Tom Swift and His Outpost in Space (2 page)

Wide-eyed and white as a sheet, Tom was alive and conscious!

"Genius boy!"
Bud cried, his voice trembling. "H-how do you feel?"

Tom’s lips twitched, but he did not answer. He only stared, first at Bud, then at Chow.

"Tom Swift, if’n you don’t say somethin’ we’re gonna throw you back!" Chow’s voice cracked with emotion.

"I’m…I’m…okay," whispered Tom. "I was…
outside."

"Don’t we know it!" Bud exclaimed. "What happened?"

Bud had to repeat the question twice before Tom responded, speaking dazedly. "I’m not sure. I think… when I cleared the jam, the launcher went off automatically. The edge of it caught me. I—I blacked out for a few seconds...then I came to…and…" The memory seemed to distress Tom.

Bud insisted that Tom lie down on one of the sofas in the lounge. "We’re heading back to Enterprises!" he declared, striding rapidly toward the stairwell.

Tom twisted on the sofa, facing away from the lounge’s floor-to-ceiling viewports. Chow knelt down beside him, his leathery sun-worn face still pale with worry.

"Talk t’ me, son!" begged Chow. "Must’ve been quite a fright out there. Bet you figgered you ’as gonna…" He couldn’t finish the sentence.

"And I was alone," Tom breathed, turning slightly. Then his hand squeezed Chow’s knee. "But I
wasn’t
alone!"

"Never
will
be, Tom Swift," Chow murmured.

Even before the Flying Lab had landed at Swift Enterprises, its home base and the great invention facility run by Tom and his father, the young inventor had risen from the sofa and returned to the command deck, where he shakily checked the instruments that were monitoring and controlling the glidewing.

"Looks like it completed its program," he muttered, his voice thick and unwieldy. "It’s on a path back to the Enterprises airfield."

When Tom left the cabin, Chow nudged Bud on the shoulder. "You notice how he wouldn’t look up?"

Bud nodded. "He didn’t want to look out the window. Can’t blame him for that!"

Bud radioed the Swift complex to have medical personnel, from the plant infirmary, standing ready to examine Tom. As the
Sky Queen
gently touched down on its elevator-pad, a small company ambulance could be seen waiting nearby. Over Tom’s muted protests he was whisked to the infirmary where he was x-rayed and tested for any aftereffects of his fall.

"I don’t find any damage, Tom," the doctor reported. "Just a bad bruise on the shoulder where the mechanism clipped you. No effects of the actual fall through the air."

"It was only a few minutes," commented the young inventor irritably. Then he added, "Look, if you don’t mind, I’d prefer you not let this get around—I don’t care to worry Dad and my family. That goes for you too, Bud, Chow.
Promise!"

Everyone nodded. "Far as I’m concerned, it never happened. But I wouldn’t advise trying that stunt again!" said the doctor.

"Don’t worry about that!" returned Tom.

Meanwhile the Enterprises flight control tower had announced that the glidewing had successfully touched down on runway six and had been transported to Tom’s lab in the cavernous underground hangar where the
Sky Queen
was berthed between flights. With Bud and Chow at his heels Tom descended to the lab and gave the glidewing a quick visual inspection.

"How’s she look?" asked Chow.

"Not bad," responded Tom. His voice was listless, and Chow and Bud exchanged concerned glances.

Mounting a short steel ladder, Tom climbed up next to a transparent blister attached above and behind the main wing. Tom’s new solar battery had been mounted in an aperture in the dome for exposure to the rays of the sun. Wires from the battery were connected to a port for a voltmeter and other electrical hookups.

When the young inventor climbed down again, his pallid face wore a frown of discouragement.

"Anything wrong?" Bud inquired.

"The voltmeter reading is way down," muttered Tom thoughtfully, running his fingers through his ragged blond crewcut.

"What does that mean?"

"That the battery’s efficiency for storing electricity will have to be improved. The battery will take a charge but won’t hold it properly. I have the feeling it still wasn’t getting a strong enough exposure to the solar ultraviolet. If it isn’t fully charged to begin with, the material tends to short itself out."

"Maybe you should send up a balloon like those other fellows," Bud suggested.

Tom stared at Bud as if he didn’t understand. Then he managed a weak grin. "We’ll go one better and send up a midget rocket. I’m starting to think that the best place to charge solar batteries is beyond the atmosphere."

"Shor ’nuff, but I don’t get it," Chow said in a puzzled voice. "How th’ Sam Hill could you go into production? You cain’t jest send up a new rocket ever’ time—"

Suddenly the westerner’s voice trailed off as the full meaning of Tom’s words sank in. "Great gallopin’ gravy, ya don’t mean—"

Bud finished the thought. "Look, genius boy, you aren’t thinking of setting up a factory in that new space station of yours!"

Bud and Chow knew that Tom’s solar battery project was being pursued at the same time as a much larger endeavor—the construction of a permanent manned space station in orbit around the earth, to be used by Swift Enterprises experimenters and engineers. Tom nodded. "Why not, guys? Dad and I have been talking for a long time about adding a manufacturing component to the space outpost. We’re both convinced that it’s practical. There are lots of advantages to working in an airless, zero-gravity environment for certain kinds of materials fabrication. The solar battery is just one example."

"If’n you say so, Tom," Chow said dubiously. He then changed the subject. "Anyway, we’re overdue fer some grub around here. You two feel like a good spicy—"

"I don’t need anything!" Tom snapped. "And I especially don’t need anyone fussing over me!"

Chow was taken aback by Tom’s outburst. "Son, I only meant—"

Tom interrupted, passing a hand over his eyes. "Sorry, Chow…I don’t know where that came from. I just don’t think I feel like lunch right now. Maybe Bud would like something."

Bud rested a hand lightly on Tom’s shoulder. "Tom—now don’t take my head off!—but maybe you should head home early and get some rest. In fact, I’ll drive you."

His friend nodded, red-faced. "Thanks." Tom apologized again to Chow, who brushed it off with a worried smile that concealed his deeper concern for Tom.

On the way to the Swift family residence at the edge of Shopton, Tom leaned back in Bud’s convertible with his eyes closed. He didn’t seem to want to talk, and Bud decided to leave him alone for the time being. But as he pulled into the long, curving driveway, the young pilot said with studied casualness, "Say, since you’re going to need a lift to the plant tomorrow anyway, how about if I spend the night—if your mother won’t mind another set of choppers for dinner!"

"She never minds," Tom responded without emotion. "Are you keeping an eye on me, Bud?"

"No, no!" exclaimed the other hastily. "I just—"

"Never mind. Maybe I
need
someone to keep me safe."

That sure doesn’t sound like you, Tom Swift!
Bud thought. He regretted his promise to keep the morning’s drama a secret from Tom’s father.

After greeting his mother, Tom headed upstairs to his bedroom, kicked off his shoes, and promptly fell asleep on his bed while Bud chatted with Mrs. Swift, who always called Bud her "other son." When Tom came down for dinner hours later, he seemed refreshed and more his normal self. The meal was joined by Tom’s sister Sandy, who brought a vivacious spirit to the table, and, halfway through, by Tom’s distinguished father Damon Swift.

"Don’t worry too much about the solar battery problem," Mr. Swift advised his son. "I’m sure the solution will fall into place. Right now the space station project seems to be capturing quite a bit of public interest. I had an inquiry today from Jeb Soberstein at Consolidated Broadcasting."

"I remember him," Tom commented.

"Of course he and his people are interested in using your outpost in space in connection with their subscriber-TV service."

"Oh, right," Bud said between hearty mouthfuls. "SpaceLine TV—digital programming
‘direct from outer space to your door’
."

"I’ve watched it over at Bashi’s," remarked Sandy, referring to Bashalli Prandit, who had become a close friend of the family. "The picture is nice and clear, but those programs!—old TV shows and movies from twenty years ago, when what’s-his-name still had all his hair! And it’s
awfully
expensive."

Mr. Swift chuckled. "Well, Soberstein and I didn’t talk about issues like that. I’m not sure he even watches his own programs!"

Later, at twilight, Tom sat at the polished mahogany desk in the den while Bud played with Featherbee, Sandy’s trained cockatiel.

Tom looked up from his sketches and figures. "Say, Bud?"

"Hmm?"

"Why do you suppose Mom kept asking me if I felt all right?

Bud looked up in surprise, not sure how to answer. "Well—she’s not used to seeing you home in the middle of the day."

Tom nodded thoughtfully. "No, I suppose not. But I just got a little tired at Enterprises. I guess I must not’ve slept too well last night."

Bud let Featherbee walk down his arm to the back of the comfortable armchair he was sitting in. The dark-haired youth regarded Tom with a curious expression. "Is that what you told her?"

"What do you mean?" returned Tom with raised eyebrows. "That’s why I was tired, pal—remember? Gosh, flyboy, you’re the one who drove me home!"

Puzzled and alarmed, Bud was composing a cautious reply when Sandy suddenly burst into the room. "Tom!" she cried.

"What’s wrong?"

"I—I think—someone’s watching the house from up in the big elm tree!"

Bud jumped to his feet. "In the tree?"

"The one across the road!"

Tom also stood. "What did you see? What did he look like?"

Sandy paced back and forth, agitated. "I was looking at the sunset and I saw something move behind the branches. I thought it was that stray cat, but—it was
creepy!
The light was shining on this face, and it was like—"

"Calm down!" Tom demanded.
"What
was it like?"

"Tom,
it was like the face of a gorilla!"
As the boys listened with open-mouthed amazement, Sandy described a face with a massive, heavy jaw and a brow protruding far over his small beady eyes. "And his hair was all bushy and thick all around, like some kind of animal."

"Maybe it
was
an animal," suggested Bud.

"No!" Sandy insisted. "He was wearing a jacket or something. I could see the collar. And he was as big as a full-sized man—a gorilla man!"

The three looked at one another in astonished silence for a moment. Suddenly Bud’s eyes widened.

"Everybody!—Hit the floor!
Now!"

TOM AND SANDY responded to the authority in Bud’s voice by dropping down onto the den’s thick carpet and lying prone next to Bud.

"Bud, what’s—?" But Bud shushed Tom and pointed. Tom twisted his head and looked out into the darkening evening through the large window, divided into a number of small panes by a decorative lattice. "I don’t see anything," the young inventor protested.

"Not the sky!" Bud hissed. "The
window!"

Then Tom saw what Bud was indicating, and Sandy gave a little shriek of dismay. One of the panes was pierced by a small, neat hole—a bullethole!

Other than a door to the side yard in the wall next to the window, there was only a single exit from the den, a door that led into the windowless library. The three crawled toward this door, Bud taking the lead. Stretching out a muscular arm he pushed the door open with his fingertips, just wide enough for them to squeeze through. They were fearfully aware at every instant that this portion of the floor was probably visible from the tree where Sandy had spotted the mysterious Gorilla Man.

"Okay,
go!"
Bud cried. Crouching to their knees he three of them scrambled into the library, Bud slamming the door shut behind him.

"He can’t see us in here," said Sandy with a quavering voice, rising to her feet. "But what about Mother and Daddy?"

In response Tom picked up a telephone, which also functioned as an in-home intercom. He punched-in the kitchen extension and his mother answered. After explaining the situation and urging his parents to seek safety in a central room not exposed to the exterior, Tom called the Shopton police.

"I’ll send a car immediately!" promised Lt. Madison.

No more shots were fired, and three officers, in bulletproof body armor, arrived in minutes. They examined the elm tree and made a careful circuit of the grounds and the nearby road.

"No sign of anything," said one of the young men, whose name was Greg Norcall. "Possibly some scuffing on the tree trunk, though. Let’s see if we can bag that bullet."

Joined now by Mr. and Mrs. Swift, the officers measured the bullethole and scrutinized the floor and walls of the den. "I don’t get this," muttered one young officer. "Are you sure that hole hasn’t been there for some time?"

"I’m
quite
sure," insisted Mrs. Swift. "It’s not the sort of thing one could easily overlook."

"No, that’s true," admitted officer Norcall. "What we’re looking for is a high-powered ‘penetrator’ bullet, which is why it passed cleanly through the glass without shattering it. And your Gorilla must have used a silencer. Which leaves us with:
where’s the bullet?"

"Not even a mark on the wall, or a rip in the carpet," noted the third officer.

"It’s weird," Bud commented.

"Could the bullet have passed right through the den and out through the door?" asked Sandy.

Norcall examined the door to the library. "Not a nick on it. Was this door open, though?"

"It was shut," Bud explained. "I had to push it open so we could get out."

Tom suddenly interrupted. "Wait, Bud—I don’t think it
could
have been completely shut!"