Tom Swift and His Aquatomic Tracker (11 page)

Tom grinned at his pal. "That’s right—he’ll confirm our story, Inspector."

But Raeburn shook his head. "By a certain irony, we learned about this encounter earlier this very morning. In commencing our inquiries we were able to get in touch with Mr. Tuundvar, who made precisely the same suggestion—oddly enough. And so we did so. But alas, this Captain Frost denies that the encounter took place."

"
What
!" Tom was appalled—and bewildered. "But—but even so, many people can confirm― "

Raeburn shrugged. "Of course. Many people. But all of them are employees, colleagues, relatives, or personal friends. Interested parties, eh? What we would like to see, Mr. Swift, is relevant testimony from persons with no hound in the hunt. Surely you can sympathize with our desire not to be used. The British people take a dim view of fraudulent manipulations in the cause of publicity, even granting that your firm’s recent
disappointments
to the north have been rather harshly regarded in the press. Somewhat unfair."

Tom and Bud glared at the man. The insulting implications of his words infuriated them.

Yet his eyes took on a twinkling light as he calmly puffed on his pipe. "But perhaps my description of our contact with this Captain Frost was a bit summary. He didn’t precisely
deny
that he saw you six. He replied only that he was
unable to confirm
the fact—or even the course and mission of his vessel. But if he were to gain permission, perhaps...

"What, still unhappy, lads? Very well, here’s something interesting to look at."

At a nod the Chief-Inspector’s assistant handed him a large envelope, from which he withdrew a photo blow-up and handed it to Tom. As Bud looked on over his shoulder, the young inventory studied it with a sinking feeling. "Yes, sir. I don’t deny that that’s me in the picture."

"Some sort of recreation event?"

"No, just a—an incident at a local restaurant, the Quel Fromage. There was a young lady walking around taking pictures; someone got ahold of this one, and― "

"And thoughtfully passed it along to us," said Raeburn mildly. "
Do
note this little man over here to the side holding a newspaper. My word!—it’s the estimable
Shopton Evening Bulletin
. Showing a headline from last week, a day Tom Swift was presumed to be ensconsed on his ship managing the construction of the chunnel."

"I’ve already admitted that I returned to Shopton for a few days."

"So you did. But the accompanying note—my word, I said it!—made further charges concerning your subsequent actions. And so the remaining question is precisely when you and your friends returned to your― "

Raeburn was interrupted by the opening of the office door. "Excuse me, Chief-Inspector. A word, if I may?"

Raeburn left the office for two minutes, leaving Tom and Bud to seethe and whisper. When he returned his ruddy face was stiff with embarrassment. "I am informed, gentlemen, that we have indeed received word from a surprisingly high level of the American government that your account of your meeting with the U.S.S.
Disbursement
is confirmed. That—er——certainly disposes of any charges of fakery," he mumbled. "Please accept our apologies for this frightful mistake. I offer this on behalf of Queen and country. Your NATO allies, you may recall."

Sudden relief left the youths almost dizzy. Tom, however, was still concerned over the charge. "Captain Frost can’t confirm our whole trip," he pointed out. "Unless we can validate all of it, some people may go on believing we faked the important part."

"I think you needn’t worry, Tom," stated the Chief-Inspector, suddenly looking friendly and rather vulnerable. "I may say, well—this charge and evidence was received in a somewhat roundabout manner, rather outside our customary channels. It strikes me that we were directed to take it seriously for what one might term..."

"
Political
reasons," Tom concluded. "I understand."

"And I thank you for it. Tell you what—I don’t happen to know the
precise
provenance of this photograph and the note that went with it. I shall make a few inquiries and let you know as much as I am permitted."

"I’d appreciate it, sir," Tom responded. "We’ve found it useful to know who our enemies are whenever we can."

"And you’ve had your share, eh?"

"Anybody who wants our share is welcome to it!" Bud snorted.

An officer drove Tom and Bud back to the hotel and escorted them through a discreet side entrance. As they crossed the lobby, a nasally, Brit-twanged female voice cried out:

"Cor, it’s them! The bloomin’ inventor ’imself—and that handsome footballer bloke!"

They whirled, Tom slightly chagrined, Bud more than slightly pleased. Two attractive young girls stood a ways away, faces glowing with exaggerated excitement. One was as brilliantly blond as the other was raven-dark.

"Good grief!" choked Bud in amazement. "Sandy! Bashalli!"

Bashalli forced a mock-giggle like a star-struck schoolgirl. "Oh
my
, we’ve heard so-o-o much about you two heroes, we just
had
to meet you in person!"

The two were pretty as pictures in their summer suits. Sandy and Bash joined the boys in laughing, delighted at the surprise. "When did you two hit town?" Bud demanded.

"We flew in this morning," Sandy explained.

"Well, well! Small world!" Tom said with a pleased grin.

Bashalli’s eyes twinkled. "One of those quaint British expressions?"

"This is great!" Bud exclaimed. "Now we can all take in London together!"

"For a day or so, anyhow," Sandy added.

"A
day
or so?" Bud echoed in dismay. "That’s not even enough time to watch the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace!"

Bash raised a delicate eyebrow. "They must be rather slow guards."

"This is just a stop on our way to Paris," explained Sandy gleefully. "Daddy asked me to attend a little show about commuter aircraft, representing Swift Construction." Sandra Swift had become an expert pilot, employed by the Swift Construction Company, Enterprises’ Shopton affiliate, as a demonstrator of the company’s signature Pigeon Special miniplane.

"Now Sandra, let us be entirely frank with these valiant mer-boys," remonstrated Bashalli. "It was not so much that Mr. Swift asked her to attend. Rather, he asked her to stop ‘bugging him’ about the idea."

"Anyway," continued Sandy with a mock-glare, "I flew us here on one of the Cubjets. Tomorrow—on to Orly!"

Tom shook his head reprovingly. "Fine. Back home, you two are always finger-wagging about us being too busy for dates. And now, after we
purposely
arranged to get ourselves marooned at the bottom of the Atlantic so that we could sightsee together in London,
now
you’re going off and leaving us."

Sandy chuckled and patted her brother’s hand soothingly. "Don’t take it too hard, Tomonomo. Bashi and I have both visited London before, but she’s never been to Paris."

"We will
permit
you to accompany us around Paris if you wish—and if we
happen
to be free," added the pretty native of Pakistan. "You can fly yourselves over in the
Sky Queen
whenever you can pull yourselves away from the admiring throngs."

"Assuming Paris is still there by then," giggled Sandy.

Tom winced, but laughed. "At least we can take you two out for dinner tonight. We do have a
few
new stories to regale you with."

"Nice," responded Bash. "I woke up today in the mood for a good regaling. But perhaps we can get started early?"

The girls, who were staying at the hotel, had planned an afternoon of shopping and sightseeing, with the boys tagging along as a command performance. Yielding laughingly, the two boys excused themselves to freshen up. In their hotel room Tom went into the bedroom and placed a hurried transatlantic call to Harlan Ames at Enterprises via a Private Ear Radio unit that had been brought over in the
Sky Queen
.

"Good show, chaps!" Ames quipped. "Of course we saw your arrival at London yesterday on the videophone, relayed over TV."

"You missed half the fun," Tom retorted wryly. He told of their morning interrogation by Scotland Yard. Ames was indignant and promised to try to find out, through security authority and Interpol channels to Scotland Yard, the name of the tipster who had accused the boys of faking. "I’m sure this ties in with the
Centurion
business and the destruction of the SMB."

"And maybe a little more," murmured Tom cryptically, declining to elaborate.

Tom then spoke to his father and mother, as he had done several times since his rescue. "So I believe you’ve run into a couple unexpected fans over there," prompted Mrs. Swift jokingly.

"You and Dad really know how to keep a secret," Tom replied. "But it sure was a welcome one!"

The last PER call was one that Tom had been anticipating with mixed feelings. "Hello, Tom," answered John Thurston, who had been provided one of the units.

"Hello, sir," said the young inventor. "I wanted to report on a couple things—and also thank you for clearing us a couple hours ago."

"Clearing you?"

"With Scotland Yard. I assume it was your people who worked out the permissions that allowed Captain Frost to confirm our story."

There was a brief silence on Thurston’s end. "We do what we can, Tom—when we can."

"I appreciate that," Tom stated; "and I also realize that you have to keep some things secret from us, even when it puts our lives at risk."

"Our country makes demands on all of us now and then, Tom," replied the CIA official evasively. "On me—and on you."

Tom now spoke with intensity. "But realistically, sir, you have a pretty good idea from the start of what I’ll be able to figure out on my own. Evidently that sub, the
Disbursement
, wasn’t just on a routine patrol mission, given the high levels of clearance that were required to allow the Captain to verify running into us. I’m pretty sure they were down there searching for the
Centurion
! And as a matter of fact, it seems to me they were headed roughly in the direction of that guyot. Why were they searching
there
, hundreds of miles from where the ship went down?"

"Guyot? An undersea rock formation, isn’t it?"

"Mr. Thurston, keep whatever secrets you need to—but please don’t be coy with me! The equipment we found there, even the isobraid we used in saving ourselves, is of a special type that I recognized right off. It was manufactured a couple years back by a tech company in the U.S. under contract with the Defense Department. The workers we detected on the guyot― "

"It’s called the Oberjuerge Seamount Formation."

"
It’s a government project
!" Tom exploded. "Something to do with that ‘water X’ colloid that destroyed the submarine tunnel!"

"It’s not a government operation," responded Thurston calmly. "It’s under NATO. The United States is only one partner in it. And it’s classified."

"Good for
it
. Your protective measures—the electrotaxis trawlers—nearly killed us, and left us stranded. Were you folks planning to rescue us?
Were we expendable—because we knew too much?
"

"Don’t be ridiculous!" Thurston barked heatedly. "No one realized you were down there. Your suits are sonar-proof!—have you forgotten? Captain Frost reported his encounter with you, but we had no idea you’d end up blundering into― " He paused. "At the guyot."

"The
CIA
had no idea? What a relief!" said the Shoptonian dryly. "What was the
Centurion
really carrying? What
is
‘water X’—a weapon?"

John Thurston evidently realized that he had already said too much. "Tom... we’re all glad you’re safe. I suggest you and your friends enjoy a pleasant European vacation. Signing off."

The PER speaker clicked.

The youth was left simmering with anger and resentment.
I’m going to uncover the truth whether they like it or not!
he told himself.
Whatever’s going on, whatever that stuff really is, it renders our hydro-repelatrons useless! All our undersea operations could become deathtraps!

Bud had remained discreetly in the living-room area of the suite, having heard his chum’s angry tone. When Tom rejoined him, Bud didn’t mention the call, but gestured toward the door. "Just got a delivery!"

"Good grief, what is it—a coffin?" The object was a man-sized crate!

Bud laughed. "Hey, let’s not get too imaginative, pal! The men who trucked it in said it was from Madame Glynne’s. I signed for it."

Tom approached and examined the big box, made of hardened plastic and bound with metal bands. It proved to be securely locked. "I get it," Tom declared. "It’s my double—the wax figure that got replaced in his old age."

"They must’ve got the orders mixed up, delivering it here instead of to the airport."

"Wish I could show it to Sandy and Bash, but it looks like they didn’t provide a key or combination-code. It’ll have to wait. I’ll arrange for a crew to pick it up and take it to the
Queen
."

Bud went down to the lobby to meet up with Sandy and Bashalli, Tom explaining that he would be along presently after making a few further PER calls.

"Presently" became ten, then twenty minutes. After making the calls, Tom showered and changed. As he slipped on his wristwatch—an elaborate device that Bud had given him as a Christmas gift—he glanced at the time and winced. Reentering the living-room area, he stopped short in surprise. The lid of the wax figure’s "sarcophagus" yawned wide open on its hinges—and the crate was empty!

Bewildered, Tom approached the crate. A sound from behind him—the gentle creak of a closet door—made him turn about.

A man stood nearby, within arm’s reach. He wore what looked like an oxygen mask over his face, and he held a small, flexible tube in his hand. Raising his arm, he brought it close to the young inventor’s startled face.

"Hello," said the man.

A puff of yellowish vapor whuffed out of the tube, stinging Tom’s face. He tottered backwards, knocking against the side of the delivery crate.