Tom Swift and His Aquatomic Tracker (10 page)

The following day the six arrived quietly, with the help of some dense fog, at Southampton, where limousines awaited to whisk them to central London.

If Southhampton had been kept sedate, London proved to be anything but. When the limos let the travelers off at a small plaza overlooking the Thames, they were greeted by a deafening chorus of tugboat whistles, ships’ sirens, and the excited yells of sailors and passengers lining the rails of vessels in the harbor, nearby streets, and windows of buildings—even roofs!

Tom and his friends were stunned by the reception. Shouts and waves from one of the piers, down a flight of steps from the limousine plaza, showed them where they were expected to go to officially meet and greet England. Led by Tom and Bud the six headed toward what was clearly a welcoming committee on the quayside, pushing past a whooping tangle of eager arms and hands.

"The City of London welcomes you to England after your magnificent achievement!" announced a dignified-looking official. "We had word from Mr. Swift that you would be arriving today." His words were almost drowned by the cheers and exclamations of the throng.
Some achievement—we got ourselves deep-sea stranded and didn’t drown
! thought the young inventor wryly. But he smiled and nodded in acknowledgment, in the best interests of trans-Atlantic relations.

"Wow! Looks as though we’ve really made the big time!" Bud muttered to Tom.

"Do you guys ever get used to this stuff?" asked young Dan Walde nervously.

"It’s nothing so much," commented Alix Tuundvar. "I will endure another one of these in Sweden."

Shutters clicked frantically and TV cameras trained on the six disaster-heroes. Microphones were held up on booms, trapping them in a thicket of metal trees. As the brief ceremony was concluded, a barrage of questions was fired at them from every direction.

"How do you feel, boys?"

"What was your first reaction as you came up?"

"Did you all come through in good shape?"

"Which one of you is dead?"

"How about saying hello to the television audience?"

"Gentlemen, I represent Tridenteen Swim-wear—!"

Tom grinned helplessly. "Hi! Glad we made it. We’re all fine, but—well, frankly we had no idea we’d receive such an all-out welcome. Pardon me for not answering all your questions, but—you know, water in the ears."

A loud outburst of cheers and laughs greeted his words, and the city dignitary said, "We British have always admired great feats of exploration and adventure, and we feel that your sub-Atlantic saga of survival—entirely alone down there, stuck, as one might put it, on the bottom—represents a milestone in man’s conquest of the ocean!"

Again the air rang with cheers.

It took nearly an hour for the hydronauts to escape from the welcoming crowd. "Parakeets!" grumbled Dan quietly. "This really undoes our rest aboard the cruiser! I’ll be glad to get back to the
Charger
and my training course."

Tom was sympathetic. "At least you four heroes of sea-science get set free. Bud and I have agreed to stay here for another couple days and what they call the
real
ceremony." Mr. Swift had arranged for Dan, George, Ham, and Alix to be flown to their various destinations aboard the jetrocopter
Skeeter
, which had come along with the
Sky Queen
in its aerial hangar-hold.

Then Tom and Bud were driven through streets decked with bunting to a hotel, where they were met by Arvid Hanson, Chow Winkler, and other members of the Flying Lab’s crew. "I jest
knew
you boys wouldn’t want t’ stay down there sleepin’ with th’ fishes!" blubbered Chow.

The hotel manager bustled up to the Shopton two and pumped their hands. "We’ve reserved a suite on our diplomats floor—all the latest in security, cameras, motion sensors, even uniformed guards at the elevators." Tom noticed that the guards’ "uniform" featured gold braid and epaulets.
Somewhere a movie usher is missing his work clothes
, he thought with a smile.

The manager turned to Chow and the others. "Of course, we’d be
most
pleased if the others in your party were to choose us for their stay in London. You’ll find our rates for business stays
entirely
reasonable."

"That’s okay," frowned Chow. "We got our own hotel t’stay in. An’ ours kin
fly
!"

Bidding goodbye to the other Americans, the youths were finally permitted to drag themselves up to their suite and through the door. There they found that new tailor-made suits of clothing and other accessories had been provided by enthusiastic English merchants, full of genuine gratitude and perhaps a small degree of commercial motivation.

After a rest it was the dinner hour, during which the suits were to be given some use in the unblinking public eye. The boys tried them on. "Perfect fit, too!" Bud crowed as he inspected himself appreciatively in front of a mirror. "Yours too, Skipper."

"Dad must have cabled our measurements," Tom said, a bit embarrassed.

"More likely George Dilling," Bud retorted. "I think this all falls under ‘publicity’ for good old Tom Swift Enterprises."

Dinner was refreshingly quiet—as the elegant restaurant had been barred to everyone but its doting staff. Finishing, Tom parted a curtain and eyed the newsy crowd lolling about the restaurant’s entrance. "Good night! I’d love to take a leg-stretching walk, but― "

"Please don’t trouble yourselves over that little detail, gentlemen," winked the maitre d’. "It happens that our fine establishment possesses a very unprepossessing back door!"

Without the garland of media clinging to them like a noose, Tom was pleased to discover that they were little noticed as they strolled down a busy street among drifts of tourists and marching businesspeople. "Guess we look like typical teenagers!" noted Bud.

Tom snorted. "That’s what I’ve always thought, flyboy!"

A long, relaxed stroll brought them before a building in Marylebone Road which bore a sign:
Madame Glynne’s of London.

"The wax museum!" Tom burst out laughing, pointing to a standing sign that said:
If you wish to meet our heroic Tom Swift, he is waiting for you inside
! "You mean I’m in there?"

"Why not, genius boy? You’re famous!" Bud said, clapping his chum on the back.

After being waved inside without tickets by the boggling attendant, they went into a dimly lit gallery lined with eerily lifelike figures. Among them were Winston Churchill, various British monarchs, Adolf Hitler, Charles Dickens, Admiral Nelson dying on the deck of his flagship, Marie Antoinette about to be guillotined, and a blood-chilling assortment of famous criminals.

"Hunh! Guess it’s not always a good thing to be famous!" Bud muttered.

Presently they stopped short before a waxen youth with a ragged crew cut, dressed in a space suit, and holding an astronaut’s helmet.

"Hey! It’s you, Tom!" Bud gasped in glee. "That’s the suit you wore on the moon!" Looking around, they saw that the entire section was devoted to Tom Swift’s many space ventures.

"Good grief!’’ Tom murmured. "What a weird feeling to meet yourself face to face! Photos are one thing, but in 3-D... I’ve
got
to get back to work on my TV idea."

A little boy who was visiting the museum with his parents suddenly chortled out: "Mum, look! There’s the
real
Tom Swift! I saw him on the telly this morning!"

His mother stared. "Oh no, dear, not a bit. Just looks a tad like him, you know."

But the boy trotted up close. With a chuckle Tom bent down to shake his hand and the wide-eyed boy scrutinized his face. "Hello, sir," the boy said gravely. "Pleased to make your acquaintance." The he turned away and shouted across to his mother, "You were right, mum. It’s not him—just some man."

Soon the proud proprietor of the museum strode briskly over to greet them. "My dear Swift, it is
indeed
an honor to be visited by one of our most popular attractions!"

Shaking the man’s hand, Tom said: "Never thought I’d see myself done up in wax!"

"Well now, you know, it really isn’t wax, after all," said the man confidentially. "Hasn’t been for thirty years—all polymer plastic thingum these days. We have plans to audioanimate you, make you smile and move your head and so forth."

"Tom can already do all those things," Bud noted blandly. "Even more."

"Er, yes. Very good. But now, I wonder..." The proprietor, Mr. Smullius, lowered his voice. "Perhaps we might make an arrangement, Tom and—well, you two. You see, we pride ourselves on the liveliness and accuracy of our replicas. Alas, time and dirty air conditioning have had a go at you, Tom, and I perceive you’re starting to sag and yellow just a bit."

Tom laughed. "Inventing’s hard work, sir."

"Haw! Yes. Surely. What I’d propose is that you allow us to take castings of you—the two of you, in fact, as I recognize your companion here as the fellow you always see― "

"I’m sure we’d be pleased to cooperate," said Tom hastily with a glance at Bud. "If it won’t take long."

"Mercy me, no—all mechanical, sort of a gentle press apparatus, as when your dentist takes a casting of your tooth. Face, head, upper bodies only. Shirts off, eh? That’s all. Fifteen precious minutes. And in reward," Smullius continued, "perhaps you might like to take old Tom back to America with you. Your firm has a visitors center, does it not?"

"It does, and our public information officer has mentioned how he’d like to set up something like this."

"Next to the blue-striped T-shirt display," Bud commented mischievously.

They endured the pressings, and Mr. Smullius—who was rather waxen himself, Tom observed—promised to have the old figure shipped to Heathrow, to the
Sky Queen
, the following day.

Early next morning Tom and Bud, in backwards caps, contrived to slip away for an unobserved stroll through Hyde Park, then along Buckingham Palace.

They returned to the hotel, slipped out of the casual walkabout outfits that had served them as disguises, and showered. By the time the boys had changed, a helicopter had arrived at the hotel’s helipad to whisk them off for the second, even bigger reception, this time with the Mayor and the Prime Minister.

"Hmm. I don’t see any brass bands waiting," Bud remarked as the helicopter touched down in an empty ruggers-field.

To the surprise of Tom and Bud, the trio of officials that came striding across the field to greet them were not the expected officials—and were extremely stern-faced.

"How do you do?" Tom said politely. "I take it you gentlemen are the—er—reception committee we’re supposed to meet?"

"All plans have been changed, I fear," one of the men said with cool correctness. "The massive ceremonies have been held up while we investigate a reported fraud you two chaps are said to have perpetrated."

"
Fraud
!" Bud exclaimed in angry astonishment. "Just what do you mean by that?"

"Mm, common dictionary word, don’t you think?" was the reply. "Of course I’m referring to your so-called feat of survival beneath the Atlantic Ocean."

FOR a moment, Tom and Bud were too thunderstruck at the official’s words to speak. Then Tom reddened angrily. Although he cared little about dignitaries, speeches, and welcoming ceremonies, the young inventor was concerned about the reputation of the family business, Swift Enterprises.

"I don’t know what you mean by ‘
so-called feat
’," Tom gritted. "But if you’re implying that we― " He paused the rush of words to calm himself. "Might I ask just who you gentlemen are?"

"Chief-Inspector Bycroft Raeburn, Scotland Yard. No doubt you’ve heard of us?" stated the man in charge, producing his credentials. "At any rate, I’m here at the personal request of the P.M. to ensure that there is no... embarrassing linkage between Her Majesty’s government and what may be― "

One of the other officials spoke up nervously, "Perhaps we should discuss this matter in private—out of the public eye. I suggest we go inside." He gestured at the large building that stood at the edge of the grounds, where more police officers stood waiting.

A comfortable office had been commandeered inside for the use of security personnal. Raeburn invited Tom and Bud to sit down.

"We regret that this interview should be necessary," he said crisply but with a hint of apology, "but you two fellows have been accused of faking your underwater exploit. However, we’re eager to hear your side of the story."

"
We’ve
heard no ‘
story
’ as yet," Tom retorted. "Inspector, this sort of thing has happened to us before—false accusations meant to delay or embarrass us. Suppose you tell us who made this charge."

Raeburn harrumphed and fingered his bristling, sandy mustache. "I’m afraid it’s rather against policy to reveal the names of informers," he said. "One mustn’t discourage confidential information these days, wot? Briefly, Mr. Swift—you don’t mind my calling you ‘Mr. Swift,’ I should hope?—we’ve received a little whisper in the ear that while you were supposedly aboard your ship in the North Sea you were in fact present in the town of Shopton, U.S.A. The informer claims that you six later embarked in a Swift submarine from your pier in New York, and in that way were deposited on the floor of the Icelandic Sea just an hour or two before your so-called rescue—an operation which, one might suggest, cost Her Majesty’s Treasury a bit of money and our Royal Navy a bit of time."

Tom and Bud looked at each other, both thinking the same thing. Tom’s promise to John Thurston to hold confidential the details of the European plot had certainly put them in an awkward position!

"Inspector, I don’t deny that I was in Shopton for a few days last week. I was asked to return to deal with an emergency, a confidential matter," Tom began.

"And did you so inform your employers, the Swedish people?"

"Er... no, I didn’t. It was—there were reasons why― "

"Wait!" Bud exploded. "You don’t need to go into any of that, Tom! Inspector, we ran into an American sub along the way, in the North Sea. Contact Captain Frost of the U.S.S.
Disbursement
!"