Tom Swift and His Polar-Ray Dynasphere (15 page)

News spread quickly, and by the middle of the next morning it seemed all Chullagar was in a state of excitement, crowding the streets, watching the skies for the first sign of Tom’s oddly-shaped craft. The Enterprises party, joined by Their Majesties and the two princes, waited on one of the terraces of the palace of Moc’hogh’ypvu.

"And you are sure," Queen Aju said to Tom, "that this flying vessel will be able to land
here
—at the palace?"

"Yes, Your Majesty. The
Dyna Ranger
is really rather small, and she can land vertically like a helicopter. No runway is required. The palace courtyard is more than large enough. You’ll see."

Gen. Utrong’j spoke up. "And also, there is the advantage of greater security. Within the palace walls, the vessel will be well protected."

"Yeah," Bud added in a wry whisper to Tom. "But only from
out
siders!"

Tom had kept in constant touch with Hank and Neil by means of his PER unit. He presently announced that the
Dyna Ranger
, descending from its half-orbit, had entered Vishnapurian airspace. "Wh-what if some o’ the jet pilots haven’t got the word?" fretted Chow. "They could shoot at ’er with them little missiles they carry!"

"But you forget Tom’s polar-ray dynasphere," reproved Prince Vusungira with a smile. "Our defensive weapons would surely prove no match for Tom Swift’s technology."

"All air defense units have been ordered to stand down," snapped the humorless Gen. Utrong’j. "I have seen to it myself, naturally."

Suddenly cries of "
Yi! Sa q’kon!
"—"Look! She comes!"—began to float up from the city.

Bashalli pointed. "I can see her!" Everyone on the terrace, except the King and Queen, rose to their feet as a crystal-tipped speck appeared in the southern skies. In less than a minute the U-shaped vehicle was settling down in the courtyard on its extensible landing struts.

"No problem with the horizon-scan repelatrons," Tom murmured. Bud clapped him on the back.

Disembarking, Hank and Neil confirmed that the flight from Shopton had been uneventful. "And we’ve brought you a machine that’s all checked out and anxious to go," Hank pronounced. He turned to Bud. "I hope you don’t mind my riding shotgun with Tom on this mission, Bud."

The youth shrugged, but smiled. "I understand. It’s a test flight, and you’ll be doing delicate work—it’s like surgery. I’ll leave the operating room to the pros."

There was no reason for delay. With a wave, Tom and Hank entered the
Dyna
and climbed the interior ladder up to the pilot dome. After a final check of the instruments, the young inventor activated the side-angled repelatrons and the craft rose smoothly like an elevator.

As the Himalayas fell away on all sides, Tom studied the latest positioning data from the Hubble. "She’s over Malaysia, as expected," he noted. He altered course, ascending steeply.

Hank Sterling worked the dynasphere controls. "Getting her warmed up," he said. "Readings all nom, boss. As I told you, we had to change the formulation on― "

He broke off as both astronauts shouted with shock, covering their eyes.
A blinding flare of blue-white light engulfed the viewdome!

The flare disappeared almost instantly, but Tom and Hank were dazzled. "I—I can’t read the instruments," the engineer gasped.

"We’re under attack!" grated Tom Swift. "It’s the space-lightning!"

Even as the purple started to fall away from his vision, the flash attack came again!

"Holy Mack," Hank exclaimed, "they’re going to keep at it until they fry us!"

"And we can’t get clear—
because we can’t see!
"

TOM fumbled at the dimly seen controls ahead of him, controls he had designed but never touched until minutes before. He managed to flip the
Dyna Ranger
onto her side, placing the lower hull between the viewdome and the spot in space where the lightning seemed to be flashing.

The next flash turned the cabin paper-white for an instant, but was far less dazzling to their eyes. "Gettin’ it together now," Hank muttered. "What do we do? We can’t get much speed out of this rig, Tom."

"I know," was the grim reply. "The hull materials will protect us, thank goodness, but the dynasphere could be knocked for a loop just like the GenRev was." He paused. "So let’s let the dynasphere defend herself!"

Under Tom’s direction, Hank manipulated the dynasphere controls as the lightning burst about them, flash upon flash. He swiveled the inner focus ring—there were two now, each capable of independent rotation in any direction—and aimed the dyna-field toward the earth. He then began to re-tune the energy-mode selector.

"The bolts must be passing along streamers of plasma," Tom pronounced, "probably induced by some kind of phased microwave setup. We can take the sizzle out by suppressing the conduction coefficient." Through the rear of the viewdome they could see the crystal sphere starting to glow brightly.

There came one final burst, weak and wavering. Then no more. "Got ’em!" laughed Sterling in triumph.

"No damage," muttered Tom. Then he checked the recorded instrument readings—now that he could see them. "It’s the same as before, Hank. We’re over the region of the mountains that seems to be the danger zone, but we can’t pinpoint the precise source. I’m sure it’s somewhere near where the mule driver was pointing, though."

"Think we can go on to our rendezvous, Tom?"

"Whether we
can
or not—we
will
!"

The
Dyna Ranger
arced away from Vishnapur, gradually shouldering its way into near-Earth space. They cruised eastward. At long last their radar showed a blip hundreds of miles ahead, barely peeping over the bright horizon. "Right where she should be—unless it’s a rogue Kranjovian or Brungarian spy satellite!" joked Hank.

"Or the Black Cobra’s ship. But let’s pretend it really
is
the Hubble, shall we?"

To fully test the dynasphere’s capabilities, Tom drew no closer. Getting a radar fix on the orbiting telescope, he activated a complex prerecorded program, a series of dyna-field adjustments that would culminate in the desired grappling with the atom-thin solar wind. The big globe of crystal was alight with a dancing corona of many colors.

"Got something," Tom murmured in hushed excitement. "Orbit parameters starting to shift..."

The space wind was as weak as it was tenuous, its redirected wafts barely nudging the satellite, which was as big and bulky as a truck. Yet the effect was cumulative. As the minutes passed, it became certain that Tom’s invention was a success. The Hubble had changed orbit and was approaching the
Dyna Ranger
!

"Time to slow her down," Tom noted. He adjusted the repelatrons inside the curve of the
Dyna’s
swaybacked spine. The push gently held back the satellite as the
Dyna’s
gravitex stabilizers anchored the craft in position relative to their established orbit.

The drumshaped fuselage of the space telescope now loomed near. Watching in breathless tension, the pilots carefully maneuvered the their craft, easing off on the dynasphere as flexible gripper-brackets swung up from the sides. Seconds—inches—and the hull rang with the sharp clank of contact. "
Snagged her!
" Tom cried happily.

The rest of the flight was happy anticlimax. They orbited across the Pacific and the U.S., finally easing down in Washington DC on the National Mall—yards in front of the Smithsonian Institution. To surging cheers and endless congratulations, the Hubble was lifted from its cradle by crane. "Don’t drop her, boys," Hank gibed. Turning to Tom, he said, "You know, some day I’ll be visiting the display with my kids, tellin’ ’em what the whole thing was like."

Tom chuckled. "They probably won’t believe you, Hank. Kids are natural skeptics when Dads start in with the history lessons."

The two slept the night on cots at the Swift Enterprises videophone studio in downtown D.C., fending off all requests for interviews. Next day—already nighttime in Asia—they flew back to Vishnapur in the
Dyna Ranger
. Tom had decided that he would take off from the palace courtyard when it was time for the Kronus rescue effort. "The ship might come in handy in another way, too," he mentioned to Bud cryptically as his pal greeted him with his usual enthused congratulations.

"Does it happen to have a demon-catching setting?"

"Workin’ on it, flyboy!"

They wiled away the rest of the too-soon Vishnapur night with DVD’s, late snacks, and occasional naps. Tom spoke by his Private Ear Radio to his parents in Shopton, learning that Agent Martin had turned up no new information on the murder of Benni Susak, or the mysterious Jaisit Radamantha. "Nor has that boy Rakshi provided anything useful," added Mr. Swift.

Morning brought the dignified plaudits of the royals, the General, and Mr. Phudrim. After breakfast Tom and Bud spent some downtime with the other Shoptonians as Hank and Neil MacColter took in the sights of Chullagar in the company of Bashalli’s parents.

The group played an ancient native game called
bakro
with several of the children of the lesser royalty, all of whom lived in the Sacred Palace. The game was a kind of checkers, played upon a tiled floor that served as a room-sized board, its rows of checker-squares spiraling into the center in pinwheel form. The squares were of three colors: red, saffron-yellow, and yorb-blue. The tokens were heavy disks of mahogany that slid easily on the polished floor.

"This here game board gives me a few idees fer a shirt," remarked Chow as he nudged a token along with his high-heeled boot. "Lookee them colors!"

A little princeling tugged at the westerner’s pantleg. "Lord Cow, tell me please, why do you wear the bright blouse and high-heels like a woman of America?" As Chow reddened in embarrassment, the boy added: "We see them in movies, but here only the most enlightened
sufri’ah
would dress in a woman way."

The boys stifled laughter, but Sandy took pity on her grizzled friend. "Dmong, Mr. Winkler is our very best meditator and—sacred guru. He thinks of nothing but food."

Dmong’s eyes grew very round. "Oh! You mean Heeyapa has blessed him! Heeyapa is Lord of all cooked things."

"Feller’s my special favorite," nodded Chow happily. "An’ I jest happen t’know that he wears clothes like this when he’s off duty."

"And also the big hat?"

"Naw, that’s jest t’ pertect my brain from too much enlightenment."

After the game was over, Tom and Bud excused themselves to scout up Harlan Ames, who quickly drew them to a quiet corner. "I’ve made a few inquiries, and last night I confirmed with my own penetrating eyes what I’d been told."

"What was it?" asked Tom.

"Mortlake."

"You mean you saw Mortlake?"

Ames nodded. "I’d been describing him to the servants who speak English, in a neutral way, and several told me they had seen him in the palace on several occasions over the last few days. They said something more, too. And that’s what I saw last night. I saw him having a little moonlight face time in the courtyard with Prince Jahan!"

"
Jahan
!" Bud hissed angrily. "I never did trust that snake-charmer snake! He’s been playing us from the start!"

But Tom put a hand on his pal’s arm. "There could be an innocent explanation, Bud. They might be old friends. It could be that Jahan is the person Mortlake felt he had to pay his respects to, as a courtesy, when he arrived."

"Uh-huh. Over and over. Seems to me a guy can only afford to pay just so much respect, genius boy."

"I’d advise you not to confront him yet," stated Ames quietly. "Give me some time to do a little background checking on the Net. Let’s see if I can find out just who ‘Hugh Mortlake’ is before we set the dogs barking."

Tom nodded. "Makes sense. Besides, I’d rather not get thrown out of the country just yet."

Bud nudged his friend and said to Ames, "Tom’s got some scientific trick up his sleeve."

Returning to the game room, the youths found that Mr. Phudrim had entered. "Ah, now I can tell you all! There is to be a royal dinner tonight, signifying the first of the six days that are the climax of the Festival of Chogyal. Naturally you are all invited. It should be most pleasant and interesting, as His Highness Prince Jahan has himself arranged for entertainment."

Tom smiled noncommittally. "Yes. Pleasant and—interesting."

"And as for this morning," continued Mr. Phudrim, "allow me to suggest that you take in the carnival of the acrobats, one of the Festival’s ceremonial events. It is at the edge of the city."

Sandy and the others were thrilled, but Tom begged off politely. "Thank you, but Bud and I have plans. We’ll be spending a few hours testing some equipment that we brought to Vishnapur aboard the
Sky Queen
."

As the two strolled back to their rooms, Tom said softly, "When word gets back to Jahan, he’ll assume we’re working on that cassette."

Bud gave a skeptical snort. "Come on, pal. I think you and I both know that the guy already has that bogus box of fiction in his hands."

"Maybe. We could know more by the end of this big banquet tonight."

They taxied to the airfield. In one of the lab cubicles of the Flying Lab, Tom took out a flat, shallow, boxlike object, a foot in length, and began to fasten it to his forearm with elastic straps. "What’s that, pal?" asked Bud curiously.

"You mean I never showed you my Spektor? I worked it out right after we got back from Iceland and our sunken jail." The reference was to their recent harrowing experience involving Tom’s subsea aquatomic tracker.

Bud looked it over as his chum held up his arm. "Blood pressure monitor? A box for ties in case of a sudden formal event?"

The young inventor grinned. "It’s basically a super-miniaturized emulating computer. Y’see, flyboy, modern high-tech gadgets usually have two aspects, the mechanical output gizmos that ‘do’ things, and the inner circuitry that tells them exactly
what
to do."

"Sure—chips, disks, printed circuits, that sort of thing."