthetic composite material called obduraton," explained the young inventor. "It’s just a very thin layer, painted on. It’s meta-diamagnetic; in a magnetic region with very dense flux-lines, it acts like a magnetic mirror—it ‘turns back’ the field interaction. In other words, the magnetism of the shell squeezes it back out, and it ends up floating on the field gradient, frictionlessly. But at the same time it’s
stuck
to the ‘skin’—it slides along but can’t pull loose."

Chow gave a vigorous, jowly nod. "Now yer talkin’, son! Paint that stuff on th’ bottom of yer train an it jest slides on those magnetic dealies—butcha cain’t de-rail ’er ’cause she’s stuck right tight."

Tom chuckled. "Perfect, pard. And it’ll be the safest, cleanest, quietest ride you ever had. Wait till you see the full demonstration—soon!"

The cook looked pleased with himself. To savor the feeling, he escaped to his galley.

Bud glanced out the window. "Sun’s coming up," he commented wearily. "What do you say we get a little shut-eye?"

Tom was reluctant to leave the lab. "But—I still—" But after some persuasion, he agreed that a few hours’ sleep would help him tackle his remaining problems with a fresh mind.

When evening came, Tom was still preoccupied and fascinated with the strange new world of gravity and magnetism he had begun to explore. But there was a social event to attend in town, and Bud’s persuasion extended to compelling Tom to shower and change.

His thoughts, however, were still on words like
galilectrum
and
obduraton
—and
Rampo
—when Bud’s convertible drew up at the Shopton Yacht Club with two couples. Tom jumped out and galantly assisted first Bashalli Pranditt, then Sandy. "At least one of you two knows the social graces," smiled Tom’s sister sweetly.

Bud huffed. "I never pretended to be
grace
ful."

As the four entered the club, Tom was pursuing a subtle point with Bashalli, his raven-haired companion. "Of course, Bash," said Tom "we have to be able to control the orthogonal values to move along the G-dimensional axis—"

"And start things gravitating?" The pretty, independent-minded girl from Pakistan liked to tease the scientific stuffiness out of Tom.

Tom tended toward obliviousness when he was pursuing a quarry of the mind. Bashalli and Tom sat down and she listened patiently to his theorizing. Finally Sandy and Bud stopped at their bench by the dance floor. Sandy sniffed, "Are you two going to sit there all night, or would you like to dance?"

"Yes," Bud added. "That lunar snake gas is becoming—"

"A bore constrictor?" suggested Bash.

"I don’t do puns."

The two couples hastened hand in hand onto the dance floor—and Tom suddenly skidded to a halt in surprise. Standing in the doorway was Ritt Kincaid!

"Ritt! Hi there!" Tom called. "I'd like you to meet my sister Sandy and Bashalli Pranditt. Ladies, this is Ritt Kincaid—Dad and I met him the other day."

"Oh," said Sandy. "That one."

"Er, no. That was his father. ....Ritt, this is Bud Barclay." All acknowledged the introductions. Ritt was smiling and game, and well-dressed, but in his suave way obviously uncomfortable.

Sandy turned to Bud innocently and whispered, "A little young. But cute."

But smiled smugly. "I’ve been told the same."

With a reproving look Sandy turned back to Ritt. The country-western band began a four-square waltz. "May I have the pleasure of this dance?" Ritt asked Sandy with a little bow.

Before Bud could object, Sandy said, "Yes."

"Sorry old chap. Better luck next time," chirped Ritt. He doffed an imaginary hat at Sandy’s date-presumptive.

Bud shrugged. "Oh, it’s okay. I know San prefers ’em young and cute." Sandy glared.

Yet Tom’s sister was intrigued by Ritt’s courtly, almost old-fashioned manner.
Not a bit like impulsive Bud!
she thought as Ritt’s arm went around her.

Tom and Bash also danced off together, leaving Bud alone and slightly forlorn. Sandy soon took pity on him. Good old Bud! Maybe he was a bit rough and ready, but she would not have him any different for the world. But how could she go back to him without offending Ritt? To dump a dance partner politely was a real challenge to Swift inventiveness!

Just then Sandy caught sight of Dodie Ames. Here was her opportunity! "Hello, stranger," she greeted the titian-haired daughter of the Swifts’ security chief. Always called Dodie, her real name was Dorothy. "Haven't seen you in ages! How’s boarding school this term?"

"Oh, Sandy, it’s great for education but lousy for a social life. The boys are all into the ‘grunge’ look. And not on purpose. Terrible." Dodie’s pert nose, which was as pert as Sandy’s entire head, turned up another notch.

"You can make up for it now. Meet Ritt Kincaid. He’s visiting from Indianapolis."

Invisible sparks were almost visible. The two faces and four eyes became strangely luminous, the radioactivity of shared emotion. A moment later the two were dancing closely together as Sandy returned to Bud. "Not young enough or not cute enough?" he teased.

Sandy looked away—and frowned slightly. "Bud... who’s that over by the door?" A striking figure was standing as if at attention, eyes intently focused on the dance floor. The Californian shrugged.

"Uh oh." Ritt was dismayed as he glanced over Dodie’s shoulder. "There’s Martabat, my
keeper
!"

"What do you mean?" asked Dodie.

"Father calls him my bodyguard, but he’s paid to follow me everywhere and keep me out of trouble—even if it’s trouble I
want
to get into."

"Trouble like me?" the girl joked—but it meant more than a joke.

"He reports to a stooge named Turley, our security chief at Technautics. And
he
reports to Father, in detail. I hate that life!"

Exotically foreign, Martabat was tall, handsome, and dignified enough to be a maharaja. His olive-skinned features were darkly inscrutable, yet startlingly his unyeilding eyes were a piercing blue. Seeing that Ritt had stopped dancing, he approached. "Good evening, madame, and do pardon the intrusion. Come, Master Ritter. Your father has called and wishes to speak to you. In a private setting, if you please."

"I’m not ready to go, Martabat. I flew to Shopton to have a little freedom, and I just got here!" Ritt protested. "How did you track me down? Did Turley plant a locator beacon on me?"

"Your destination was registered, of course. As to the other question, you might ask Mr. Turley." He suddenly grasped Ritt at the elbow. "Now
do
come, Master Ritt. Do not make my job difficult."

Though the music continued, others had stopped dancing and were watching.

"It’s all right," said Dodie quietly.

Ritt looked mournful. "Dodie... come along with me."

"Your father insists on privacy," snapped Martabat. "He waits on the telephone. I said, ‘
Come
!’ " Lithe and powerful as a panther, Martabat tried to lead the objecting youth forcibly from the dance floor.

Ritt tried to push the hulking figure away, but Martabat had clapped his powerful hands on the boy’s shoulder. Living up to his impulsive reputation, Bud rushed to the rescue and gleefully tripped the tall, imposing bodyguard! Martabat was sent sprawling to the floor.

"Quick! This way!" Bud pushed the youth through a side door and onto the starlit patio, pulling Sandy after him.

"Th-thanks," Ritt stammered weakly. "But why did you help me?"

"I just don’t like seeing anyone get pushed around!" Bud scowled.

Ritt exulted, "First time I ever got the better of Martabat!" But beneath his words, Bud and Sandy could sense fear. "I’ll have to deal with Turley and Father when I get back tomorrow. Now—I want to get back to the dance."

"And to your partner, I hope." Dodie had followed them out.

Ritt nodded warmly. Then he pointed toward the club driveway. "There goes Martabat’s car. I can imagine what he said over the phone—and what Big Cosmo Kincaid said back."

"Must you leave tomorrow, Ritt?" asked Dodie.

"Tomorrow is tomorrow." The quiet reply seemed to satisfy both parties.

Sandy elbowed Bud. "Bud, please don’t say anything idiotic."

"Not me. Let’s go back inside. Gotta talk to genius boy about, er, fluxtronium."

The evening finally ended. The many couples—a few of whom had become
singles
during the course of things—drifted away. "May I drive you home, Dodie?" asked Ritt.

"Oh, I drove myself here. My... my car is in the lot."

"I see. Then—may I drive your car?"

"Drive my car?"

"With you in it, of course."

Before Dodie could reply, the club ballroom shook with a booming crash and the sound of shattering glass!