Tom Swift and His Repelatron Skyway (10 page)

"Name is Yuta," he told Tom. "I am your guide. The boats are ready."

"Good!" Tom slapped palms with the guide, and introduced himself and the others: Bud, Chow, Akomo, and Hank. "We’ll be ready to leave as soon as the boats are loaded."

"Yes, good," nodded the man. "Two long boats, nice big. Heavy load, eh-yo, no bad." Bud stifled a gibe—Yuta was looking at Chow.

The party would paddle upriver into the jungle for some miles, then continue on foot where the river melded into shallow marshland. Tom’s crewmen removed the necessary supplies from the Flying Lab, as some local boys, wide-eyed before the mammoth
Sky Queen
, pitched in to help the oarsmen carry them to the riverbank and load them aboard two long
pirogues
. "Biggest dugout canoes I’ve ever seen," Bud remarked.

Now and then Tom heard a phrase barked out among the Ulsusu, usually directed at some clumsiness on the part of the boys. He asked Akomo what it meant.

"
Ei ghidd u wa k’qni?
It is an insult, what an Ulsusu says to another Ulsusu when he acts poorly," shrugged the boy. "It means, ‘
oh, that is just so Ghiddua
’. But they are fools, the Ulsusu."

Soon the supplies and equipment were safely stowed aboard the pirogues. Tom exchanged final handshakes with Bennings and Ted Spring.

"Take care, T-man," Ted warned.

"Right. You do the same," Tom replied. "We should be back in a few days. Meantime, keep the PER tuned for the latest ‘
Breaking News from The V’moda’
." The Private Ear Radio allowed communication between paired units across any distance, with no possibility of interference or eavesdropping.

A few minutes later they took their places in the long canoes—Tom and Bud in the lead boat with Akomo; Chow and Hank in the other. With shouted farewells, the excited young Imbolus helped the men shove off into midstream.

Paddles dipped and flashed as the pirogues shot forward through the muddy green water. Here at its eastern extreme, the river was more like a sinuous lake, barely in motion. After only a couple turns in the fjord-like river valley, Imbolu had disappeared as if it had never existed. Clumps of oil palms, mangroves, and bamboo fringed the banks. The oarsmen, muscles rippling in the hot sunshine, soon glistened with perspiration.

It took hours to clear the pass through the cradling mountains. But at last the river wound its way into the flat rift valley with its denser vegetation. Ahead loomed the Ngombian rain forest—green, somber, and mysterious. The V’moda!

"Makes you wonder what’s waiting for us in there," Bud murmured. He couldn’t help thinking of Tom’s ivory statue.

Both boys started as an enormous crocodile scuttled into the water from a nearby sand bar.

"Whew! I didn’t even see him till he moved!" Bud gulped.

As the canoes penetrated into the forest, the trees became larger and taller, thrusting two hundred feet and more into the air. The arching canopy shrouded the jungle in greenish gloom.

Many of the trees were buttressed with roots spreading outward, high above the ground. Flowering lianas and vines hung in loops and festoons from the branches. Below was a dense tangle of head-high vegetation, much of it with leaves of reddish and purplish hues.

"Those plants never get direct sunshine," Hank explained to Chow in the trailing canoe, "so the red-purple colors enable them to benefit from the sunlight that isn’t absorbed by the green leaves higher up."

Chow grunted. "I may turn red-purple myself afore I get out o’ this here jungle steam bath!" he muttered, mopping his brow.

In the lead canoe Bud expressed a similar sentiment. "When’s a weather-making machine gonna fall out of that deep-set brow of yours, pal?"

Tom laughed. "Matter of fact, there
is
a little idea I’ve been working on back home. I’m afraid it won’t control the weather, but it’ll make conditions more pleasant. Think of it as a sort of personal heat-shield."

"Man oh man, I could
use
it!"

Now and then the long hours were interrupted by rest periods, when Tom took some samples of water, mud, and plantlife. But as of yet the instruments revealed no sign of radioactivity or Niobium.

As they drew near to the central swamp, reeds and water-weed began to slow the strokes of the paddlers. At last the river made a sharp bend, becoming little more than a swampy marsh. "No more go in boats," declared Yuta. "Now from here, we walk and carry for you."

"Ulsusus do carrying very well," pronounced Akomo. "It is their specialty, sir-sir."

The canoes were anchored to long stakes and unloaded onto a mud-bar, temporarily dry. Tom noticed Akomo standing in silence, looking off into the haze of swamp. "The Wangurus are there, sir-sir," he said to Tom. "I know they are watching. I am never wrong! Hear the birds?"

Tom shrugged. "No."

"Exactly! Birds make no noise when Wangurus are watching."

After a brief lunch the porters shouldered their loads. Leaving one armed man behind with the dugouts, the party struck south-westward into the forested swampland, cutting across toward a more open stretch of the central river a few miles distant. They had not only the crude sketch from the Burlow survey to guide them, but pictures taken during their overflight keyed to GPS icons.

Tom studied the terrain with growing respect. "Now we know what those guys were up against."

"This? Sir-sir, this is not-nothing!" retorted Akomo. "Those men should have had me to guide them."

A short distance later the trekkers found their way blocked by an oozing black column of driver ants swarming across the trail.

"Nothing turns them aside but fire," Yuta explained to Tom. "Sometimes not even fire. It is better we wait, mister."

Squatting, Chow removed his Stetson hat and fanned his dripping face. "Plumb disgustin’ I call it," he snorted, "when a self-respectin’ cowhand has to wait fer a herd o’ trail-drivin’ ants!"

"How very true! Um, um, um!" Akomo put in. "Ever been stung by one?"

"If I ain’t, I reckon it’s the only critter what
hasn’t
sampled my hide. What’s it feel like?"

"Like a red-hot needle—it won’t come out, no-not," replied the boy with enthusiasm. "You can yank off the body and head, go try, but the ant’s jaws stay locked on. The natives use them for stitching up wounds, time past."

"Eea-yah, even elephants have fear, these ants," Yuta added. "I have seen, stripping
n’dakya
, leopard, all to his bones down."

Chow winced eloquently. "Wa-aal now, mebbe it won’t hurt to sit a spell, at that," he said. "Er—a ways back."

More than two hours were lost before the march resumed. At last the equatorial twilight closed in and Yuta called a halt. Soon the tents had been pitched and campfires were blazing as the jungle cries and twitterings gave way to the steady drone of crickets.

"Guess the real loudmouths have turned in," Bud quipped. "These jungle vine-jumpers sure are sneaky. I haven’t got a good look at one yet, except for a few monkeys. And I only saw
them
because they were lookin’ at
me
!"

Just then something fell out of a tree and hit him on the head.

"Ouch!"

Tom pounced on the object. It looked like an oversized pine cone as he held it up to the firelight. "You spoke too soon, Bud," he said.

"What in tarnation
is
that, boss?" Chow asked.

"A long-tailed pangolin—a real prize!"

The anteater was curled in a tight ball, with its head completely hidden under the tail. It was covered with horny, overlapping scales.

"There must be something about your head that attracts queer animals," Tom teased his pal.

"Guess I’d better surf the Net for a new one!" Bud grinned.

"In shopping, I can find you much of a discount," advised Akomo. "For anything. Put me on this Net—I will be wonderful."

The evening meal had been eaten before the pangolin consented to uncurl itself. The little creature had a pointed snout, a long tail, and a scaleless white underbody. After some coaxing by Chow, it began to lap up a mixture of chopped meat and raw egg with its wormlike tongue that flicked in and out like a bolt of pink lightning.

Watching in amusement, Hank gloated: "Our first zoo specimen!"

Tom added, "Actually, I think we ought to try to bring the little guy back to Shopton. We may be able to learn something about the Niobium compound by studying him."

"He’s all yours!" Bud grumbled. "And if you’re a
she
," he said, addressing the pangolin, "don’t bother to tell me."

That night Tom awoke with a start, his ears ringing with the memory of a fearsome noise. The stillness was shattered again by a series of terrifying howls and barks—ending in a shrill peal of insane laughter.

"Good night! Then I wasn’t just dreaming!"

Bud joined him as he pulled aside the insect netting and stepped out of their tent. Another peal of crazy laughter sent chills coursing down their spines.

"What in the world is it?" Bud murmured in awe. "You don’t suppose—it could be that missing professor—
or maybe what’s left of him?
"

HANK and Chow had joined the two youths, and Akomo appeared from nowhere rubbing his eyes. "You are afraid of that? Do not be afraid, sirs. Be like me. It is only the Son of the Father of Crocodiles."

"Zat right?" Chow muttered faintly. "Wh-what’s he laughin’ at?"

"He is happy to see us. He is always hungry."

"Nothing to fear—only hyenas," Yuta said, sending a chastising frown Akomo’s way. He stirred the campfire. As it blazed up, the Americans saw two eyes glinting from the bush.

The eyes suddenly darted away into the darkness. Chow chuckled in relief. "Brand my nightshirt, jest a big bobcat, hunh. I thought it was Buddy Boy here pullin’ another joke!"

Late the next morning, as the party was trekking onward, one of the bearers drew his companions’ attention with an excited cry. The Americans looked just in time to see a turkeylike bird scuttle off among the underbrush. Its head, Tom had noticed, was crowned with a tuft of white feathers.

"A Congo peacock!" Tom exclaimed.

"
Mbulu
, it is called," Yuta added. "That is what Wanguru call it, so-said."

The young scientist-inventor whirled to face him. "The Wanguru know of it? Yuta—you’ve seen it before?"

The Ulsusu guide shrugged. "Three, four times maybe."

"So what?" Bud asked Tom.

"Flyboy, that bird wasn’t even discovered till recently, and it’s never been recorded outside the Congo! If
that
exists here in the Ngombian jungle, think of the other finds that may be waiting for us!"

"I’m thinkin’!" Chow put in nervously.

Tom enthused, "I’ve got to try for some photos! The bearers can use a rest. Bud—Yuta—come on." Turning to Hank and Chow, he added. "We won’t be gone long. Couple hours."

As they disappeared into the underbrush, the rest of the party deposited their loads and prepared to wait.

Cameras at ready, Tom and Bud plunged anxiously into the bush. Yuta quickly took the lead. He moved quickly and confidently, as if sensing the path of the trotting mbulu. Now and then they caught a glimpse of the bird and heard his odd gobble.

Ten minutes after leaving the safari, Yuta suddenly stiffened like an animal at bay.

The guide’s reaction was noticed at once by Tom and Bud. As they followed his gaze, their scalps bristled. A group of dark-skinned men had suddenly emerged from among the trees—oversized spears poised menacingly at the three trackers!

Bud Barclay’s gray eyes bulged at sight of the spearmen. Tom could almost hear his own heart beating in the deathly stillness that followed.

The tribesmen were tall, most of their height coming from their very long legs. Clad only in woven loincloths, they carried crude iron swords in sheaths slung from their left shoulders. Arms and necks were looped with glass beads, and their faces were scarred with tribal tattoos. "Jetz!" Bud breathed. "Look at their arms!" The warriors’ arms, streaked with body-paint, bulged with long sinewy muscles that hinted at fearsome power.

Silently they began closing in. "Make no move!" Yuta whispered nervously.

"Who are they?" Tom asked.

"Wanguru tribesmen—they live in the forest, edge of swamp. I will try to speak to them. Most know Ulsusu, some also Dutch, English."

By now the natives were almost within spear-thrust of Tom and his two companions.

"
0 ku!
" Yuta greeted them.

The Wangurus made no response, their faces grimly impassive. Tom noticed that most of them were staring at him. At last one of the tribesmen spoke—in a commanding voice: "
Wa!
"

"He say to come with them," Yuta translated.

"Where?" Tom said.
Should they cut and run, and try to elude the men and their spears?

Yuta repeated Tom’s question in the Ulsusu dialect. The Wanguru replied with curt dignity.

"They wish us to come to their village," Yuta explained. "My own think, it would be best if we go."

"Ohhh-kay! We’re in no position to argue," Bud agreed. But his powerful fists were clenched for action!

The spearmen led the trio off through the underbrush. After a while they emerged onto a beaten trail. A few minutes later the Wanguru village came into view—a cluster of thatch-roofed huts in a clearing that extended off for some distance. From somewhere out of sight a wood tom-tom began to sound, growing louder as they approached.

"The drummer is spreading news of us through the forest," Yuta whispered.

"Jungle telegraph," Tom muttered to Bud.

Men, women, and children swarmed out to watch as they entered the village. Suddenly Bud nudged Tom and pointed to one of the huts.

A human skull was mounted over the doorway! Other huts displayed the same grisly trophies.

"For each family, the father’s father. To honor and remember in dreams," Yuta explained calmly.

The procession halted in the center of the village. The spearman platoon stood at attention.

A man emerged from one of the huts. He was clad in a wrap-around garment of greasy calico, and his face was cold and forbidding. His chin bore a tuft of grayish whiskers, and a small leather pouch dangled at his neck. The spearmen drew aside as he walked toward their three captives.