Tom Swift and His Polar-Ray Dynasphere (12 page)

Tom grinned. "It just
might
be that Prince Jahan had more than politeness in mind when he invited us to visit for the festival, sir."

The man’s eyes twinkled. "It is surely not impossible." He then turned to Harlan Ames. "And when you are pleased to do so, Mr. Ames, I shall be happy to arrange for you to meet with our minister of police and security. All these peculiar events, in Pakistan, in America, and now in India!—most embarrassing and worrisome."

"I’ll agree to ‘worrisome,’" replied the lean-faced security man with barely polite terseness.

The minister’s assistants ushered Ames and Prince Vusungira off to a waiting limousine, but asked Tom and Bud to remain behind. "We have provided a special honor for you."

They rounded the airfield building, and Tom and Bud yelped in amazement. Two huge elephants awaited them—living limousines!

From the gilded howdah atop the lead elephant, three figures waved down at the youths. "Sandy!" Tom cried. "Bashalli!"

"And don’t forget
me
," laughed Prince Jahan. "I am your driver!"

"It is the wish of His Sacred Highness King Glaudiunda that you ride to the palace aboard the ceremonial elephants," declared Phudrim. "I suspect you will find it rather pleasant."

"We’re honored," Tom replied, "and very pleased to accept."

"Now all we have to do is figure out how to get on board!" gibed Bud.

Special ladders of jointed bamboo provided the solution. Tom rode with Sandy and Bash in Jahan’s howdah, Bud and Phudrim behind them.

"Isn’t all this just
incredible
, Tomonomo?" bubbled Sandy. "Ever since we arrived here, Jah has shown us one thing after another."

Tom repeated mentally:
Jah
! "We’ve had a few adventures too, sis."

"So we have been told," commented Bashalli dryly. "Not to anyone’s surprise."

The elephant train lumbered up the central boulevard of the ancient city. The streets were noisy as mountaineers and peasants poured into Chullagar for the festival. Heavily loaded yaks plodded along, jostled by mule caravans which were driven by boisterous fur-hatted Tibetans. The men wore turquoise and coral earrings and their animals were decorated with red pompoms of yak hair.

Prayer flags were draped across the fronts of buildings, and many of the whitewashed brick houses were being repainted pink, yellow, or blue in honor of the Feast of Chogyal. As the carriage passed, there were shouts of "
Jai kumar
Jahan!— Long live Prince Jahan!"

"Sounds like you’re pretty popular, Jahan," observed Tom quietly.

The prince merely shrugged, but Sandy enthused, "The common people just love him! I think everyone wishes
he
were King now, instead of― "

"Please don’t allow yourselves to be misled," interrupted Jahan. "We of the royal blood are all well loved, and my uncle and his son are respected by their subjects."

His curiosity feeding an urge toward boldness, the young inventor asked, "And your mother? Is there any feeling of resentment toward her remarriage?" Sandy nudged him sharply with her elbow.

The prince paused for a long moment. "To be frank, my friend—perhaps a bit. What is permitted by ancient custom can be nevertheless rather... I shall use the word
surprising
."

Tom discerned he was speaking of himself as much as the populace. "I understand, Your Highness."

The boulevard was lined with a single row of modern buildings, but it proved to be something of a false front. It became apparent that most of the royal city consisted of small wooden structures. Though brightly painted and bedecked with silk banners, most were little more than huts. "Our prosperity lies in the future," said the prince. "The near future, I would hope."

The Sacred Palace was at the far end of Chullagar, on a flattened rise that was like a doorstep to one of the country’s great presiding mountains, capped with snow. It was more like a miniature city than a building, a city of gilded walls and exotic, curvaceous minarets—yet also uniformed soldiers with modern machine guns. The elephants passed beneath a pentagonal arch decorated with jewels and ceremonial torches, then on into a central courtyard as big as a park, the various wings of the compound enclosing it on all sides. Walkways of colored pebbles wound between low trees, their contours forming what Jahan explained were unceasing prayers in the ancient language of Vishnapur. "We only use the traditional Vish’u’u language, the language of the lamaseries, for ritual observances," explained Jahan. "Our daily language is derived from many Tibetan dialects, and also elements of Hindi and Burmese, even a bit of Chinese."

"And English?" asked Bud.

"Of course. We have learned to say
deeveedee, essyoovee
, and
sah-ell-fhon
."

As they arrived at the entrance to the guest wing and climbed down, Prince Jahan quietly asked Tom and Bud to join him for a moment as the others went inside. "Let me show you our fountain."

As they approached the fountain, Tom said, "It’s beautiful. But we’re not here to see this fountain, are we, Your Highness?"

Jahan shook his head, a frown deeply etched. "No, Tom. It is time that I disclose something to you. There is more than one reason why I was glad of the opportunity to invite you to Vishnapur. I was preparing to do so even before the incident involving Miss Prandit."

"I see," said Tom. "We had thought you might have wanted to bring Swift Enterprises into this project of your government, this effort to move your country forward technologically."

"That is surely one part of it," confirmed Jahan, "a motive shared by the King and Crown Prince. Yet I have to admit, it’s not the element that is most on my mind these days. The matter is quite personal—quite painful.

"How shall I say this? You see, Tom, Bud, my father, the late King—he has spoken to me!"

TOM was speechless, but Bud was not. "Got it. You’re saying your Dad’s ghost is restless—
walking the battlements
, they say. Is that right?"

But the prince responded, "No, not his
ghost
—unless you choose to call something very modern a sort of ghost."

"Jahan, are you saying King Gopal
isn’
t deceased? He’s still alive?" asked Tom.

"No, Father is quite gone, his ashes interred. Yet I have received..." He hesitated. "I took you aside to ask you, in confidence, to meet me tonight in my apartment in the Palace—you come as well, Bud, as I know you are Tom’s special comrade. It is best and most efficient if you see with your own eyes how—how the hand of the past still reaches out to the future." The boys agreed immediately, promising to keep the matter confidential. "Thank you. I shall send my aide, Kur, to bring you. It must be late—let us say eleven thirty."

Tom and Bud were guided into the palace wing where royal guests were quartered in elegance. A familiar figure came bustling up to them immediately. "Hey, buckaroos! Welcome to th’ best blame hotel in th’ Himoo-layers!"

The boys bearhugged Chow Winkler. "So how’s the food, pardner?" asked Tom.

The ex-Texan hoisted his bushy brow. "Brand my curry sauce, son, it’s right d’licious when you’ve gulleted it fer a few days. Not s’much the first few times, true enough." He added sheepishly that he had also had the occasional steak. "They don’t have proper french fries, though, jest these here thumb-sized tater slabs in that funny butter o’ theirs."

"Is that butter funnier than this shirt, big guy?" gibed Bud. The colorful chef was more colorful than ever, his billowy Vishnapurian blouse, or
tulpsap
, a pattern of saffron crescents against the distinctive background of yorb-blue.

"Doncha jest love this blue color?—even a fill-a-stein like as you, Buddy Boy!"

Bud laughed. "Can’t deny it! I plan to bring a whole crate of that yorb stuff back with me to Shopton."

After settling in, Tom, Bud, and Ames were given a lengthy tour of the royal palace and its ancient wonders, joined by Sandy and Bashalli for a second pass at it. Their guide was Prince Jahan, who had dialed himself up to full charm. "This palace, Moc’hogh’ypvu, was built in the year 443 of your Christian era by my ancestors. In our history that time is called the
cigmu
, the migration. The royal family were finally compelled to abandon the ancient capital, a holy place."

"I suppose foreign invaders bit off some of your country, the old story," remarked Harlan Ames.

Not answering immediately, Jahan motioned for his audience to sit down on a gaudy-hued crescent sofa some fifteen feet broad. "No, Mr. Ames, it was an invasion by nature herself. The people took it as a sign of disfavor by the gods.

"To tell the tale, Vishnapur was first founded in the valley known as Krei’i Bu—Long Valley—some twenty-six miles from Chullagar at the very foot of Chogyal. How long ago this happened, no one really knows: much of our early history is lost and forgotten. At the low point of the valley was a thriving lake surrounded by the yorb plant. It was our Garden of Eden, you might say, with everything in abundance. The people lived prosperously upon its fish, the spice of yorb, and the fertility of the valley with its many farms. The lake was called The Gift of Chogyal. The ancient palace-temple, Shankaru, stood upon its banks. That, at least, is what the old songs and stories tell us.

"But something happened, perhaps a matter of geology in the Himalayas, or the start of a new cycle of weather."

"Did the lake go dry?" Tom speculated.

"Just the opposite. Its waters began to rise, year by year taking up more of the floor of the valley. The farmlands were flooded out, and the great fields of yorb became marshes. At last Shankaru itself became flooded and uninhabitable, and the capital was moved here. But as I say, these are matters of tradition that have been passed along over the centuries. At that time we Vishnapuri had no real written language."

Tom nodded and said, "The ancient ruins must be a magnificent sight, though. I’d love to see them."

"No can do, Thomas," Bashalli put in. "It’s all underwater now. I also asked, because I hoped to sketch it."

"Maybe we can come back with diversuits on," Bud suggested. "Jahan, Tom’s diversuits have hydrolungs for underwater breathing and all sorts of gimmicks."

"I know of them," replied the Prince. "But perhaps it would be unsafe and certainly very difficult, as many other divers have found. Over time the lake of Krei’i Bu has become choked with the masses of algae which, if exposed to air and sunlight, produce yorb. You can’t see to the end of your arm under the surface due to the murk of floating spores, and the lower portions, including the area in which Shankaru is thought to have stood, are mucked with a dense growth of algae streamers, which are as tough as woven rope. I’ve read how you were able to handle the Sargasso seaweed, Tom, but this is a good deal worse."

"Too bad," Tom pronounced, "and obviously a real loss to Vishnapur. Now I know what one of the engineering students was starting to mention when Prince Vusungira cut him off."

Jahan shrugged. "It’s a sad and hopeless matter, which has become a source of the kind of peasant superstition that King Glaudiunda and my cousin Vusungira find embarrassing. And these days the situation has worsened in a very distressing way."

"Why’s that, Your Highness?" Ames inquired.

"One wonders
why
indeed, Mr. Ames. Over the last decade or so, The Gift of Chogyal has become increasingly poisonous, and the poison is spreading through the ground to the last bits of farmland in the valley. As you’ve guessed, we were particularly glad to have the trainee mission visit your facility, as we were hopeful that they might establish connections there leading to a solution. I suppose our national pride made us somewhat indirect in asking for the assistance of Swift Enterprises. "

"But now you’ve got
Swift
himself!" Sandy declared proudly. "You’ll have the solution in no time, Jah."

Tom smiled but added ruefully, "This is going to be even more of a working vacation than I’d thought! But I’ll be glad to help if I can."

That evening the palace guests, which included Mr. and Mrs. Prandit, ate together on a heated terrace overlooking the courtyard. They were joined by the several Enterprises employees who were staying aboard the
Sky Queen
and some of the palace officials, who apologized for the absence of the two Princes and the King and Queen. "They all are occupied with various duties involving the Festival of Chogyal. But Their Majesties will certainly join you for a State Dinner in a matter of days," Tom was assured by the Minister of State Security, Gen. Utrong’j, with whom Harlan Ames had been meeting. The Shopton youth wondered if whatever "duties" were occupying Prince Jahan had to do with what he would be showing Tom and Bud late in the night.

After the Minister had left, Sandy said airily, "Of course we’ve met His Majesty ever so many times. When you boys meet him, you mustn’t let him scare you. He’s really kindhearted and very gracious."

"For a tyrant," added Bash mischievously. Presently a clump of court ladies, young wives, crossed the courtyard. They wore silken saris, gold bangles, and embroidered lace shawls. Tom saw them darting jealous glances at the two attractive American girls.

Bashalli murmured in dismay, "Those court ladies resent us!"

"I’m afraid you’re right," Sandy agreed, laughing. Suddenly her blue eyes twinkled. "We’ll just have to go ahead with our special—diplomatic mission." Opening her purse and turning to her brother, Sandy handed him the girls’ only can of hairspray. "Please, Mr. Genius, can you whip us up a couple of gallons of this?"

"Sure, I guess so," Tom said, puzzled. "
Gallons
? Why?"

"Maybe the beehive look is making a comeback," Bud suggested dryly.

"There’s no time to explain. Oh, and could you make something to spray it on with?"

"Would a mini paint spraygun do?"

"Wonderful! But please hurry!"

Back in their apartment, Tom and Bud spent some time talking with Shopton over the Private Ear Radio. The young inventor was pleased with the report on the
Dyna Ranger
project he received from Hank Sterling. "Your Dad’s riding herd with a gentle rein, chief, and things are really falling together nicely. You know,
Dyna
may look a little weird, but I think I could get to love her."