Tom Swift and His G-Force Inverter (9 page)

"They call it ‘beta-testing’ these days," observed Tom happily. "Enterprises is probably the only proposor ready to head for the Grand Canyon."

"Well, son, there
is
one other," said Damon Swift. "Background chatter tells me that Technautics, that engineering firm over in Indianapolis, has something ready to go."

"That’s the outfit run by Cosmo Kincaid," Tom noted with disgust. "Why would anyone want to deal with that snake?"

His father shrugged wryly. "In the world of technology and invention he’s—well—you might call him the
anti-Swift!
" The man was well known for ruthless, barely ethical business practices, and had often been charged with patent piracy and shady business dealings. "But remember, son, nothing has ever been proven against him."

Tom acknowledged the fact reluctantly. "He has the right to compete with us, I guess. But I’ll sure be amazed if Technautics comes up with an approach that beats the Monoswift!"

"Agreed. Cosmo may be the anti-Swift, but
we
have the original!"

The Original continued his planning and testing as the prototype Monoswift took shape in the big assembly hangar, the Barn. As they worked late one evening, an outside telephone call was routed to the two Swifts’ shared executive office. "Dan Perkins here," said the familiar voice of the editor of the
Shopton Evening Bulletin
. "As our fair burg’s premier professional newsman, I have some news for you boys."

"What is it, Dan?" asked Mr. Swift politely. Perkins and his newspaper had sometimes posed problems for Enterprises.

"I’m here too, Dan," Tom put in.

"Good. At this moment I’m looking at a screen with the pasteup of a headline for tomorrow’s late edition. Call it a prophecy. What I see is large, black, and foreboding. Ready? ‘
Swift Enterprises Near Bankruptcy
’. How’s it sound to you?"

"Wha—
what
?—! That’s complete and absolute rubbish!" exploded Damon Swift. "Perkins, if you print that—"

"I don’t intend to print it," replied Perkins calmly. "Switching slouch hats from newsman to newspaper editor, I gave you a glimpse of a sensational headline. No point printing the news if the reader isn’t motivated to read it, you know.

"But I also have ethics. Can you believe it? The
Bulletin
doesn’t publicize unverified leaks. That’s why God made the internet. I’m calling to let you know that someone’s out there shopping this junk around."

"Do you know who?" asked Tom.

"It was passed along to us by a neutral source whom we’ve used before. Naturally his identity is confidential."

Mr. Swift sighed. "Yes. Of course. Is there anything you
can
tell us? Some detail in the information your source was given?"

"Only this," was the reply. "Amid the fertilizer is financial information about Tom Swift Enterprises and the Swift Construction Company that I
have
been able to verify. Seems to me it could only have originated with your man at Liberty Finance Inter-Corporation in Albany."

"Harrison Cruikshank," muttered Mr. Swift. "We’ve not been satisfied with his work recently."

"Perhaps he’s not been satisfied with
you
, Damon."

After the phonecall was ended, Tom spoke up heatedly. "Dad, Cruikshank came here from Indianapolis—he worked with Cosmo Kincaid closely, for years!"

"Yes son," nodded the Enterprises CEO. "And it’d certainly be to Kincaid’s advantage to spread doubt about the ability of Enterprises to fulfill the government project if it were awarded the full grant."

"We’re not—we’re not really having any financial problems, are we?"

"Put that out of your mind. Income from the Swift Solar Batteries, the commuter air fleet line, Tomasite—even products going all the way back to your great-grandfather Tom—is in great shape, absolutely solid."

"Guess you won’t need to cut my salary, then," Tom joked.

The lying headline was killed, but the matter still rankled the two Swifts. Next morning they flew to Indianapolis in the
Sky Queen
, with Tom’s bronze electric sports car aboard in the hangar hold.

Fifteen minutes after landing Tom’s car slid to a halt in a lot outside the heavily guarded gates of Technautics. It was a grim collection of buildings in a deserted area on the industrial outskirts of the city.

The Swifts were escorted through a series of barred doors that clanged shut behind them.

Tom whispered, "It’s like a prison!"

"Which is where Kincaid belongs!" Mr. Swift replied almost inaudibly, for they were about to enter the office of the man they had come to see.

Cosmo Kincaid was a heavyset man in his middle forties, who looked much older than his years—worn down to a fleshy fox-faced nub. He had never made any attempt to hide the fact he had fought his way up through the ranks to success. His eyes were as coal black as his hair and they bored into the Swifts’ pupils.

His manner was brusque, totally without polish. "All right. What do you want?" He did not even offer chairs to his visitors.

"It seems our companies are in competition for the Grand Canyon project, Cosmo," said Damon Swift, voice controlled.

"Yeah, so it seems. And?"

"I want to say to you, face to face, that we intend to keep this business rivalry within bounds."

"Okay. You’ve said it."

"Mr. Kincaid," Tom blurted angrily, "spreading dirty information about Enterprises doesn’t do anybody any good!"

Kincaid’s eyebrows raised. "Oh? What makes you say that? Works pretty well sometimes."

"You admit it?" challenged Mr. Swift.

"I admit that business competition isn’t for sissies. You don’t like the way I play, tell the playground monitor." He smiled cynically. "But of course, my friends, I don’t know
what
you’re talking about."

"Then somebody in your organization must." Tom’s tone was respectful but firm.

"No one
here
would
ever
do anything unethical," he declared. "If so, it was an accident. Management didn’t know about it. I had nothing to do with it. We’ll root out the perpetrator. So, thank you,
goodbye
!" Kincaid studied a document on the desk in front of him, as though dismissing the Swifts.

As the Shoptonians tried to control their anger at Kincaid’s attitude, the door to an adjoining office opened slowly, almost hesitantly. Kincaid looked up and said impatiently, "Yes, Ritt, what is it? Don’t
hover
!"

Ritter Kincaid was a slim eighteen-year-old, totally different from his father in every feature. The youth had a sensitive face with hazel eyes and brown wavy hair.

"I had an idea about the skyview—" Ritt started to say when he noticed the Swifts, still standing at the other end of the office. "Sorry. I didn't know you had guests, Father."

"I don’t." Kincaid went back to his papers. "Show the Swifts out, Ritt. Keep them away from the snack machines."

As the youth closed the office door behind him, he said plesantly, "So you’re our famous rivals! Father and son..." There was a note of envy in Ritt's voice—envy and sadness.

"Guess we
are
kind of competitors," Tom chuckled. "At least in this Grand Canyon business."

"Don't worry. We’ll beat the pants off you!" Ritt was not as shy as he had appeared at first! Grinning, he added as they walked along, "Maybe it’s not gosh-darn antigravity, but we’ve got some new wrinkles I’ll bet even you never thought of!"

A short, fat, round-faced man had been strolling behind them down the hall. As he suddenly spoke, Tom felt certain he had been assigned to follow them. "That's enough, Ritt!" the man commanded. "Get these gentlemen off the premises and go back to your work."

"Sure will, Mr. Turley," said Ritt. He added sarcastically: "Be
sure
to tell my father."

Turley walked away scowling, and Ritt said quietly: "Father doesn’t trust anyone. He has me followed. He says I’m too ‘nice’."

"Are you?" asked Tom.

"Maybe so."

The three walked in silence to Tom’s car. As the young inventor opened the door, Ritt said abruptly. "You know, I’m thinking of leaving Technautics..."

Mr. Swift reacted with quiet surprise. "Oh really?"

"Here, it isn’t the way they say it is with you two," Ritt continued, glancing about for listeners. "Father treats everybody as an enemy, me included. He does what he can to keep me under control, to keep me from having friends or dating or—anything. I’m not allowed to have any sort of life of my own. He thinks I’ll leak a company secret or something." Suddenly the words came out in a rush. "But I—I
won’t
put up with it any more! I’m going to leak something
right now!
"

"Ritt, we don’t need you to—" Mr. Swift began.

But the youth plunged forward with furious—and obviously nervous—anger.

"No—I
want
to tell you!—and I
will
! Our demonstration project, the skyview tram—Technautics is building it, all right, and taking the credit and the money, but we didn’t invent it. The basic technology came from ‘the other young inventor.’

"You two Swifts know who I mean. Peter Langley—your rival!"

TOM and Damon Swift exchanged looks of amazement and dismay. "Pete Langley!" exclaimed Tom. "But he’s the one who tipped us off in the first place! He said Wickliffe Laboratories didn’t have any interest in working on the project!"

"Whatever the guy may have told you, I know the basic figures and work-ups came directly from him and his team," Ritt insisted. "Could be we purchased Langley’s work outright—but I
guarantee
you Father will make sure he never gets one word of credit. That’s his way—control the message!" The youth glanced around in furtive disgust. "Somebody’s probably got me on camera and microphone right now. I don’t care!"

The Swifts were as much taken aback by Ritt Kincaid’s unexpected outburst of emotion as by the disclosure of Peter Langley’s involvement. "We’ll have a chat with Langley," Tom said quietly. "But Ritt, don’t jeopardize your job here—or your relationship with your father—on our account."

"The job, I don’t care about," came the bitter reply. "As to the relationship—it doesn’t exist!"

On the flight home, Tom and his father discussed the matter soberly. Damon Swift said, "We’re entitled to assume Kincaid is behind that phony ‘leak,’ even if Harry Cruikshank did the dirty work. Kincaid probably knows something that gives him leverage over Cruikshank."

"Some ‘skeleton’ from their past business dealings," nodded Tom. "Seems to be the way Old Man Kincaid works."

"Science and the world of business—not an easy fit, son."

"I know," Tom replied. "Dad, I want to hash this out with Pete Langley, and there’s no reason to wait until we land!"

Tom immediately called Langley’s office at Wickliffe Laboratories. "Listen Tom—news flash!—I wasn’t jivin’ you before. Wicko has no interest in going after the Grand Canyon money. I never said we hadn’t done any work on it."

"For Cosmo Kincaid?"

"No, for ourselves. We’re R & D here, remember? We developed the notion of a floating observation vehicle with the idea it could be used for police sky-watch patrols, in place of those clattery helicopters they use. Get it? We talked it up here and there, and Kincaid approached us. We declined to work for him—can you
b’lieve
that jerk?—but we negotiated the rights to what we’d come up with.

"And now here’s a question back-atcha.
Why am I telling you all this private business stuff?
"

"I’m... sorry, Pete," Tom said, embarassed. "You didn’t do anything wrong, and it’s generous of you to explain. Guess I was just caught offguard."

"Well, chumbo, I hope you guys know enough to keep
on
guard when you’re competing with Cosmo Kincaid."

Tom clicked off his cellphone. "Good advice," said his father. "Son, I have no objection to Technautics coming up with an alternative approach. It might even be superior to ours. But I can’t forgive the bankruptcy rumor."

As the chiefs of Swift Enterprises winged their luxurious way home, an imposing figure in a cowboy hat and shrieking-loud shirt was poking around under the high dome of the Enterprises observatory building. Chow was wafting along his daily snack route, delivering fortifications to the regular observatory staffer, Mike Halmer. But Mike was away from his post at the Mighty Eye, Tom’s megascope space prober.

"Wish they’d teach me how t’ use that telly-scope TV," mused Chow as he gazed up at the huge antenna, a column of gleaming golden rings. "Nice t’ check up on my old pals back at th’ Horton spread, now ’n then..."

Pushing his cart aside, the cook ambled up to a heavy work table near the megascope console.
Hmm
! he thought.
Looky that!

Attached to the workbench, by Tomasite cords, were a dozen or so of Franzenberg’s "anti-weights." They strained upwards, linked to their thin anchor cords by metal clasp-hooks. "Say, that’s right," the ex-Texan muttered. "He said sumpin’ about doin’ tests in here."

Chow had heard the maxim about leaving well enough alone, but found it too abstract. An idea had taken root. After a few milliseconds of lightning debate, he began to carefully unhook the bars of ingravitized metal from their cords and fasten them, one by one, to the belt-loops of his mansized jeans. The result, not entirely comfortable, gave him the strange feeling of being light on his feet.
I c’d be one o’ them jumpin’ ballee dancers in this get-up!
he thought with a chuckle. He tilted up on tiptoe—or as close as he could manage in his big boots. A tentative hop carried him up a foot into the air. Drifting back down gently, he decided it was time to ignore another maxim, this one about "all things in moderation." He hooked on another slug of anti-ballast—then another.

The inevitable happened. Chow Winkler began to rise into the air like the world’s gaudiest, and loudest, free balloon!

"
Aaaak
!" he squawked. This became, as he neared the curve of the dome, a bellow. "
Ee-yaaa
!" And then: "
Heee-elp!
" He repeated it a few times for emphasis.