Tom Swift and His Outpost in Space (6 page)

"Hey Pard!" came Tom’s weak voice, muffled behind the oxygen mask. "That shirt of yours is gonna knock me right out again!"

Chow glanced down at his typically gaudy western shirt. He did not answer, but there were tears in his eyes.

"Boy, am I glad to see you back on planet earth!" said Bud. "And not all battered up, either."

The young inventor slowly pulled off the mask. "I guess I should learn to expect the unexpected," he said, his throat raw and his voice hoarse. He turned his gaze to his father. "It was the anti-condensation coating on the plastic walls, Dad. The high frequency electromagnetic pulses were causing it to soften and give off some kind of waste gas. That’s why I was able to cling to it like I did!"

"We’ll get it fixed, son," said Damon Swift. "I suspect some sort of inductive resonance is what froze the controls."

Tom’s mother kissed his cheek gently and said, "Don’t you dare think of doing a thing until you’ve been looked over by the doctor. And then I expect to see you home and in bed for the rest of the day!"

"That there’s good advice, boss," added Chow.

Mrs. Swift smiled and remarked, "Charles, it wasn’t advice—it was a direct order!"

Tom returned the smile weakly. "Yes, ma’am!"

With Bud’s help Tom was able to rise and stagger to a chair. "Sorry, Tom," Bud whispered in his pal’s ear. "Guess I should’ve tried to talk you out of it."

"Then you’d be
here,
and I’d be the one helping
you,"
commented the young inventor wryly. "I thought it would be a good way to face my fears—floating in the air, like…"

"Like the other day. So how does it feel to go floating around like a feather?" Bud questioned softly.

"It’s fun, once you get your bearings," was Tom’s reply. "At least until things go
blooey!
With proper training in the zero-G chamber, a well-picked space crew should have no trouble at all learning what to do."

"Then I guess the experiment was worth it," Bud concluded. "Maybe!"

That evening, Tom having announced that he was fully recovered and the Enterprises doctor concurring, Mrs. Swift invited Bud and Bashalli Prandit to join the family for dinner. When the meal was over Tom rose to his feet in front of his chair, rapping on a glass for attention.

"Everyone, I, er—" Nervously he glanced at Bud, who was sitting next to him. Bud gave him a reassuring half-smile and a thumbs-up signal.

"What is it, son?" asked Mr. Swift, puzzled.

Tom took a gulp of water. "It’s just this. I’m kind of nervous and afraid and a little stressed-out—more than a little!—but there’s something I’ve needed to tell you all for a while now. And this is the time!"

"OH MY!" gasped Sandra Swift before Tom could go any further. "Tom, are you—?"

She turned to look at Bashalli, who gave an ironic shake of her head. "Sandra—
get the clue,
as you say here."

"Go on, Tom," his mother said, her voice steady and calm. "You know you have nothing to be afraid of."

Tom proceeded to tell of the near-tragedy of the other day, and of the strange effect it seemed to have had on him. "I know now that I should have told you right away, and not tried to handle it all myself. But I guess I’m a stubborn Swift, and I didn’t want to worry you—and I was afraid I’d be sidelined from the expedition to construct our outpost in space!"

Bashalli nodded in understanding. "And
that
is surely something you could not stand for."

"But the good news is, I seem to be getting better with time," continued Tom. "Even what happened today in the zero-G chamber somehow made me feel stronger."

"If you can handle
that,
big brother, you can handle just about anything!" declared Sandy.

But Damon Swift looked troubled and concerned. "Even if you weren’t my son—just for the sake of Swift Enterprises—I would have a few qualms about your undertaking a space flight in this condition."

"You’re right, Dad, and I won’t expect any favoritism. I’ll train like the rest of the team and undergo whatever evaluation you think necessary."

Bud gave Tom a wink that said,
I’m proud of you, pal!
The discussion then passed on to other subjects.

"I meant to tell you," Mr. Swift said, "Harlan Ames came through, as usual, with the information we needed on those victims of IXOS. The only likely candidate for our shooter is a man named—I’m probably mispronouncing it—Miza Ranooq. He was born in France of an Algerian family, and now lives in Montreal."

"Not far from Shopton," commented Bud.

"Not far at all. He’s enrolled in a special clinic there."

Tom’s mother gave an imperial nod all around. "Please hold your applause, thank you very much!"

"This is the Gorilla who gave Sandy the creepies? Perhaps his mind is affected as well as his body," said Bashalli.

Tom asked, "Did Harlan say whether he had any kind of criminal record?"

"There’s nothing on him in this country," responded Mr. Swift. "Now I have a question for you, Tom. Have you come up with anything I can send over to Soberstein at CBN?"

Tom looked sheepish. "No, Dad. I’m afraid I’ve let myself get distracted. When it
has
crossed my mind—well, I don’t see the solution."

The young inventor briefly explained the problem to the others. "If the problem is that you can’t launch so many rockets at one time, why don’t you just build the station gradually?" Sandy suggested eagerly.

"The International Space Station took years, didn’t it?" Bud remarked.

"Yes, but the design of the space outpost is completely different. Because of the need to keep the structure balanced, we have to attach the modular sections to the hub more-or-less at the same time. And if we just leave the materials hanging in orbit, tiny variations in orbital parameters—even something as slight as the pressure of sunlight—will cause them to spread out over many miles."

"Swift Enterprises must not be allowed to get a reputation for untidiness," said Bashalli. "Nor do you wish to have loose shingles from this space-house falling on someone’s head!"

During the laughter and joking that followed, Tom noticed that his mother was looking at his dinner plate. He had eaten little at dinner. Sandy also noticed this—a major departure from Tom’s usual heroic appetite, which he shared with Bud. Both Anne and Sandy Swift knew the signs of too much concentrated work.

"Don’t you think you’re overdoing a bit, Tom?" Mrs. Swift suggested gently. "If only you’d take a short vacation, I’m sure you’d feel much better—and get on with your work faster, too."

"I’d like to, Momsy, but I just can’t break away," he said.

"But Tom," Sandy spoke up, "a vacation needn’t mean twiddling your thumbs or wasting time!" She rounded the table to drop on a hassock beside his chair. "You could use your vacation to help your space station project."

"Just how would I do that?" her brother inquired. smiling doubtfully.

"By flying to Florida with three wonderful, stimulating young people—who are all in this room!—and lying on a sandy beach absorbing, er—
solar radiation.
It will free up your mind and give you a new perspective."

Tom raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh. And why Florida, in particular?"

"Because it’s going to be snowing here, and that’s where people go. And besides—" Sandy held up a handwritten letter. "We just got an invitation to spend a few days with the Lawsons."

The Lawsons, a retired elderly couple, were longtime friends of the Swift family. They now lived in a large waterfront house on the southwest coast of Florida, at the edge of the Everglades.

"Oh, Tom, please say yes!" Bashalli urged. "We could have so much fun. And truly, I had enough of snow and ice when we all flew up to Alaska."

Tom was greatly tempted by Sandy’s suggestion about combining work and play—and by the thought of having frequent dips in the warm blue waters around the Ten Thousand Islands region of southern Florida. Finally he let himself be persuaded.

"Do you think it’d be all right, Dad?" he asked.

"You seem to come up with some of your best insights away from the office and the lab," answered Damon Swift with a smile. "I suppose I can substitute for my genius offspring for a
few
days!"

The girls cheered, but Bud pretended to object. "Hey, I don’t recall anybody asking me what I think! Let’s see, on the one hand gray skies, snow, slush, and chapped lips; on the other hand sun, sand, ocean breezes, swim trunks…Let me think it over." Sandy grabbed a pillow from the sofa and threw it at him.

Two days later the foursome took off southward in a Swift Construction Company commuter jet, Bud on the stick. Winging their way out of Shopton and gaining altitude, they sighted another of the silver experimental balloons carrying a payload that suggested solar battery development. Describing the prior encounter, Bud was laughingly giving it a wide berth when Tom’s sister cried out, "Look! It happened again!" All eyes turned to see the balloon disintegrate in shreds and the tiny parachute start earthward with its cargo of instruments.

"Oh, brother!" Bud exclaimed. "That one didn’t even make the stratosphere! What do you suppose they’re up to?" The question was addressed to Tom, but the young inventor barely acknowledged it, and Bud did not repeat himself. He knew his friend was gamely struggling with his inner fears and tensions.

In surprisingly little time they were crossing the long green Florida peninsula. Sandy, an excellent pilot trained by Tom and Bud, asked to take over the controls, finally bringing the jetcraft down to a smooth landing at the international airport near the seaside town on Gullivan Bay where the Lawsons lived. The spry, silver-haired couple were there to meet them and drove the young people to their home, which was set back only one hundred yards from the surf. After lunch their hostess smilingly said, "I know you’ll want to be on the beach as much as possible, so go right out there. The water is perfect today."

It was not long before Tom and the others were sprawled in swim suits on the dazzling white sands of the beach, under the shade of a broad striped umbrella.

As Bud rolled himself out into the sun, Bashalli remarked, "Now Bud, surely your tan needs no more perfecting. You already look like your were dipped in mahogany stain!"

"Just think of me as a human solar battery," Bud drawled lazily.

Other vacationers lolled nearby, having escaped the clutches of winter in the north. Though the conversation was light for a time, it finally turned to more serious matters. "Does anyone have even an idea why this Rah—Ran—
the Gorilla
would be spying on us?" Sandy asked Tom.

Answering for Tom, Bud remarked, "Oh, you know, San—what’s a Swift invention without a little intrigue and mystery? Maybe you girls should make one of your lists of suspects."

"I
swear
I’m going to kick sand all over your well-oiled skin, Budworth!" returned Bashalli. "Obviously we are victims of some rival battery company—the ones who are launching those balloons."

"Sure," grinned Tom. "It all adds up. They sent up the first balloon knowing we’d fly close to it to investigate, so that—when it burst—the vibrations would dislodge the glidewing in just such a way that when I went to fix it, I’d be knocked overboard. It’s a plot to make me psychologically unfit to put a rival battery factory in orbit!"

"Naw, Tom," Bud objected. "It’s one of the other TV networks, the ones that compete with CBN. They’re afraid of losing the ratings war, see?. In fact, I’ll bet that guy Soberstein is really an alien clone who—"

"Have we heard enough, Bashi?" asked Sandy.

"Very much enough," replied the young Pakistani.

The two girls, lovely in their swimsuits, scrambled to their feet. "This is
supposed
to be a vacation, so let’s forget all that spaced-out chatter for a while and go for a swim," Sandy demanded. Shouting and laughing, the four young people raced across the sand and plunged into the rolling blue-green surf. All were fine swimmers and a moment later they were cavorting like dolphins.

When they emerged, dripping and refreshed, they lazily strolled back to the spot where they had erected their beach umbrella. Beneath it, Bud had stuck a pop bottle, half full, upright in the sand.

"Oh well, Bud, you’ll have to get more cola," Bashalli remarked. The bottle had been tipped over and most of the cola had dribbled away into the sand.

Bud started to make a joking rejoinder but Tom held up his hand and put a finger to his lips, frowning as he looked down at the sand. In the dampened sand next to the bottle was a deep footprint facing away from the water.

"That’s weird—isn’t it?" said Sandy quietly, glancing right and left up and down the beach. "None of us could have left that footprint!"

The foursome had carried a wicker picnic hamper out with them, to hold their tops and extra towels. Tom now sunk down to his knees, taking care not to obscure the footprint, and began to examine the inside of the hamper. A minute later he shot Bud a glance and slowly withdrew his hand. Between his fingers was a small, round object, no bigger than a quarter, with a wad of adhesive gum stuck to one side.

"What is it?" whispered Bashalli.

"A bug," replied Tom, barely audible. "A listening device. I’m sure of it. And it couldn’t have much of a signal-range."

Bud’s muscles tensed for action as he slowly scanned the nearby shoreline. "Then our enemies are
here—
right here on this beach!"

SANDY CLUTCHED her brother’s arm fearfully. "Oh, Tom," she murmured. "I shouldn’t have talked you into coming down here after all! Maybe we should fly back to Shopton right away."

Tom patted Sandy’s hand reassuringly. "And let those
creepies
scare us out of our vacation? Not on your life, Sis." He gave some whispered instructions to the others and pulled out his wallet, which he had stuffed in his shoe in the hamper. From the wallet he withdrew a tiny extendable screwdriver, with which he forced open the back of the bugging device, exposing its microcircuitry. "Ready?"