Tom Swift and the Asteroid Pirates (4 page)

As the ambulance men began to apply an oxygen mask to Tsu, his eyes flickered open weakly and focused on the young inventor. They were wide, panicked, desperate. He choked out something beneath the mask.

Asking the ambulance attendants to stand back for a moment, Tom approached the collapsible stretcher and bent down. "We’re taking you to a safe hospital, Mr. Tsu," he said gently. "Don’t be afraid. Did you want to tell me something?"

The man made a movement with his eyes, and Tom pulled back the oxygen mask a crack. As if summoning all his remaining strength, Tsu muttered something—then collapsed back, eyes closed.

"Let’s get going!" ordered the ambulance driver.

As the vehicle sped away, Bud asked: "What did he say?"

"Just a sec." Tom made a note in the notebook he carried. "I’m writing down how it sounded. I think it was Chinese."

Phil Radnor rejoined Tom and Bud, reporting that he hadn’t found any clues in the brush near the roadway. "Let’s go talk to Jilly," Rad suggested.

In the plant switchboard room, Radnor asked Jilly for details of the warning call. "Oh, Mr. Radnor, I just don’t have much information. He didn’t identify himself. He just said to warn Tom Swift that someone was on his way ‘now’ to kill him."

"Did you recognize the voice, Jilly?"

"No, not at all," she replied. "And I have a good ear. I’m sure I’ve never heard it before."

"What was the voice like?" Tom asked. "Did he have an accent?"

"Yes, a slight one. I couldn’t tell what kind, though. He spoke well—kind of cultured, a deep voice. An older man, I think."

Bud said: "You must’ve got where the call was coming from, right?"

"No. It was ID-blocked."

Thanking the switchboard operator, Radnor left to return to the security office. Tom motioned Bud away, toward a waiting nanocar. "Where’re we going?" Bud asked.

"Let’s go hunt up Felix Ming."

"I get it. If the words Tsu said are Chinese, he’ll be able to translate." Felix was a Chinese-American aircraft engineer at Enterprises who had previously assisted Tom in a similar situation.

Locating Felix in one of the construction hangars, Tom took out his notebook and attempted to repeat the sounds John Tsu had uttered.

"One more time, please," Felix requested, frowning in concentration. At last he said: "Well—it’s pretty difficult, Tom. There are many distinct dialects of what we, in this country, call ‘Chinese’. To make things worse, it’s an inflected language. The up-and-down tones, giving it that ‘singsong’ quality, modify the meaning."

"Then you don’t have anything?" Tom asked, disappointed.

"I
may
. It doesn’t make much sense. But it’s the only possibility that makes any sense at all."

"Go ahead."

"I think the fellow may have said:
Beware the Black Cobra!
"

Tom and Bud exchanged startled glances. The looks expressed dismay at the sudden recognition of an alarming possibility! "
Beware the Black Cobra
," Tom repeated. "Is that the whole thing?"

"Yes—but ... " The young engineer hesitated as Tom and Bud waited impatiently. "The form is idiomatic. The ‘beware’ isn’t just your garden-variety ‘be careful’. It’s more urgent, like a warning shout. Like what you’d yell out at someone if you saw that a cobra was about to strike!"

AS TOM turned to leave after thanking Felix for his translation, ominous but vital, Bud held back for a moment. He felt a need to break the grim mood. "Say there, Felix, how’s the ol’ romantic life going?" he asked jokingly, referring to a subject of recurrent concern to the Chinese-American.

"Alas, it is in the hands of my honorable ancestors."

"Got a date lined up yet?"

"Are
you
asking me out?"

"No."

"Then no."

As Tom drove the nanocar across the grounds, Bud observed: "Bet you and I are thinking the same thing, Tom."

"He
did
say he was shedding his skin."

It was while developing his spectromarine selector that Tom had first been told of Comrade-General Li Ching, a traitor to his native China who had fled into hiding with a treasure trove of military and technical secrets. Nicknamed "the snakeman," he had made himself the imperious head of an international syndicate of scientific thieves and murderous agents from many countries. It was during Tom’s deadly struggle with the man in the course of his recent exploit with his megascope space prober that he had been sent the cryptic message that this new development seemed to explain. Tom continued: "It hangs together pretty well, don’t you think? Evidently our recovering the stolen stealth drone inspired him to adopt new methods."

"Or at least a new monicker," Bud noted wryly. "And hey!—remember that energy burst you and Hank Sterling detected out in space? When you were trying out the Private Ear gizmo in the Space Kite?"

"I know what you’re getting at, flyboy. Li could have been testing some sort of energy weapon, which he’s now used against the Nestria delivery rocket!"

"Right, from his ship, the
Fanshen
. Sounds like he’s our enemy," agreed Bud. "Tsu may have been a turncoat, and the Chinese guys chasing him must be Li’s cronies."

Tom nodded thoughtfully as he braked in front of the Administration Building. "Bet you’re right, pal. But what about that warning phone call we received? We need more answers, and I think I know how to get them."

Up in the spacious office he shared with his father, Tom activated his computer and accessed his personal journal. The journal was stored on a protected server; yet protected or not, he knew that an ultra-secret U.S. government agency, which Tom had come to call Collections, somehow monitored the connection. One of its agents, "the Taxman," had frequently responded to his inquiries.

After establishing his identity and signaling his desire to contact the agency, he typed: "
A man has been shot by unknown pursuers while trying to warn me of someone called ‘the Black Cobra’
."

The reply appeared on the monitor almost immediately.

OLD NEWS

"
Li Ching?
"

BINGO

"
Is he behind the problem with Nestria?
"

To Tom’s surprise, there was no immediate answer. "Maybe he doesn’t know, for a change." Bud murmured over his pal’s shoulder. "Er, if you heard that, Mr. Taxman, no offense intended!"

At last a message appeared.

NEW YORK CHINATOWN
86 CHATHAM SQUARE
SUITE 313
TRANS-PACIFIC IMPORT COMPANY
FRIDAY 2 PM

"
What about my question?
" Tom typed. "
Does Li Ching have designs on Nestria?
"

CANT DO ALL YOUR WORK FOR YOU
NOT PAID ENOUGH
DOING OUR PART TO KEEP TAXES LOW

The young inventor was annoyed by the response. "
This is no time to play games!
"

DEPENDS ON THE GAME

Tom flicked off the unit with a sharp movement. "I’m not willing to wait any longer, Bud. Cobra or no, I’m taking the
Challenger
up to Little Luna to see what’s going on!"

Bud cheered. "I’m with ya, Skipper!"

Tom made a call to Fearing Island and spoke to Amos Quezada, chief ground controller of space missions. "What’s the latest from space? Any luck yet contacting Nestria?"

"None. The blackout’s as solid as ever."

"Nothing new from Horton at the outpost?"

"Afraid not."

"Well, tell him to keep trying. I’m taking off for the asteroid as soon as I can get to Fearing."

"I can save you some time," Quezada offered. "Hannah Morgensteiff is up in orbit in the
Challenger
right now—your Dad’s survey flight. I could have her dip down above Shopton, and you could have one of your choppers drop you off."

"That’s a great idea. Let’s put it together."

Little more than an hour later, Enterprises pilot Slim Davis soared into the afternoon sky in the
SwiftStorm
, Tom’s wingless ultrasonic cycloplane. His passengers were Tom, Bud, and Enterprises’ chief engineer Hank Sterling, all of them suited-up for space flight.

As the craft’s furiously whirling lift-cylinders carried them vertically into the upper stratosphere, Tom explained his plans to his comrades. "According to Hannah’s radio report, the
Challenger
crew didn’t detect anything dangerous around Nestria. Just the spherical interference zone."

"No orbiting radioactive byproducts from the explosion?" inquired Hank.

"None detectible, thank goodness."

Bud was skeptical. "Fine. But then just what
is
that ‘spherical interference zone’, anyway? Maybe it’s like a tripwire, guys! We cross it and Blackie shoots a missile at us."

Tom smiled half-heartedly. "Can’t rule it out, I guess. But unlike the drone rocket, we have a whole bunch of neat gadgets called
repelatrons
. Anything nosing too close’ll get tossed back into space."

"Well, we had repelatrons in the XAIP, too," Bud persisted. "That explosion fouled them up, remember?"

"We’ve readjusted the telespectrometers to protect them from the EMP effect, now that we understand what happened," explained Hank. "And if you’re worried about that anti-energy powder, the crystal stuff Li shot at us from his ship that time we were headed for the outpost ― "

"—which,
by the way
, knocked out the re-pelatrons! ― " Bud interjected sarcastically.

"—
don’t
worry. Great minds have figured out how to get around the refraction effect," concluded Sterling. Bud snorted.

It was Slim Davis who spoke next. "Got the
Chall
up above on radar, boys. I’ll let the cybertron set us down on the landing deck."

The
SwiftStorm
’s robot brain brought the craft even with the flat vehicular deck that extended like a porch from the front of the huge, multistory spaceship. The cycloplane gently touched the deck and a conveyor-belt system drew it forward into the open portal of the
Challenger
’s hangar-hold, which was then pressurized.

"Best luck, guys," Slim called out as his three passengers disembarked. "Here’s hoping you don’t need it."

"Seems like we
always
need it," said Tom with grim irony.

In minutes the gyroscope-shaped spacecraft was zooming up to the edge of the atmosphere—and on into space, its bank of powerful repulsion-ray generators pointing earthward.

"It won’t be long at constant 1-G," Hannah Morgensteiff, at the control board, said to Tom.

In response the young space pioneer nodded tensely. "I’m going to feel every minute, believe me." He picked up a microphone and intercommed Hank Sterling in the main communications compartment. "Got anything for me, Hank?"

"Not so far, Skipper," was the reply. "But as you say, we just might start to pick up a signal from close range. I’m calling—and keepin’ my ears wide open."

"I know you are. Thanks."

Still tens of thousands of miles remote in space, Nestria was already visible through the
Challenger
’s big rectangular viewports, a blob of light against the blackness showing the hint of a disk. It swelled by the minute, soon disclosing its dark, mottled surface and craggy horizon, barely softened by the cloak of atmosphere that clung very close to the ground.

"How far?" Bud asked presently. "It’s been a while since we reversed thrust." It now seemed that the asteroid was beneath them, the ship descending toward it.

Tom checked the monitor dials. "Coming up on the 500 mile mark. We’ll make a polar flyby before we try ― "

His last words were lost behind a fierce alert tone from the intercom. "Incoming transmission, Tom!" reported Hank excitedly.

Bud whooped. "Man alive! Ask ’em how they’re doing up there—I mean,
down
there!"

Hearing the comment, Hank had a quashing response. "No, it’s not the asteroid. It’s on the frequency used by the space friends!"

"Good night!" muttered Tom. "Maybe they’ve found a way to elaborate on that message they sent."

"Not exactly the best timing," harrumphed Bud.

"I’ll send what I’m getting up to your monitor, guys, by way of the translating computer," Hank offered. After directing Hannah to continue the flight as planned, Tom turned his attention to the imaging-oscilloscope screen.

WE ARE FRIENDS. PROCEED

After a moment, Tom intercommed Hank impatiently, "Where’s the rest of it?"

"There
is
no ‘rest of it,’ Skipper," was the engineer’s answer. "Like Chow says,
That’s all she wrote!
"

Bud shrugged. "Thanks a heap, space buddies! Well, at least they’re encouraging us."

When Tom did not comment, Bud cast a curious glance his way. To his surprise, the young inventor was frowning—and pale!

"Look at this," Tom said in a raspy voice, pointing at a corner of the screen.

Again Bud shrugged. "Yeah, one of the space symbols."

"Without a translation under it. And that’s because it’s not complete."

"Guess they were called away from the phone." Bud looked again at his pal’s expression. "But this isn’t a joke, is it."

"The space symbols modify one another, clustering together in groups that show the relation of concepts," Tom reminded him. "The symbol for ‘proceed’ made it through, but
this
one was cut off—we got just the bare bones. Bud, I’m sure it would have been the symbol for negation!"

"Huh? Negation?" Then the young pilot’s eyes grew wide with alarm. "Jetz! They’re saying
don’t
proceed!"

"Otherwise known as
Stop
!" Tom rushed to Hannah’s side and directed her to bring the ship to a full stop as rapidly as possible, station-keeping high above Little Luna. The
Challenger
began a sudden deceleration, pressing her crew downward against the deck as if they’d been turned to lead.

"Full stop and hover mode," Hannah reported. "Altitude 481.4 miles, extended radial from Nestria surface."

"What do you think’s going on, boss?" asked another member of the crew, Bob Jeffers, a veteran of Swift Enterprises space flight.