Tom Swift and His Giant Robot (11 page)

Tom looked at it curiously, then glanced at his sister. "This looks just like the ring Dad brought back for you last month."

Sandy flushed with embarrassment. "Bashalli—I—well, I—"

Bash gave her a friendly squeeze. "I know, Sandra. I saw you plant it! I did not wish to spoil the fun you and Bud were having, pretending there was a treasure to be found."

This admission raised a hearty laugh all around.

Hot showers, supper, and a good night’s sleep did wonders to return everyone to a semblance of normality. After breakfast the next morning, Tom informed his father that he was ready to test Ator in the reactor core. "I don’t see any reason to wait," he said.

"Nor I," Mr. Swift agreed.

Tom had the controller equipment installed in the reactor blockhouse. He then activated his mechanical man and marched him across the grounds and into one of the service corridors, lined with lead and Tomasite. The exterior door was shut and sealed, and the interior door to the corridor was electrically opened.

In the blockhouse, Tom manipulated the control panel, switching on Ator’s "eyes" and "ears." On the screen in front of him, divided into two segments, he could see both visual details of the inner corridor, amazingly sharp and clear, and a radar-generated schematic of the same area. A separate monitor nearby received a feed from videocams mounted along the corridor walls. The screen showed the robot titan standing immobilely.

The "walking" disk still in its drive, Tom eased forward the master control dial. Instantly Ator began to move. The image from his camera-eyes rocked back and forth as he ambled slowly along the corridor toward the hatchway to the reactor chamber.

"Quite a bit of wobble," murmured Damon Swift, nodding toward the screen.

"Yes," Tom responded. "I’m already working up an image-compensator routine to cancel it out."

Ator neared the chamber door. Tom twisted back on the dial, and the robot paused. The young inventor selected the disk in the alternate drive. Ator smoothly extended an arm, one finger pointing; then he deftly punched in a sequence on the keypad next to the hatch.

Mr. Swift flashed a proud smile at his son. "Now
that
was very smooth!"

The heavy motorized door swung inward. Immediately various lights on Tom’s control panel became illuminated with flares of red, and meter needles darted to the right. Ator was receiving his first blast of hard radiation!

"No problem so far," Tom commented. He directed the robot to step over the raised threshold and enter the chamber. But to his disappointed surprise the metal man refused to obey!

"What’s gone wrong?" Tom’s father asked after Tom had transmitted his command several times.

The young inventor shook his head. "I’m pretty sure it’s not a signal problem," he replied. "The relotrol is working fine. It’s as if his muscles have seized-up."

After the reactor door was closed tight by remote control, technicians in protective gear entered the corridor and carted the frozen giant off to the rad-decontamination room, where his entire chassis was carefully scrubbed with chemical solvents.

"Decontamination will take some time," muttered Tom restlessly. "But I can’t investigate the problem until Ator is clean."

"Then investigate something else, Tom," said Damon Swift. "Perhaps you and Bud could drive into town and meet that ‘prophet’ Chow’s friend told you about—the one who had raised objections to the dig on Purple Mesa. We have yet to understand the connection between the mesa and these other attacks, you know."

"All right, Dad," Tom responded. "I’ll ask Chow and Jessee along with us—Jessee said she had a day off from the library."

In the company car available to Tom, he and Bud drove into Tenderly, with Chow occupying about two-thirds of the back seat. After picking up Jessee Thunder Lake at the house trailer she lived in, they were guided by Jessee to the town limits, pulling to a stop at an ancient gas station that had been converted into an auto detailing shop.

A teenage boy stood nearby as the four got out of the car, holding a paint sprayer. The embroidery on his grease-smeared once-white shirt read
Kevin.

"Hello, Kevin," said Jessee. The response was a nod that was barely polite. "Is your grandpa inside?"

The youth frowned, and for a moment it seemed he would refuse to answer. "Ye-ah," he finally drawled. "Pretty busy though."

"Of course, with all this booming business," Jessee responded. The lot was almost empty.

Kevin scowled but said nothing more as they entered the dimly lit office. After a moment a door opened and a skeletal old man with long stone-colored hair entered the room. He glared at the four of them through smudged glasses with thick black frames.

"S’prised to see
you
here, Jessee Thunder Lake," he said. "But I see you’ve taken up keepin’ company with the outsiders."

"Oh, hush!" she scolded. She turned to the others. "This is Joe Cloud Bear. We grew up together here in this town. He’s only been addled the last few years."

"Now, you can say what you please, Jessee," said the man with an injured dignity, "but I have read the signs and spoken with the cloud-spirits, and they have touched my forehead and made me
iy-hulchan
for our scattered people."

"That means shaman, or medicine-man, in the old language," commented Jessee. "Not that Joe’s pronouncing it right."

"Aw, you allus was the stuck-up one," he retorted.

Chow stepped forward menacingly. "Say there, I’d watch my tone in front of this here lady!"

Joe Cloud Bear snorted. "No business o’ yours, you
hat-wearer!
I hear she turned you down about as many times as they’s moons in the sky to a firewater drinker."

Before Chow could puzzle out the meaning of this expression, Tom intervened. "Mr. Cloud Bear, we’re not here to be disrespectful. We just thought you might be able to help us with some information."

"Oh, I’ll bet th’ farm on
that."
The man’s eyes narrowed. "I know who y’are, Tom Swift. You and your pa own that big atom ranch that’s eatin’ up the ground out by Darlita’s. That land is ours, y’know."

"Not according to the government," said Bud. Cloud Bear’s hostile attitude was beginning to grate on him.

"Like I care what th’
occupation gov’mint
has to say about things." The old man turned his back on them contemptuously and began to restock some shelves.

Tom took a stab in the dark. "I understand you know Oi-Pah, sir."

The man continued to work, but more slowly. "And jus’ what would
you
know of the Crow-Black-As-Night-Shadow?"

"Just that he’s an ancient, powerful spirit; and some say you’ve seen him yourself." Tom paused strategically. "But I guess it’s just foolish talk."

Joseph Cloud Bear turned about angrily. "Sure I seen him! Kevin an’ I, we both seen him up against the stars. That’s how we know we’ve been chosen for the revelation! That, and—well, I got my ways."

Tom approached cautiously. "Sir, I believe what you say. But I think there may be others, bad people, who are trying to take advantage of you. I’ve already had attempts made on my life, and you—and your grandson—could be in real danger."

This seemed to sink in. "If you are a true-hearted seeker o’ knowledge, I won’t hold it back. What do you want t’know?"

"Can you tell me exactly why you’ve been trying to prevent Professor Hermosillo from completing his work up on Purple Mesa?"

The old man stood silently for a long moment, then seemed to decide to cooperate. "Okay, I’ll tell you. Why shouldn’t I? While back, months ago, a man came into this shop. He was a man of my race, a good dark man, dark eyes, dark hair. He told me he was a
Bocotyeh
. Do you know, Tom Swift, of the Bocotyeh?"

As Tom started to shake his head, Chow spoke up. "I heard o’ them. Second cousin to the old Aztecs, they said."

"That’s right, Charles," remarked Jessee. "But the last living Bocotyeh died in—let me see now—1791. The tribe is extinct."

"Bah! He
was
Bocotyeh!" Joseph Cloud Bear wheezed defensively. "I know because of what he had with him. He showed it to me."

"What did he have?" Tom inquired.

"Many old parchment documents, on paper yeller with age, hard to read. You could
smell
the age on ’em!"

Bud murmured to Tom, "Not exactly carbon dating!" Mr. Cloud Bear seemed not to hear.

"These old parchments told of treaties between the Bocotyeh village and the old Spaniards, and they mentioned the Arapajo. They said the Arapajo spirit-summoners had a sacred place on the top of
Ni-Eeya-Ro,
which you outsiders call Purple Mesa. This man, he said he worked in a guv’mint office and had discovered that the bone-diggers planned t’drill into the mesa, to holler it out and drive away the cloud-spirits." He drew himself up sternly. "And then what becomes of the Arapajo? We will be feathers in the wind."

"I understand," Tom said. "And is that when Oi-Pah started to come to you?"

The man nodded, suspicion still burning in his eyes. "We went to Ni-Eeya-Ro, my grandson and I, to sit through the night and talk t’spirits. We saw Oi-Pah circle above, against the stars. We saw the fire in his eyes! We saw his children fly out from his feathers! Then they all was gone. Since then we seen him many times. So have those who b’lieve, who have come along to see."

"I have seen him too," said the young inventor in a solemn voice. "But have you considered that the man who came here might have been a fake? There are criminal gangs mixed up in this."

The old man looked down and was silent. Finally he said, "I am not a durn fool, Tom Swift. The man wouldn’t show me identification or tell me his name, and he took the papers away with ’im. Said he had to return them before anyone knew they were missing. But now you tell me, boy—how could any man, even a gangster, fake the great black crow flying through the air?" He speared Tom in a steely glance.

As Tom shook his head, unable to answer, Jessee said, "Oh, Joseph, you always were a little short on common sense! But come over one of these days—we’ll have supper like we used to."

"Jessee, Jessee," Mr. Cloud Bear replied quietly, "you jus’ don’t want t’see how much this matters. It’s for our people. And listen," he exclaimed, turning again to Tom, "I know you got the feds t’give that professor the go-ahead, but there’s more believers everyday, and we know how to write letters—and some of us look purty good on TV, too!
We’ll protect that mesa any way we can!"

Those last words of Joseph Cloud Bear were still ringing in Tom’s head during the drive back to the Citadel. From all evidence it seemed Mr. Cloud Bear and his Arapajo followers weren’t the only ones determined to keep prying eyes—and probing shovels—away from Purple Mesa!

AT EARLY-MORNING breakfast on the following day, Chow surprised Tom and Bud by accompanying the usual ham and eggs with an unusual suggestion.

"Boys, whyn’t we go ridin’ while it’s still early and purt-near cool?"

"Riding?" Bud exclaimed. "You mean on horses?"

"Wa-al, I don’t mean armadillers!" the cook snorted. "I know
you
know how to ride, Tom, ’cause you and your sister ride the trails back home all the time. Now as fer you, Buddy Boy—"

"Oh, I know how!" exclaimed Bud defensively. Then he continued in meeker tones, "Or at least I’m learning. Can you get a horse with training wheels?"

Tom laughed but said, "Chow, I’d like to, but I have a lot of work to do on the robot."

The cook gave Tom a humorously stern look. "That ole Ator won’t get mad if he has to wait a few hours. Now look, I heard tell you got ideas fer that rocket ship o’ yours when you let Bud talk you into goin’ out on the lake in a rowboat. Seems t’me I deserve equal time!"

Tom raised his hands. "Okay, ya got me, pardner!"

"But let’s not tell the girls," Bud put in. "You know, they tend to get into trouble!"

"They couldn’t come anyway. They’re already off to Albuquerque for a day of shopping with Myra Spenthorpe and her boyfriend," Tom said.

Chow had arranged for three "well-broke" steeds at a nearby ranch whose owner was an old friend of his. He even supplied protective ten-gallon hats for the boys. Soon the three horsemen were trotting briskly across the morning desert, which still bore a vanishing trace of the night’s crispness.

"So what’s our destination, Chief?" Tom called out to Chow.

"Thought we might head over t’ that mesa and see if all them police-folk missed any clues," the Texan replied. "Jest at th’ bottom, I mean, not up on top."

"Good idea," said Bud.

After a time Bud and Tom pulled off their tee-shirts, rubbed on some heavy-duty sunblock, and worked to diminish their east-coast pallor.

"Don’t you want a tan too, Chow?" Tom called out.

"Naw," he replied. "The shadows’d make it look funny."

Bud looked up. "Shadows? There’s not a cloud in the sky!"

Chow shook his head. "Not up
there,"
he said. He pointed to the overhang of his ample waist. "Down
here!"

The sun was mounting high and hot when Chow, Tom, and Bud finally reined-in at the base of mighty Purple Mesa. Here they dismounted for a time, grateful for its cooling shade.

"Well, here we are," Bud remarked. "Looks like Oi-Pah’s decided to take the morning off."

"It don’t figger," said Chow. "How come he gets so all fired-up when planes come close, but not when folks come by ground?"

"It’s not
just
approaches by air, Chow," Tom pointed out. "Joseph Cloud Bear was on the ground just like us. And don’t forget what Nicky Ammo saw."

Tom reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a small object, about the size of a flip-top cigarette lighter. At a touch, it unfolded—in two directions—and became a mobile cellphone.

Chow shook his head disgustedly. "Aw, Boss, you’re not in the spirit o’ the thing!"

Tom smiled. "Have to keep in touch with the office, you know. Besides, I have it set on ‘vibrate’ so as not to rattle the rattlesnakes!"

Bud and Chow drank from their canteens and relaxed for a time while Tom conferred with the switchboard at the Citadel, and then with his father. He clicked off after a few minutes. "Nothing going on," he said.