Tom Swift and His Outpost in Space (10 page)

"A little box tells us to turn to the editorial page for more comment," noted Bashalli, turning the pages. She read silently for a moment, then looked up, her eyes flashing fire. "Absolutely disgraceful!"

Bud asked, "What?"

"Listen!" She read a paragraph of the editorial aloud. "‘Local citizens will regret that the Quik Battery Corporation has succeeded in making a solar battery before our own Swift Enterprises. Shopton has always looked forward to the Swifts being first in their field with new scientific achievements. But in this case, Jaston York and his engineers have snatched the laurels from our famous father-and-son team. Science marches on, and we can only say,
Well done!’
"

"Thats an insult!" Mrs. Swift exclaimed.

"And after all you Swifts have done for this hick town since the days of the Model T!" Bud Barclay exclaimed in disgust. "Mr. Swift, I know you don’t believe in revenge, but if they don’t print a retraction, I think—you should cancel your subscription!"

Sandy rolled her eyes.

Tom’s father chuckled but made no comment. Tom himself shrugged his shoulders as he turned the car into the driveway of the Swift residence. "It’s a free country. If York’s battery is all he claims, more power to him."

"A pun," commented Bashalli. "That is surely a pun." As Tom cut the engine, she added, "But after all this, I still fail to understand. Why did Mr. Toad, to call him by his proper name, insist on this lawsuit?"

"It’s obvious, isn’t it?" was Tom’s reply. "What better way to get publicity for his new product than to sue his prospective rival? It’s not a secret that Enterprises has been doing battery research."

"He probably rigged those balloons to pop by remote control," Bud muttered sourly.

"He couldn’t have known our upcoming flight schedule," Mr. Swift pointed out. "No, Tom’s theory is mine as well—Quik Battery saw an opportunity to get some publicity out of their failed experiments, and took advantage of it. No more than that."

But inwardly Tom felt sick. As he drove to Enterprises, he reflected on whether this revelation might affect his outpost-in-space project. If York’s battery captured the market, it might not pay the Swifts to manufacture theirs 22,300 miles above the earth. A great deal of the money that his father’s company had already invested in the project would be wasted!

As soon as he reached his office, Tom called a friend who ran an electrical engineering firm in Philadelphia. He told him what had happened. "See if you can obtain one of Quik’s solar batteries, Jerry, before they’re available for public sale, so we can run some tests on it. I doubt if York would sell me one direct."

"Sure thing, Tom. I’ll be glad to try, at least."

To help forget his worries, the young inventor buried himself in his ongoing work. One good thing, Tom mused as he bent over his drawing board, was that everything else was going along well on his project. He and the other Enterprises engineers were conquering the various problems in connection with the newer, bigger space station—including testing out Tom’s remarkable approach to launching materials and construction crews into orbit. Tom’s father had already arranged to visit a site in the South Pacific that was a likely location for the undersea launch rig.

The next day a phone call came in from Washington DC. The caller was Dr. Madden of the Public Health Service, one of the government medical men cooperating in the Swifts’ ambitious space project. "Your idea of using a novel oxygen-helium mixture to breathe looks good, Tom!" he reported. "Our tests show that it’ll cut down the danger of your crew suffering from bends in case of an air leak."

Tom was jubilant as he hung up. Using an oxygen-helium mix instead of the oxygen-nitrogen combination found in Earth’s atmosphere was well established in space flight, as helium weighed less than the nitrogen in ordinary air. But this particular ratio, lighter still, had been controversial until tested out. Now that it had been certified as fundamentally safe, he resolved to go forward with some further tests.

First, however, he stopped by Harlan Ames office. The square-jawed chief of Enterprises security had left Tom a message indicating that information about Kenneth Horton had finally been received after a lengthy delay.

"I also found out the reason for the delay," Ames explained. "Your boy Horton was being a bit modest in talking to Sandy and Bashalli. He’s not just some grunt in the Signal Corps, but a trained special agent who was awarded a Silver Star for gallantry after returning stateside from Iraq! We had to get some very high-up clearances to get access to his records."

Tom was amazed! "Doesn’t exactly sound like the sort of guy who might be planting bugs in beach hampers on behalf of some unknown foreign power."

"Definitely not. Major Horton comes with the best recommendations imaginable—not only that, he’s independently wealthy, inherited from his family. And nothing to indicate that he has any grudge against you or your father. And now comes the kicker, Tom. He’s made several applications to NASA for training as an astronaut, and probably would be a space veteran already if not for budget cutbacks!"

"Wow!" Tom exclaimed. "By any chance are you suggesting that Enterprises should try to get him involved with the space outpost?"

"That,
I leave up to you," chuckled Ames. "I do recall your Dad saying something about the difficulty of finding enough qualified workers to train for the project."

Tom gave a thoughtful nod and said, "Tell you what, if everybody is sure Horton is trustworthy, I’ll send him a personal invitation to apply and be interviewed as a Swift rocket man." His eyes twinkling Tom added, "I’ll tell him we need more
cute
men with
dreamy-creamy
tans!"

After completing the meeting Tom went over to his lab adjacent to the huge underground hangar, where he found Bud waiting for him. Tom told his pal about the strange turn of events. But the young pilot scowled and said he was strongly opposed to the idea of inviting Horton to take part in their new project. "You can’t tell me that two guys with a short big toe would have been on that Florida beach at the same time!" Bud protested. "That would be too much of a coincidence."

"Coincidences can fool you, chum," Tom replied, slightly surprised at Bud’d vehemence. "For example, in a group of twenty strangers, the odds are about 50-50 that two people will have the same birthday."

"Well, that’s really
interesting,
Tom," Bud grumped.

Tom assured Bud that Horton would be thoroughly screened again at Shopton, then he quickly changed the subject. He reminded Bud that they had not yet translated the interrupted message from outer space. "But I’ve made some progress," Tom said.

"Okay," Bud responded. "So what do they say?"

Tom accessed the encrypted file on his lab computer, and Bud looked on with keen interest while his friend showed how he and his father had partially decoded the message.

"Assuming my translation is correct," Tom replied, "this message tells us that our space friends live on a satellite of the planet Mars!"

"You mean some kind of a space station they’ve built?"

"Yes—though it’s not clear whether that means an independently orbiting facility like our space outpost, or a natural moon—Deimos or Phobos—on which they’ve established a base. After that, the message goes on to invite us to do something."

"Do what?" Bud asked curiously.

Tom shook his head. "Unfortunately, that’s where the message stopped. The machine went dead right at that point, on a complex untranslatable symbol. It’s strange that they haven’t sent the whole message again, though we’ve asked them to. There’s no response at all."

"Oh, fine!" Bud said impatiently. "Then we won’t have any idea what they were trying to tell us until the next message comes through. And that may not be for weeks—if at all!"

"I didn’t say we have
no
idea," Tom corrected. "In fact, I believe I know what they were trying to say!"

Bud stared at his friend in surprise. "Don’t keep me in suspense, genius boy!" he pleaded. "Come on! What’s the news from the Martian space station?"

"You remember some of those earlier messages our friends out there sent us?" Tom asked.

"Sure. They wanted to visit the earth but couldn’t figure out how to survive in our atmosphere or something— wasn’t that the general idea?"

"Atmosphere, magnetic field, something about the environment—right!" Tom hesitated. "Dad and I have never been able to figure out why they can’t tell us
exactly
what the problem is. It’s almost as if each side uses some basic concepts that the other can’t even grasp. And they don’t seem to understand the idea of representing their bodies visually—by some kind of television image or even a simple diagram. They’ve never been able to describe themselves well enough for Dad and me to form any idea of what their bodies are like."

Slowly relaxing, Bud grinned. "Maybe they’re
afraid
to let us know. They may be bugs or fish or something really out of this world!"

Tom laughed.
"That’s
as good a theory as any. But the end result is, we couldn’t give them any advice."

"But what’s on their minds now, Tom?" Bud persisted.

"I have a hunch they’ve given up on that angle for the time being, and now they want us to come and visit
them."

"Say! How about that?" Bud exclaimed, reacting with wide-eyed enthusiasm. "Man, a trip like that would suit me!" His eyes narrowed. "Unless you plan to give my seat to
Kenny
Horton."

Tom ignored the comment. "And another thing— visiting their satellite would be much simpler than visiting Mars itself, because we wouldn’t have to overcome the gravity or atmospheric conditions. Mars is subject to some mighty fierce windstorms, flyboy!"

"Piece of cake!" Bud said enthusiastically. "How soon do we start?"

. "Slowdown, space cadet!" laughed the young inventor. "A space station is still the first step in conquering interplanetary space. Besides, even a trip to a Martian satellite would take a little too long for my taste."

"How long?" queried Bud.

Tom thought for a moment. "The round trip would take over two and a half years right now. Even ageless types like us can’t stay eighteen
that
long!" Bud’s face fell as Tom added, "And almost half that time would be spent waiting for the right moment to take off on our return trip."

Bud shook his head glumly. "Well, there goes a dream—with a dull thud."

"Don’t take it so hard," Tom said with an understanding smile. "We’ll beat the problem yet, somehow. In the meantime, if those Martians can travel faster than we can in our old-fashioned chemical rockets, there’s no reason why they can’t pay a visit to us at the space outpost!"

"Now there’s a thought!"

After Bud left, his mood somewhat lightened, Tom sat himself at the lab’s air tank setup, eager to carry out a few more tests on the oxygen-helium mixture. To his surprise, he found that his empty tank of oxygen had been replaced by a new one bearing the label of the Aer-Cel Company. Picking up the phone, Tom contacted the supply department. "What happened to our own tanks of oxygen, Luisa?" he asked. "I notice this new cylinder is from the Aer-Cel Company."

"Oh, that’s one they gave us free," explained the plant’s chief purchaser. "Seems they’ve designed a new regulator for their tanks and they’d like you to try it out. I figured you wouldn’t mind."

"Not a bit. Just wondered, that’s all."

Tom hung up and examined the device which Luisa Perez had referred to. It was wired to the cap nut on the tank, and included a pressure gauge, stopcock, and the necessary threaded fittings for attachment.

Tom unwired the gadget and screwed it into place on the tank. Then he adjusted the tank valve to a suitable pressure and opened the stopcock, to draw off a small amount of oxygen.

The young inventor was puzzled. The device seemed to work in the usual way. Yet there was, after all, something queer about the design. And the hissing air seemed to have a slight odor.

Tom tried to shut off the flow, but the stopcock would not turn. He tried the tank valve. This, too, refused to budge!

Suddenly Tom felt ill. A strange paralysis seemed to be numbing his arms and legs. In a flash, he realized that he had been duped by a trick. Instead of oxygen, there was a deadly gas in the tank!

TOM KNEW that he must get out of the room before he was overcome. But as he tried to go forward, he staggered—it seemed as though his legs just wouldn’t move! Groggy from the deadly gas filling the room, Tom lurched toward the door of his laboratory. With one hand, he pulled out his handkerchief and held it to his nose. But his legs dragged as though weighted down with lead.

"I’ll never make it!" he thought.

Then Tom remembered the wall switch for the exhaust fans. It was just a few steps away. If he could only reach it!

He stumbled forward. One hand groped up and dragged down the lever. The exhaust blowers whirred into life and Tom felt a surge of air. But the gas from the tank had already engulfed the room. Tom’s head was splitting, his eyesight hazy. Swaying blindly, he lurched on, two steps, three steps—one more now and he could reach the door!

It seemed like a lifetime before his hand closed on the knob. With a superhuman effort, Tom opened the door and managed one final staggering lunge out into the underground hangar. He was just in time—shadow was descending all around him. As the heavy steel door swung shut behind him, the youthful scientist slumped to the floor!

A hangar workman raised a shout of alarm. Men came running from all directions. Mr. Swift was the first to reach his son’s side.

"Tom! What happened?" his father cried, cradling the youth’s head with one arm.

The young inventor’s lips moved weakly. He mumbled a single word, "Gas…"

As someone opened the door to peer inside, Mr. Swift shouted,
"Don’t go into that lab!"

The atmosphere of the air-conditioned hangar soon revived Tom. Gradually the color returned to his cheeks and his blue eyes fluttered open.