Tom Swift and His G-Force Inverter (14 page)

"The batteries don’t. But the
paint
does—our TSE ‘hat guy’ logo. Molecular traces from the polymer compound!"

"Thank you hat guy!" Bud chortled. He then gave Ames an apologetic look. Ames winked reassuringly at his always-impulsive young friend.

Rover Boy had caught the scent! In a minute they were following the freewheeling robot-mobile through the streets at the suburban edge of Shopton, then on to the main highway that encircled Lake Carlopa. Houses were soon supplanted by the trees and underbrush of rural upstate New York. "We’re having to do a lot of enhancement, because of the frost," reported Tom. "But Rover’s pretty confident."

"He looks it," said Radnor cheerily. But Ames only fingered the small weapon under his coat, a Swift Enterprises electric i-gun. All five had undertaken the mission armed.

Presently they exited the highway for a road that meandered through the low hills. Another turnoff, another road, narrower. Then came an intersection like a spiderweb. Within a span of thiry feet, four roads, some of them unpaved, branched off in all directions.

Rover Boy had stopped, moving in a circle and beeping uncertainly. "The signatures are very faint," Tom told his companions. "We’ll have to send Rover a ways down each of the routes and see whether we can pick up the trace again."

"No," Ames commanded. "Wait here." He climbed out and examined the intersection with care. When he returned, he pointed towrad one of the unpaved roads. "That way!"

"Jetz! How did—" began Bud.

"It’d have to be a large-ish vehicle, wouldn’t it?—to better keep a prisoner out of view. Something that wouldn’t attract any interest on the streets, or while parked as they—as they lay in wait for Dodie. A soccer-mom type SUV would be a smart choice. And there are tracks of the right kind of weight, and tire-width and tread, heading down that dirt road. They’re the only ones to crack through the new frost-layer since sunrise. Easy to tell."

"You can see why he’s the chief," declared Radnor admiringly.

Tom directed the sensitector down the deserted rural road, Mr. Swift driving the van near the left shoulder to avoid mashing over the trail left by the other vehicle. Soon Ames’s conclusion proved correct—the sensitector once again began to pick up traces from the battery.

As they surmounted a rise, Mr. Swift suddenly slowed to a crawl. "Get Rover Boy into the bushes, Tom," he directed, nodding toward the right. "What do you think, Harlan?"

"Yes," said Ames, as if by instinct.

Ahead the road swerved near a small woodframe house with an attached shed with a roof of corrugated metal—and a big garage that appeared newly built. "You can see it even from here," noted the security man. "Deep car tracks in the mud in the yard."

"Tracks with almost no frost in ’em," Phil Radnor added.

"Man! I’m feeling left out around you big boys," remarked Bud wryly. "Tom, are you going to let Rover Boy do some sniffing?"

"Not in the yard," replied the young inventor. "But for confirmation I think we can sniff-out the turnout to the driveway without giving the game away."

Now Tom Swift took command of the situation. His father pulled the van over onto the right shoulder and Tom had him proceed slowly but at a deliberate pace. "If they’re watching, they won’t see clearly that we’re somewhat off the road as we pass. Rover can scope out any molecular traces while keeping to the other side of us, out of sight."

They rumbled past the turnoff, and Tom hissed: "
That’s it!
Good strong signatures up to the turnoff—then nothing."

Ames spoke quietly. "Damon, I see a water tank up on that hill. There must be some sort of road or path to it. Let’s get up there."

Some distance ahead they found a narrow dirt roadway leading up onto the further side of the hill, blocked from the sight of the house. They parked behind the tank and waited for a plan of attack.

"Your call, Harl," said Radnor softly. No one suggested calling in the police.

After a moment of tense thought, Ames issued his orders. "Damon, you’re our watcher. Stay up here with the van. If it looks like things have gone south, use the PER. You could be my daughter’s last hope." Tom’s father nodded his acceptance. "Tom, we need a sense of things. When we get close let’s use Rover to draw fire and distract them—fake ’em out."

"Football strategy," murmured Bud with a grin.

Ames went over the rest of the rescue plan.

The four men began a rapid climb-down amid the brush, along a part of the hill that overlooked a windowless corner of the house where the blank wall of the shed further obstructed the line of sight. Reaching the bottom, after a final reconnoiter, Tom unleashed the SenTec, sending the nimble, gyrostabilized robot bounding down the hillside, in full view, toward the house. It began to circle and zigzag in the wide front yard, like a collie herding sheep with an electronic "bark."

All else lay silent. "No shots," whispered Radnor. "Not at Rover—not at us."

"I noticed!" Bud whispered back.

"Guns ready," Tom reminded them. "Remember, the impulse bolts can go right through the walls, if we get close enough." But of course
close enough
would be
more
than enough to place them in danger of old-fashioned gunfire!

Fanning out, they first peeped through the several windows at the rear of the structure. Suddenly Bud’s frantic waving caught their attention. He mouthed a welcome word:
Dodie
!

As they gathered together at a crouch, Ames risked a glance through Bud’s window. There in front of him, in a small bedroom, was his daughter. She appeared tied to a chair and was facing away from the window. But she shifted position—she was concious.

Ames crouched back down amid the huddle. "What did you see?" Tom asked.

"Everything. No one else visible in the room. One door, closed. She’s tied to a heavy wooden chair, many loops of reinforced duct tape. Fairly good job, though not professional. She was gagged but she’s worked it loose. She’s moving her head sluggishly—trying to clear it from the drug."

Radnor nodded; the picture was clear. "Front, back, or both?"

"Back. Three cover, one in. This window slides."

Tom examined the lower corner of the frame of the moveable pane. "A cheap screwlock." He held up his i-gun. "Not for long!" Bringing the emitter-element up to the frame, from which the end of the screw protruded, Tom fingered the trigger-control. A bead of intense light silently turned the screw-end red, then white. In a moment, he poked at the screw with a rock and it fell free on the inside.

Dodie, slowly recovering her wits, heard the slight clink of the screw as it fell. She jerked her head around as far back as she could—and saw her rescuers! "
Dad
!" she burst out involuntarily—but in a hoarse whisper.

Ames motioned for her to be silent, indicating by gestures his plan to slide open the window and slip through to her. In response she shook her head violently!

"What’s wrong?" hissed Rad. "
Is
there someone in the room?"

"We’d know it by now," Ames responded, puzzled.

Tom had pressed his cheek against the window pane and was looking upward. "Here’s what’s wrong," he whispered, pointing to one corner. A tangle of wires could be seen, bunched around something just out of sight on the wall above.

"Jetz!" murmured Bud. "An alarm!"

Ames took a close look, then shook his head grimly. "No. I see the edge of something big. It’s a bomb!"

THE MEN drew back in shock. "Not bad," hissed Radnor bitterly. "Free the lady and everyone gets shredded."

Ames stole another, longer look into the room. "Missed it the first time," he admitted in self-reproach. "Wiring on the bottom corner of the bedroom door. Another bomb, for anyone taking the direct approach."

"It may be worse than that," Tom said. "For all we know, they could have a timer to set them off anyway—or maybe by signal. I’m sorry, Uncle Harl, but I know this isn’t anything that hasn’t occurred to you."

Ames, beyond emotion, gave a brusque nod of concurrence. "Tom—can you take out the wiring with your gun?"

"No. The impulse beam goes through glass easily, but not the emitter hotspot."

"And just burning a hole in the glass could set off the bomb. All right. We don’t slide the window open. We break right through the other pane, drag her over and lift her out, chair and all—it’ll fit if we tilt her. If we’re lucky we’ll have ten seconds from the break before the men rush in; I added five for their having to deactivate the bomb on the door. We lug her aside out of sight—gun sight—against the wall. I have a pocket knife. We cut her loose and carry her up the hill the way we came; harder to see us from inside. They’ll run out and around. We’ll be vulnerable, showing our backs, but... Damon will see us and have the motor revving. Forget the SenTec."

Tom nodded with the others, but had an additional thought. "Bud can flip that mattress right off the bed and jam it against the door." For everyone knew that athletic, muscular Bud would have to be the man through the window.

"Okay," Bud said like a command. "I’m your battering ram. Feet first."

Bud leaned back and stiffened as the other three lifted him and swung him up horizontal, level with the second pane of the broad window fixture. Tom gave his chum a slight squeeze that Bud understood. They swung him back, then thrust him forward with desperate force.

The thick rubber soles of his athletic shoes exploded the glass inward. His trajectory carried him on in, over jagged pikes of glass that ripped his bluejeans and shirt and the flesh beneath. He groaned—sound didn’t matter now.

It was all done in one smooth motion. Bud flipped the mattress, yanked Dodie in her chair to the window, tilted the chair back—and turned away from the window, crouching like Atlas to take the weight on his broad back. He heaved. He winced and grunted. His muscles bunched and knotted. The chair rose, and other hands grabbed hold from outside. The chair scraped through, bottom first.

It was done. As Ames cut away the ties, Tom and Radnor helped Bud scramble back out.

They charged up the hillside in desperate flight, Dodie half-carried along, waiting for shouted commands or the sound and sting of gunshots. But there was nothing.

As they reached the water tank and stumbled panting into the rumbling van, Tom risked a look back. "Good gosh," he muttered aloud. "They didn’t come out—I don’t think they even ran into the bedroom."

Dodie was crying and shaking from the exertion. As the van tore down the hillside path, Ames held her and said: "Honey, it’s okay. You’re safe."

"I—I don’t know—I can’t remember what happened," she sobbed. "I went out to the car, and—something over my face—I woke up tied to that chair, in that room. Was it
hours
? Dad..."

"Can you describe the kidnappers at all?" asked Phil Radnor, gently.

"I never saw anyone. I never
heard
anyone. But when I first started twisting around to see where I was, I saw that, that
thing
above the window and the wires. Was it—I thought it was—"

"You probably saved our lives," murmured her father. "I’m proud of you."

The van had now reached the country road below. Tending to Bud’s wounds, Tom said, "Know what? I think the kidnappers put Dodie in place—and left." No one said aloud the obvious implication.
Dodie had been kidnapped to use as bait for the bomb!

But Tom had been reflecting on his words even as he spoke them. "But... that doesn’t hold water. If they—"

"Hold it!" interrupted Radnor. The road had brought them into view of the house and its front yard. A small car sat parked in the yard!

Tom’s eyesight was keen. "Decals. It’s a rental car."

Dodie gasped. "Oh—it’s Ritt! I just—
know
it is!"

"I see him on the porch, at the door," Mr. Swift reported.

Tom’s eyes suddenly bulged in startled horror! "Dad! Stop the car! Honk! Ritt can’t open the door—
it may be wired to explode!
"

They made a cacophony of frantic yelling and honking. Mr. Swift swerved and sped up the drive into the yard. Dodie shrieked. Even as Ritt glanced back at them in alarm, his hand was on the door—and pushing.

It swung open. Nothing.

Ames held his daughter as all emotion flooded free.

Tom and Bud were first out of the van as it stopped. "Ritt! Don’t go in!" cried the young inventor. "The whole house may be trip-wired for bombs!"

"Wha—what?
Bombs
?—!" The boy staggered away from the door. "Tom, what are—" Then he saw another face. "Dodie!"

Harlan Ames stared at him coldly. "Ritt Kincaid."

"Yes sir."

"I’m Dodie’s father. You’re going to tell me, right now, clearly and in detail, what you’re doing here."

Kincaid, already white of face, gulped. "Y-yes sir. I didn’t fly back, I—" His eyes were fixed on Dodie’s. "I couldn’t. I just rented another car..."

"Get to now!" snapped Ames.

"Someone texted me. I don’t know who. Probably Martabat or Turley. I was told Dodie was being held. It gave directions to this place."

"Nothing else?"

"No. I guess they—"

"You
guess
they wanted you to come rescue her," pronounced Ames. "That’s your story. I have another. My story is: you were in on the plot. Your meeting and—
wooing
Dodie was part of the plan. You yourself were one of the kidnappers. You knew Tom’s sensitector would lead him here.

"It was all about taking out Tom Swift. Or if the bomb wasn’t lethal, at least warning Enterprises not to go up against the great Kincaid operation!"

Ritt backed away, fearful of Ames’s cold fury. "But—no, I—"

Dodie read something terrible in Ritt’s face. "Ritt?"

He looked at her. Both sets of eyes held tears. "Okay. My going to the dance and meeting you wasn’t an accident. Father ordered me, through Turley, to try to get an ‘in’ with the Swifts by getting close to the daughter of the Enterprises security chief. They wanted me to try to get information on the Monoswift project—that’s what they said.

"But Dodie, that’s where it ended. I met you and we danced..."