Tom Swift and His Repelatron Skyway (4 page)

"WE understand the seriousness of this matter, Mr. Ambassador," said Damon Swift.

"We have no doubt that you do," responded the official. He was half-smiling in a polite way, but his tone bespoke diplomatic caution.

It was the morning after Mr. Kwanu’s strange disappearance. Tom and his father had arranged to speak to the Ngombian Ambassador directly, by means of Enterprises’ private television system, the videophone network. Joined by Harlan Ames the two Swifts sat in their office while the Ambassador, Dr. Onamma, spoke to them from the Washington videophone outlet.

Onamma continued. "Your FBI reports that they have no leads thus far. It is the same with your own security apparatus, is it not?"

"That’s right," said Ames. "We instituted, and have now completed, a very thorough search of the plant grounds. No sign of Mr. Kwanu or that briefcase of his. Or anything else."

"Might he not have been kidnapped and taken from the grounds over your perimeter fence?"

Tom shook his head and answered for Ames. "That’s unlikely, and would require some special electronic equipment for everyone involved, victim and kidnappers. We have a radar-type security system here at Enterprises, which we call the Patrolscope. Unless we program-in a specific ‘ignore’ command, anything with a size, shape, and movement suggesting a person sets off a plant-wide alarm."

"But then your own workers― "

"Our regular workforce, executive staff included, all carry special devices that tell the Patrolscope computer to not respond to the reflection-source wearing them," Tom’s father explained. "Visitors are also provided with amulets as they enter at the main gate."

"Yes, I see," nodded the Ambassador thoughtfully. "Ah! Um, um, um! Surely that is why you cannot detect Kwanu—he is made unseeable by this amulet he was given."

"Naturally, sir, that thought occured to us," declared Ames with a trace of professional indignation. "We immediately transmitted a coded signal that deactivated his personal unit. Nothing came up on the scope."

"If he had been attacked and rendered unconscious—they could have put him in a car, even the trunk, and driven him out."

"We’ve had problems along that line," admitted Tom. "We now use special equipment to scan all vehicles automatically as they pass through any of our gates. And the access roads and parking lots are all covered by videocams day and night."

"Then the answer to all this is quite clear," Onamma stated grimly. "Yes. Mr. Kwanu has been sucked by a mysterious unknown force into the fifth dimension! Ah—no, my friends—a witticism."

"I understand you Ngombians are well known for your sense of humor," noted Tom with a rather strained smile.

"Yes," he confirmed. "That is, we Ghiddua are. Our poor little brothers the Ulsusu have no such capacity." He smiled broadly. "Now then. I have been told to ask you if you might send to us, to our Embassy, copies of your security tapes. No doubt your automatic cameras were trained upon all critical areas at the time of the incident. Hmm?"

Ames gave a curt nod. "They show all Mr. Kwanu’s movements out in the open air, from his arrival to his return to the Visitors facility."

"He returned? I was told― "

"When we ran the tapes, we found that he had crossed the grounds back to the Visitors Center building, and we saw him enter it," Tom said. "But he never made it to the front lobby. We’re sure he’s not anywhere in the building, either."

"Quite a bafflement, then. Nevertheless, our own investigatory personnel must examine the relevant tapes. There may be certain clues you would not think to notice. For I must say, my friends, in all branches of our new government—even here in our Embassy—one finds... suspicions. Not all our countrymen are pleased with us, and the ousted regime has its friends. Poor little people, to be so afraid of what is new."

The video confab ended with a promise that Enterprises would send copies of the digitally recorded camera output by way of the videophone system. In turn, Ambassador Onamma promised to acquire a copy of the Burlow report from the home office in Ngombia and provide it to the Swifts for their assessment.

Later in the long morning, the high sun saw Tom and Bud standing on a lawn between two multistory lab buildings next to the Enterprises airfield. They were both looking skyward.

"So that’s your ‘repelaspan’ gimmick, huh, genius boy?" commented Bud skeptically, shading his eyes with his hand.

"You sound a little querulous."

"If that means what I think it does, I am. I see a bunch of equipment and antennas and bracing struts on the top of Design 2, and more of the same facing it on the top of Astronautics. In between, a two-hundred-foot stretch of blue-skied
nothing
!"

"Bothers you, hmm?"

"Makes me a tad curious. Where’s the bridge?"

Tom laughed. "I thought ‘repela’ would be all the clue you’d need, flyboy! My ‘flying bridge’ isn’t made of anything solid—it works by repelatron force." He explained that computer controlled repelatron beams, tightly focused and sweeping back and forth across the gap, would create an invisible "bridge" of repulsion energies that would be powerful enough to lift and safely propel vehicles from one side to the other. "In other words, we transform ordinary cars into temporary flying machines."

"Okay," said the young Californian. "Still, I don’t really get how― "

"Aw now, brand my bridgework," came a gravelly voice behind them, "even
I
get how them repelly-trons kin do a job like that!"

Tom turned. "Hi, Chow! You must’ve used your Texas tracking skills to sneak up on us."

"Naw, jest wearin’ my sneaky boots today. Got soft stuff on th’ bottom—Doc Simpson says it’ll keep my ole feet from painin’ me."

Bud gave a humorous wince and said. "Speaking of pain― "

"Don’t bother t’say it, Buddy Boy. I know all about this here bright-eye shirt o’ mine." Chow Winkler had always had a weakness for gaudy western-style shirts. A close friend to both, utterly devoted to his young boss, the roly-poly older man was Enterprises’ designated chef for the plant’s top executives.

"So what do you think of ‘Tom Swift and His Invisible Flying Bridge’?" needled Bud. "Ready to saddle up and be the first across? It’s
just
a five story drop!"

Tom joined the affectionate joshing. "Don’t encourage him, pal. Chow’s had some trouble before with flying around on repelatron power."

"Say, I remember that!"

The weathered cook reddened. "Wish you’d jest fergit about that time, you two. Nobody told me that flyin’ donkey machine of yours’d get so dang jittery. Speakin’ o’ which—I coulda sworn you said those repellers couldn’t be used so close to the ground, boss."

The young inventor nodded. "They can’t be used to push
against
the ground at close range, not from anything moving, because they can’t adjust rapidly enough to the fine detail in the mixed element configurations. But the repelaspan system is aimed upward at the vehicles, not down. It doesn’t interact with the ground at all."

Turning away from Chow and Bud, Tom now became immersed in the final preparation for this important test. Speaking on his cellphone, he had various plant employees roll several test vehicles into position near the repelaspan "onramps," which hung out into space like mute tongues. The vehicles had been hoisted onto the rooftops earlier in the day by the Workchopper.

The youths failed to notice Chow leaving—or the thoughtful frown on his prairie-furrowed face. "Hmmph!" he grumbled to himself. "guess I shor did make a blame sight o’ myself that other time. Thought I ’as so golly-durn
smart
. Butcha know, Winkler― " A thought struck him in bow-legged mid-stride. "Mebbe it ain’t too late t’hold up Texas honor!"

Presently the unmanned, motorless test vehicles had been rolled into position and the employees had left the roofs. They quickly joined Tom and Bud on the ground, curious to watch the outcome of the test.

Sirens on each of the mechanisms blared out once, twice. "System activated!" announced the young scientist-inventor. "Now the computer will tune-in on the first of the cars, and the beam setup will start to― "

"
Hey, look!
" one of the men cried out, pointing. "Who’s that? What’s he doing up there?"

A figure had appeared against the bright sky, standing on one of the ramps, which were stubby but fairly broad.

"Good night!" Bud chortled in amused surprise. "Chow! Guess the old timer’s gonna be the first across after all!" He chuckled.

But Tom cut him off with a sharp glance. "Knock it off!—
he’ll kill himself!
"

"KILL HIMSELF!" repeated one of the watchers in amazement.

Bud was shocked. "Huh? Whatta you mean?

"I mean the repelatrons are tuned to the metal in the car frames,
not to human bodies!
"

Bud Barclay understood instantly and turned white. "Oh man, he’ll fall right through!"

The crowd began to yell frantically and wave their arms. Looking downward, Chow gave a jaunty wave back at them and began a slow walk forward toward the end of the ramp.

"
Chow, don’t!
" Tom shouted at the top of his lungs. "
Stop!
" But all the overlapping voices of the crowd buried the warning in a cacophony of sound.

The heavyset cook reached the end of the ramp, gave a big gulp almost visible from five stories distant, and raised his foot. The watchers gasped and shrieked!—as a pair of strong arms clamped themselves to Chow’s wide beltline and yanked him backwards, forcefully pulling him off the ramp and onto the rooftop.

The crowd cheered, no one more wildly than Bud. Tom just rubbed the cold sweat off his brow with a trembling hand.

In moments Chow made a sheepish appearance at ground level, followed by Enterprises’ chief engineer, youthful Hank Sterling—Chow’s rescuer.

"S-sorry, boss. Guess I—kinda― "

"Uh-huh." Tom’s look was stern and nearly all frown.

"Good thing ol’ Hank here was lookin’ out the winder and sawr― "

"Mm-hmm."

"I s’pose I mebbe oughta jest stay spang on the ground from now on."

"
Mebbe
so."

"Say now! Time t’start on lunch!" Chow beat a hasty retreat toward his kitchen.

Tom didn’t relent until his friend was out of sight. Then he shook Hank’s hand warmly. "No thanks necessary, boss," stated Hank with a smile. "I mean, hey, I want lunch just as much as any man here!"

The repelaspan test resumed. One by one, the vehicles, all of different size and shape, floated through space from one building to another as Tom monitored a telemetry feed from the twin beam devices.

Finally he shut the system down. "Looks like it panned out fine!" Bud exclaimed, clapping his pal on the back.

Tom nodded in agreement, but his expression was thoughtful. "It works, all right, and in a disaster—a flood, an earthquake, maybe a fire in a highrise building—it could be a lifesaver, getting emergency vehicles or rescue equipment to where they’re needed when conventional aircraft would be too slow or cumbersome, or evacuating people in cars."

"So?"

"So my brain’s churning on the Ngombia project. The repelaspan isn’t the answer."

"Why not, Tom?" challenged Hank. "I can envision a series of repelatron relay stations, passing cars along from one side of that jungle to the other."

"The system is just too restrictive," his young employer explained. "Too
clunky
, I guess you could say. Notice how slow those test cars were moving? It’s a limitation built into the technology itself, due to the constant, complex adjustments the computers have to make, and the inherent lag effect in the antenna-radiators. I don’t think a highway in the sky with a five-miles-per-hour speed limit would have much appeal to the Ngombians."

"Well, you know—back in San Francisco, five MPH would be considered quite an achievement during rush hour," Bud put in. The joke made Tom chuckle, but Bud knew the problem would eat away at his friend’s active scientific mind.
Tom’s gonna do a lot of dreaming tonight
, he thought wryly,
whether he wants to or not!

The dreaming began early. Tom went to his design lab, and a pair of hours disappeared in the fog of concentration. He was interrupted by the clumping of cowboy boots in the corridor. Chow Winkler wheeled in a lunch tray on a cart. A big covered tureen was the centerpiece.

"Soup’s on, boss!" came his foghorn voice. It seemed to Tom that the foghorn was a bit higher in pitch than usual.

"I’m sure ready for it, pardner." Looking up, Tom noticed that despite the "bright-eye" patterned shirt which Chow was sporting—it was a green day, apparently—the cook seemed anything
but
bright-eyed. "Anything wrong, old-timer?"

"Jest thinkin’ about them queer Africa goin’s on around here," Chow confided. He didn’t quite meet his young boss’s gaze.

"Chow, if you’re worried I’m still upset about that stunt― "

"Oh no, naw, all over’n done with. Er, ain’t it?—But brand my skillet, Tom, I
am
plumb worried about
sumpin
’! What’s behind all them devil-masks ’n people jest disappearin’ and whatnotcha-may-callit?"

"Wish I knew," Tom said. "Whoever’s responsible, he’s bound to trip himself up sooner or later, and then the police or the FBI will take care of him."

"Sure hope you’re right." Chow looked relieved as he went on, "I know you’re blame busy thinkin’, boss, but I didn’t want you sendin’ out fer cold sandwiches. So I brought you over some real Texas-style mulligan stew fer some brain nourishment." As he lifted the cover from the tureen and dipped in the ladle, he continued: "Jest wait’ll you― "

Chow’s voice suddenly trailed off in an eerie screech.

"Chow! What’s wrong?" Tom asked, jumping up. A strange look seemed to be fighting to rise through the cook’s broad face.

"Th-there in the pot, boss!" Chow quavered. "T-t-take a look yourself!"

Tom peered into the stewpot and gasped. Resting in the cup of the metal ladle, in place of the expected steaming mulligan, lay a small figure! It was molded in the shape of a cowboy, with an enormous paunch and ten-gallon hat. The figure was stuck full of pins!