Victor Appleton - Tom Swift and The Visitor from Planet X

V >> Victor Appleton >> Tom Swift and The Visitor from Planet X

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9

"My name is..." The man's voice fell to a mumble, obscuring the
syllables. "Frankly I am not yet sure I desire a job here, but being an
engineer, I thought perhaps--"

[Illustration (Tom and Chow fight the intruder)]

The man's gaze switched back to Tom, and in that instant Chow jumped the
intruder. With surprising agility for his rotund bulk, the cook bore
down on him and let fly a gnarled fist at the stranger's jaw. Tom
followed up like lightning, grabbing the man's wrist and yanking his
hand out of his pocket.

He was clutching a snub-nosed automatic. Tom twisted it from his grasp
as the man landed, writhing on the hard ground. Chow quickly pinned his
other arm and drove a knee into the man's solar plexus.

"Jest lie quiet now, you varmint, or you may git yourself roughed up a
bit," Chow warned, then added, "Who is he, Tom?"

"Search me. He stopped my car on the road and forced me to drive him in
through the private gate. Boy, was I ever glad to see you, old-timer!"

Tom emptied out the clip of shells. Then he searched the stranger while
Chow continued holding him down. The man carried no wallet, papers, or
other means of identification.

"Brand my tumbleweed salad," Chow grumbled, "he sure wasn't takin' no
chances on people findin' out who he is! Which proves he's some sort o'
crooked cowpoke! Honest ones ain't afeared o' showin' their own brand!"

The man muttered something angrily in a foreign tongue. Chow merely
pressed down harder with his knee. "What'll we do with him, boss?"

"Let him up, Chow," Tom said. "Security should be here any second."

Even as he spoke, Tom glimpsed a jeep speeding toward them in the
distance. The young inventor knew what had happened. Since the stranger
did not have the special electronic wrist amulet worn by all Swift
employees, his presence had automatically shown up on the master
radarscope. A security squad was coming to investigate.

As Chow released the man, he got to his feet slowly. Then, without
warning, he suddenly butted the cook square in the stomach. Chow was
knocked sprawling!

Before Tom could counter the surprise attack, the man's fist cracked
against his cheekbone. Tom, though stunned, lashed out. More punches
flew back and forth. Tom landed a stinging blow to his opponent's
midriff, then took a punishing one himself.

Suddenly Tom felt the stranger's hand clawing at his pocket for the key
to the gate. With all his wiry strength, Tom locked his arms around the
man and wrestled him to the ground.

The stranger fought like a tiger. But a second later a jeep screeched to
a stop. Three security guards, led by stocky Phil Radnor, leaped out.
Within moments they had the man subdued.

Tom quickly briefed the security men on what had happened.

"All right, mister, start talking!" snapped Radnor, head security police
officer.

The man's only reply was a scowl of rage.

"Okay, take him away till he cools off," Tom ordered.

Disheveled and still panting, the man was bundled into the jeep and
driven off to the security building.

Tom arrived there by motor scooter several minutes later. Harlan Ames,
the slim, dark-haired security chief of Enterprises, had taken charge of
the case, and the prisoner was now being fingerprinted and photographed.

"Any leads?" Tom inquired.

Ames shook his head. "He won't talk and we've nothing on him in our
files. His clothes have no tags or laundry marks, but I'd say they're of
foreign make."

Tom nodded. "He's definitely foreign. He spoke with an accent and he
also muttered something at Chow--I didn't catch it, but it certainly
wasn't in English."

Ames frowned. "I don't like the looks of this, skipper. He may be a
spy."

"Have you notified the police?" Tom asked.

"Right. Also the FBI. They're on the way right now to pick him up. Maybe
they'll be able to worm something out of him."

Tom spent the morning in routine work in the big double office which he
shared with his father in Enterprises' main building. It was equipped
with huge twin modern desks, deep-pile carpeting, and roomy leather
chairs.

Each of the two inventors had his own drawing board, designed to swing
out from the wall at the press of a button. Small scale models of some
of their most famous inventions were also placed about the office,
including a red-and-silver replica of Tom's first rocket ship, the _Star
Spear_; a blue plastic model of the jetmarine in which he had fought a
band of undersea pirates; and also a gleaming silvery model of Tom's
latest, unique space craft, the _Cosmic Sailer_.

Because of his father's absence in Washington, the burden of
administering the vast experimental station now fell on Tom's youthful
shoulders. Telephone calls, letters, and other detailed work occupied
him until noon.

Chow broke in, bringing a lunch tray with milk, a hot chicken sandwich,
and a chocolate eclair. Tom ate hungrily.

"Kind o' peps up the ole supercharger, eh?" said Chow, lingering to
chat.

"Sure does," Tom agreed.

"Wal, jest remember that, an' don't go missin' any meals--or sleep,
either," Chow advised as he gathered up the tray. "A brainy young hombre
like you needs plenty o' rest an' vitamins to keep from burnin' himself
out."

"I'll remember." Tom grinned affectionately as the leathery-faced old
Texan took his leave. The Swifts had first met Chow when they were on an
atomic research expedition in the Southwest. Chow had become so attached
to Tom that he had returned to Shopton with the Swifts as a permanent
employee.

Soon after Chow left the office, the telephone rang. Tom took the call
and had just finished talking with Harlan Ames when Bud came strolling
in.

"Any more news on that nut who jumped you this morning?" the young flier
asked. "Ames told me about it."

"Not yet, but there may be soon," Tom said. "Harlan just phoned and said
he'd had a call from Washington, asking us to stand by the videophone at
one-thirty sharp."

Ames arrived in person shortly before the scheduled time. Moments later,
a red signal flashed on the control board of the Swifts' private TV
network. Tom flicked on the videophone and two men appeared on the
screen.

One was Blake, the Swifts' Washington, D.C., telecaster. He introduced
the other man, a calm-faced, balding individual in a dark suit.

"This is John Thurston of the Central Intelligence Agency, Tom," Blake
said. "He thought it might be better to discuss this with you face to
face."

Tom, Bud, and Ames were also visible to the pair in Washington.

"Glad to know you, sir," Tom said, and introduced his companions.

"We've identified the man you captured this morning," Thurston began.
"He's in the United States on a French passport under the name of
Jacques Renard. But we've just learned from the International Police
Organization that he's actually a Brungarian. His name is Samson Narko."

Tom and Ames exchanged startled glances. In the past, certain Brungarian
factions had been responsible for some of the most fiendish plots ever
perpetrated against the Swifts.

"Unfortunately, that's not all," Thurston went on. "Interpol believes
that Narko is also a member of the same rebel outfit with whom you've
had trouble before."

Tom was dismayed by the news. "I sure thought that group had been
smashed!" he said. Soon after Tom had balked their attempts to seize the
satellite Nestria, the rebel ringleaders had reportedly been arrested
and tried for treason.

"It now appears," Thurston explained, "that only one segment was
quelled. Other members of the antigovernment movement are active again
and are said to be strongly organized."

The CIA man related even more sinister news. It was suspected that a
larger nation--by aiding the rebels--was planning a coup to take over
Brungaria. They had already subverted various government agencies and
were sending their own professors to staff the Brungarian technical
schools. It was all part of their insidious fifth-column pattern.

"Many top Brungarian officials have joined the plotters," Thurston
added, "and it's now becoming very difficult for anyone to enter or
leave the country."

Ames asked for information on any rebel sympathizers known to be in the
United States. Thurston was able to tell him very little.

"We keep strict tabs, of course, on all Brungarians entering this
country," Thurston explained. "But even though we screen them carefully,
a rebel agent like Narko may slip in--usually on a stolen or faked
passport."

When the telecast ended, Tom, Bud, and Ames discussed the news grimly.

"What if Narko has pals working with him?" Bud conjectured.

"If he does," Tom said, "they may try carrying through Narko's mission."

"I'll station extra guards around the outer wall on twenty-four-hour
alert," Ames promised.

Tom approved this measure wholeheartedly, but the purpose of Narko's
secret mission remained a mystery. Why had he tried to force his way
into Enterprises? What was he after? There was little hope of resolving
these questions, since United States Intelligence had learned of the
rebel movement itself only within the past few days. Thurston had asked
Tom and his companions to treat the information as confidential.

"I'd better get back to work," Tom decided after Bud and Ames had left
his office. Tom sat down at his drawing board and began to sketch out
some rough ideas for a vehicle to house the "brain energy" from space.

Tom wondered if the brain would be able to perform actions by itself,
given the proper mechanical output devices. Or would he have to help it
function via an electronic computer to digest incoming information or
stimuli and then to respond through servo controls?

The problem was so baffling and complex that Tom became completely
oblivious to the passage of time. He sketched out plan after plan, only
to crumple and discard each one.

Suddenly a disturbing thought jarred the young inventor out of his
concentration. Perhaps the Brungarian rebel scientists had now figured
out how to decode the radio messages from the Swifts' space friends!

If so, when the brain energy was launched toward earth, they might try
to divert it to their own receiving setup!

CHAPTER IV

ANOTHER TREMOR!

Tom was appalled at this new danger. Shoving his drawing board back into
its wall slot, the young inventor hurried to his desk and made a number
of telephone calls.

Within minutes, a group of five of his most trusted associates had
assembled in Tom's office. First to arrive were Bud Barclay, Ames, and
George Dilling, the Swifts' communications chief. They were joined
moments later by Hank Sterling, the square-jawed chief engineer and
trouble shooter of Enterprises, and Arvid Hanson.

Hanson, a hulking six-footer, made all the delicate scale models of Tom
Jr.'s and Tom Sr.'s inventions. He was not only an expert craftsman,
but, like all the Swifts' key men, a trained aircraft and space pilot as
well.

"What's up, skipper?" Bud asked.

"I guess you might call this a council of war," Tom replied.

He divulged his fears that Brungarian scientists might hijack the brain
energy to be sent from Planet X, home of the Swifts' unknown space
friends.

"Bud, you recall Mother's remark last night about the danger that this
energy may prove overwhelmingly powerful," Tom went on. "Well, just
suppose that our Brungarian pals fit it out in robot form, then turn it
loose against us or our friends in other countries."

Bud gave an awed whistle. "Boy, a thing like that might make even a
powerful missile look like a toy!"

Even if the brain energy proved too small to be harnessed for
destructive purposes, Tom went on, it might turn out to possess
superintelligence. Gifted with all the scientific know-how of the space
people, it might be made to reveal those secrets to the Brungarians.

"They might learn from it how to construct weapons or space craft
powerful enough to conquer the free world!" Tom ended.

His listeners were grim-faced at the thought.

"I'd say that's a far worse danger than any chance of their coming up
with a robot monster," Ames said.

"Ditto!" Hanson agreed.

"I think so too," Tom replied. "In any case, it's up to us to make sure
the Brungarians don't switch that energy off course before it lands
here."

"Think their scientists are capable of such a stunt?" George Dilling
inquired.

Tom shrugged. "They're certainly far advanced in the fields of rocket
guidance and telemetry. But actually we just don't know."

Hank Sterling glanced hopefully at the young inventor. "Got any ideas,
skipper?" he asked.

Tom drummed a pencil on the table thoughtfully before replying. "Maybe
our best bet is first to find out all we can about the lines of research
on which they're concentrating. That might be the tip-off."

After a thorough discussion, it was decided that Ames and Dilling would
fly to Washington at once and talk to the FBI and Central Intelligence.
Their job would be to garner and piece together every scrap of
information on Brungarian scientists' accomplishments.

"Let us know as soon as you get a general picture," Tom said.

Ames and Dilling promised to do so, and the meeting broke up.

Feeling somewhat reassured now that a definite plan of action had been
decided upon, Tom resumed work on his sketches. Although both the
problem and the solution were still hazy in his mind, a few ideas began
to take shape.

A radio antenna would certainly be needed, to receive or transmit
signals at a distance. And repelatron units would give the brain a way
to exert force when it wanted to act. These were devices which Tom had
invented to produce a repulsion-force ray. He had used the principle in
both air and space flight.

A power plant might also be needed to generate additional energy in case
the brain's own energy was very small. Lastly, there would have to be a
control system for use either by the brain itself or by its human
operators.

After an hour of work at top speed, Tom was rather pleased with one
rough sketch. He was mulling over the idea when Chow Winkler and Bud
Barclay wandered into the office. Both were impressed when Tom explained
the sketch.

Chow stared at it, goggle-eyed at the thought of such a contraption
"coming to life." "So that's the Ole Think Box, eh?" he muttered.

Tom laughed. "Good name, Chow!"

All three were startled as a voice suddenly broke in over the wall
intercom. It was the operator on duty at the plant's communication
center.

"Turn on your TV, skipper," the operator suggested. "We've just had a
news bulletin that an earthquake tremor has been felt over in Medfield.
There's a big plant there that makes rocket nose cones. A mobile TV
crew's been rushed to the scene in a helicopter and they're trying to
pick up the action with a television camera."

"Good night! Another quake?" Bud gasped.

Tom had already rushed to the videophone. Flicking it on, he switched to
a commercial channel. Soon a picture appeared on the screen. It was a
panoramic shot of a landscape, evidently viewed from a hovering
aircraft, with a large industrial plant just below.

A TV commentator's voice was reporting developments. "Few visible signs
of a tremor," he said. "As you can see, the rocket-plant personnel and
the people of Medfield are making desperate attempts to evacuate.
Fortunately, most of them have already left the immediate area."

A few cars and trucks could still be seen speeding along the ribbonlike
roads within view of the hovering television camera.

"Oh--oh!" The commentator's voice broke in again. "Notice that tall
stack just over the plant--see how it's starting to tremble!... It's
beginning to crumble!... This must be it!"

Suddenly the whole scene seemed to explode. Plant buildings collapsed
like toy houses built of cards, while at the same time huge rocks and
trees were uprooted as a yawning crack opened in the ground below.

The three watchers in Tom's office stared in horrified dismay. But a
moment later the picture on the TV screen became jerky and distorted,
then faded out completely.

After a brief interval, a studio announcer came on. "The relay
transmitter must have been knocked out by the quake. We return you now
to our regularly scheduled program, but will keep you informed as
bulletins come in."

"Great balls o' fire!" Chow gulped as Tom turned off the set. "I sure
hope all o' those poor folks in cars got away safe!"

Tom rushed to a wall shelf and pulled out a book on geology. He leafed
quickly to a section dealing with known earthquake faults and the
distribution of quakes. When he looked up at the others, his face was
grim.

"What's wrong, skipper?" Bud asked tensely.

"That quake," Tom replied, "wasn't in a patterned zone any more than the
Faber one was!"

Chow's jaw dropped open in a comic look of dismay. "You mean this here
ole earth we live on is gettin' all busted up an' twisted around
inside?"

"I wish I knew, Chow!" Tom paced worriedly about the office. "It just
seems queer to me that both of those quakes should have destroyed vital
defense factories!"

On a sudden impulse, Tom snatched up the telephone. His two companions
listened as he put through a call to the FBI in Washington. Within
moments, a friend at the Bureau, Wes Norris, came on the line.

"Look, Wes," Tom said, "is there any chance this quake that just
happened at Medfield and the earlier one at Faber Electronics might have
been caused by underground H-bomb blasts?"

"As a matter of fact, we're checking on that very possibility," Norris
replied. "In other words, sabotage. Things are pretty hot around here
since that news on Medfield came in, so I can't talk much right now,
Tom. But I can tell you this," Wes concluded, "we _are_ investigating,
and I do mean thoroughly!"

Bud and Chow were shocked when Tom reported his conversation with the
FBI agent.

"Brand my rattlesnake stew!" Chow exploded. "Any ornery varmint that'd
cause an earthquake ought to be strung up like a hoss thief!"

"I agree, Chow," Tom said. "But how do we find out for sure?"

After closing time at the plant, Bud drove home with Tom. Both Mrs.
Swift and Sandy were upset as the boys discussed the situation.

"Tom, if this was deliberate," Mrs. Swift pointed out, "Enterprises may
be next on the enemy's list!"

Tom did his best to allay his mother's fears, but inwardly he himself
felt apprehensive. Any large-scale sabotage plot would be almost certain
to include Swift Enterprises, America's most daring and advanced
research center.

When his mother went upstairs to her room, Tom suggested to Bud that
they drive to the nearby State Police post. Here he confided his fears
to Captain Rock, an old friend of the Swifts.

"You have some request in mind?" Captain Rock inquired.

"How about making a search for any signs of suspicious digging or
underground activity in the vicinity of Shopton?" Tom said. "There would
have to be an excavation of some sort in order to set off an underground
blast."

Captain Rock mulled over Tom's suggestion. "Sounds like a big job, but
I'm afraid you're right, Tom. We can't risk a similar disaster here."

"We'd better move fast, too," Bud put in. "Those two quakes so far came
only a day apart!"

Rock picked up the telephone and barked out orders. Within half an hour,
several carloads of troopers were covering the outlying roads that
converged on Shopton. Firemen and Chief Slater's town police force were
also pressed into action. They would search every cellar in town for
signs of recent digging.

Bud rode in one police car and Tom in another as a house-to-house search
was conducted along the highway that ran past Enterprises.

At one weather-beaten house, where Bud stopped with a state trooper, an
old man came to the door.

"What you fellers prowlin' around for?" he asked.

"Bomb emergency," the trooper said laconically. "We have orders to
search every house cellar for underground openings."

Grumbling, the old man let them enter. He followed them down a rickety
stairway. A moment later Bud stumbled and gave a yell. The trooper swung
around just in time to see Bud drop from view!

CHAPTER V

SECRET CACHE

As the trooper's flashlight stabbed through the cellar gloom at the spot
where Bud had disappeared, there came a loud splash! The light showed a
round hole in the floor, rimmed by a low circle of brickwork.

"What's that hole?" the trooper snapped at the owner.

"What does it look like?" the elderly man snapped back. "It's an old
well."

"A _well!_" the trooper exclaimed as he rushed to the spot. "And not
even covered? What're you trying to do--kill people?"

The old man sniffed. "Used to be covered, but the lid's gone. Didn't
expect to have a bunch of nosy fellers pokin' around down here!"

The state trooper muttered angrily under his breath as he shone his
flashlight into the well-shaft. Bud was splashing around below, soaked
and chagrined by his accident.

"Give me a hand!" he called up.

The trooper reached down, but was barely able to touch Bud's finger
tips. To make matters worse, the sides of the well were slippery with
moss.

"Get a rope," the trooper ordered the old man.

"Ain't got one."

The policeman reddened and stood up to his full six-foot-two. "Look,
mister--what's your name?"

The elderly man shrank back, as if suspecting that the trooper's
patience might have been tried too far. "Ben Smith," he mumbled.

"Okay, Mr. Smith, you get a rope or something else to pull this boy out.
And fast!"

Ben Smith gulped on his chewing tobacco and hurried off. A minute or so
later he returned with a length of clothesline. The trooper lowered it
into the well and Bud was soon climbing out, looking like a drenched
rat.

"Sorry, son," Smith said apologetically. "Guess I should have warned
ye."

Bud chuckled good-naturedly. "It's all right," he said. "It was my own
fault for not watching where I was going. Besides, you can't blame an
American for not liking the idea of having his home searched."

The old man chuckled too and flashed a wary eye at the trooper. "I'll go
get ye a towel to dry off with," he told Bud.

Meanwhile, Tom was investigating a house down the road with another
state trooper. The owner, a paunchy unshaven bachelor named Pete Latty,
and his seventeen-year-old nephew accompanied them to the basement.

A naked light bulb, hanging from the ceiling, revealed an ancient
furnace, and an accumulation of junk. Most of it was covered with dust,
but Tom noticed a large packing crate that looked as if it had been
freshly moved. He walked over and began to shove the heavy box aside.

"What're you doing?" Latty asked gruffly.

"I want to look underneath," Tom replied. A second later his eyes
widened as he saw a trap door, evidently leading to a subcellar.

Tom beckoned his partner over and showed his discovery. "Where does this
lead to?" the trooper asked, turning back to Latty.

"Just a little storage place," the owner replied with a shrug. "I didn't
think it was worth mentioning. You'd better not go down there," he added
hastily. "The steps ain't safe."

"Just the same, we'll take a look," the trooper said.

"Then do it at your own risk!" Latty snapped.

The officer pulled up the trap door and Tom shone a light down. The
shallow dirt-walled room below was about six feet square. On the floor,
at the foot of a short rickety ladder, lay a large bundle wrapped in a
tarpaulin.

Tom descended the ladder cautiously and opened the tarpaulin to see what
was inside. The contents made him gasp--a large, well-oiled collection
of rifles and pistols!

Looking up, Tom saw both the state trooper and Latty peering down at
him--the trooper openmouthed with surprise, Latty scowling nervously.

"Don't touch 'em!" Latty warned. "Some are loaded. I keep 'em hidden for
safety, but sometimes my nephew Fred here and I have target practice."

Just then Tom's keen eyes spotted a slip of paper tucked among the guns.
He pulled it out. His heart gave a leap of excitement as he saw two
words written on the paper--_Samson Narko!_

Hiding his amazement, Tom read the name aloud and added casually,
"What's this? The make of one of the guns?"

"Uh, yeah--that's right," the man replied.

Without comment, Tom climbed out of the subcellar. As he bent down to
drop the trap door, Tom flashed the officer a signal. Instantly the
trooper grabbed Latty.

"Hey! Why the rough stuff?" the prisoner exclaimed. Then, as he realized
the officer was about to handcuff him, the man's face turned pasty
white. He pulled free from the trooper's grasp and bolted toward the
stairway. His nephew stood as if paralyzed at the sudden turn of events.

[Illustration (Tom finds Latty's store of weapons)]

Latty's attempt at flight was hopeless. Tom quickly brought him down
with a flying tackle.

Later, after Latty had been manacled, Tom helped him up. "In case you
don't know it," the young inventory said coldly, "your friend Narko is
in jail, so you may as well talk. What's the pitch?"

Latty was trembling and still pale. "I--I d-didn't know there'd be any
trouble with the cops or I'd never have done it," he quavered. "Narko
offered me some dough to hide the guns. I needed money, so I took him
up. That's all there was to it."

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9