Tom Swift and His Atomic Earth Blaster (10 page)

"Maybe there should have been," Steve said grimly.

"Is—is Bud
suspected
of something?" Tom asked in perplexed disbelief.

"Look at it as I do," Steve replied. "The fact is, Barclay has been present for each one of the several incidents that have taken place. He’s the common denominator. He was with you when you were attacked and tied-up—he’s the one who found you; matter of fact,
he’s
the one who hit the water main with your machine, right? Your alarm field is sabotaged—he shows up tapping on your window. The electrode thing happened while he was with you in the lab. Likewise the attack on the lake. True?"

"Pardon me, but it’s—ridiculous!" exclaimed the young inventor. "Bud was in danger as much as I was!"

"So it seems," Steve responded. "But
was
he really? Do you know for certain? Let’s blue-sky it a little. If he’s collaborating with Drurga Leeskol, he might have been given some kind of device to protect him from the electrical discharge. On the lake, maybe he had arranged to get himself pulled out of the water after the torpedo hit the sailboat—by someone who would take care that you and the two girls never made it back to shore alive."

Tom turned to his father angrily. "Dad!—you don’t believe this, do you?"

Mr. Swift gave a slight shrug. "Let’s just hear him out for now, son."

"There are a million ways to induce a good guy to ‘turn’," Steve said. "Maybe he has a psychological weak spot. Maybe he’s being blackmailed over something the rest of us would never guess. Maybe he can be tempted by money—lots of money. Maybe the bad guys make threats against his family, or somehow convince him that his best friend has betrayed him. I’ve even seen—"

But Tom Swift leapt to his feet. "I’m ashamed of myself—ashamed I didn’t walk out that door five minutes ago! I refuse to hear any more of this!"

"Tom," said Harlan pleadingly, "all we’re asking for now is that you keep Bud at a distance from the project, that’s all. To spare his feelings, you could assign him to something else."

Said Mr. Swift, "Don’t think we agree with Steve, Tom. We don’t. You know we consider Bud another member of the family. But we owe it to ourselves to—"

"Owe?
I owe Bud Barclay my life!"
Tom stalked across the office and paused with his hand on the door handle. "Harlan, you’re the head of security. Dad, you’re the boss. You guys do whatever you think is necessary. But don’t expect me to be a part of betraying Bud like that."

Tom bolted out the door. As he turned to push it closed, he said with forced, unsmiling politeness:

"Nice to meet you, Steve."

Tom would have slammed the office door behind him. But the design of the door prevented it.

HEARTSICK, Tom did everything possible to avoid his father for the next twenty-four hours, insisting that their conversations be limited to matters concerning the polar expedition and the upcoming meeting on the water drilling project. During the intervening night, he was unable to sleep.

But the thing that Tom found most disturbing was the fact that he was also avoiding Bud Barclay.

I just can’t face him right now,
he thought,
not with him not knowing what’s going on behind the scenes.

But was that the only reason? Or was he worried, in some small corner of his mind, that the accusations against Bud might be true?
That
was a possibility he recoiled from—yet because it persisted, he was engulfed in shame and a sense of torn loyalties.

When the young pilot did drop by, Tom’s face lit up for a moment—then he begged off awkwardly, using as an excuse that he had to prepare for the evening’s meeting with the City Water Commission.

He knew his pal didn’t buy the explanation.

That evening, not one minute early, Tom joined his father and Jake Aturian in the meeting room, which also served as the meeting room for the Shopton City Council.

"We’re ready to begin," said Miriam DiCorvo, who was a close friend of Tom’s mother and was chairing the meeting.

The representatives from Enterprises made a concise audiovisual presentation of their proposed operation, stressing the safety features built in to the new-model earth blaster.

"Glad to see this," said Herb Greenup wryly. "We don’t want to have any more of those
‘accidents,’
now do we." His voice was a bit sheepish, and Tom followed Mr. Greenup’s gaze into the audience. Liz Greenup was in attendance, and the look she gave her father spoke volumes.

There was no formal opposition to the Swift proposal, and after a few questions and a favorable opinion from the city attorney, the Commission voted its unanimous approval and adjourned.

"Shortest meeting we’ve ever had," beamed Mrs. DiCorvo.

The Commissioners left the room, and the crowd drifted away, Liz giving Tom a wave and Tom returning a smile that expressed his gratitude.

Suddenly a loud, angry voice burst out: "Which one of you is Tom Swift?"

Startled, the three turned to look at the speaker, who had come up behind them. He was a burly, red-faced individual in a rumpled tan suit and a Panama hat. A half-chewed cigar protruded from one corner of his mouth.

"Well, speak up! I asked
which one of you is Tom Swift?"
He took out his cigar and jabbed it in Tom’s direction. "Guess it must be you—the cub!"

"I’m Tom Swift," the teenage inventor replied coolly. "What can I do for you?"

"Do for me?" roared the stranger. "You’ve done enough as it is, you meddling pipsqueak! Is it true you’ve offered to punch that tunnel through Pine Hill for nothing?"

"That’s right."

The stranger’s eyes narrowed and he shook a ham-like fist in Tom’s face. "By thunder, I oughta whale the tar out of you right here and now!"

Tom Swift’s jaw jutted out in a surge of anger at the man’s hectoring manner and insulting words.

"Watch where you wave that fist of yours, mister," he said, "or someone may shove it down your throat—and out the other end!"

From the way he stepped forward and doubled up his fists, it was clear that Tom meant business. With his lithe build and muscular arms he was more than a match for the blustering stranger, but Damon Swift quickly interposed himself.

"I’ll handle this, son." Turning to the stranger, he said, "Just who are you?"

"Picken—that’s who I am! Charles Picken, head of Picken Engineering. We had the tunnel job all wrapped up before you guys came down from your ivory tower to compete with us, and now this kid with his big-kahuna company has cheated us out of a mega-million-dollar contract!"

"Tom Swift never cheated you or anyone else out of anything!" exploded an angry voice from a darkened corner of the room. It was Bud! "The Water Commission was mighty grateful for Tom’s offer, and so is every other civic-minded person in this town!"

Holding back his anger, Tom said, "I have my own reasons—scientific reasons—for taking on this project. Besides, Shopton needs water badly, and I’m quite sure I can drive this tunnel much faster than you could possibly handle the job."

"Yeah, kid—‘scientific reasons’! And I got a payroll to make!" Picken sneered. "But I’ll see to it that you never do complete this tunnel. I got a lotta friends here in this town. Take it from me, you’re in for trouble!" He turned away sharply and steamed out of the meeting room, trailing cigar smoke.

"Tom, that guy is spoiling for a fight," muttered Bud, rushing up. "I think we should have settled this right here and now. He was sure asking for it!"

Uncle Jake answered for Tom, who found himself struggling with many emotions at once. "That wouldn’t solve anything, Bud. Let him go."

"You made a fine presentation, Tom," said Mr. Swift, laying a hand on Tom’s shoulder. "We’re not competing unfairly with anyone. Picken has had years to put something together."

But Tom only gave a nod and hurried from the room, leaving Bud and Mr. Aturian perplexed and his father saddened and helpless.

Nevertheless, when Tom arrived at Swift Enterprises early the following morning, he knew it was his duty to report the threat to Harlan Ames.

"I’ve heard of Picken," said the security chief. "He has a bad reputation all over the state for using unscrupulous tactics against business competitors. We’ll keep an eye on him!" Ames hesitated. Then he added: "You might like to know that Steve has gone back to Washington. We didn’t need any more advice from him."

"Thanks for telling me," responded the young inventor sullenly.

In his private laboratory, Tom tried to lose himself in work on the South Pole blaster. A new idea had occurred to him for improving the efficiency of the electrodes.

Using a small calculator, Tom quickly worked out a number of equations. His mental estimates had been right. By making an innovative redesign, he should be able to make the blaster operate at anywhere from twenty-five to fifty percent higher speeds than he had first planned—perhaps much more. Unfortunately the new design would not be completed in time for testing in action during the Pine Hill dig.

He was interrupted by word from Trent that the three government scientists who had been assigned to accompany the polar expedition had arrived at Swift Enterprises. They had been invited to the facility days early to observe the atomic earth blaster on its first real test at Pine Hill.

The scientists were conducted to the laboratory where the blaster was being completed. In the absence of Mr. Swift, who was away on business at the Citadel, Tom and Bud acted as a greeting committee for the three visitors.

The oldest member of the trio was Dr. Anton Faber, a world-famous zoologist. He was a tall, slender, gray-haired man, with keen, steel-gray eyes peering out through thick-lensed glasses.

"Allow me to introduce my two companions," he said, after shaking hands with Tom and Bud. "On my right is Daryl Blake, a brilliant young botanist—so he describes himself!—who was most eager to volunteer for this trip."

Blake, a husky, red-haired chap with a grinning, freckled face, promptly stuck out his hand and gave each of the boys a warm handclasp.

"Thanks for the orchids, Doc. But it really is true about my being all het up over this assignment. I’m anxious to experiment with some of those Antarctic plants I’ve read about."

"I didn’t even know they had plants at the South Pole," said Bud.

"Yes, indeed," replied Blake, "and mighty interesting ones, too. Some of them are no bigger than a pinhead because they have only a few hours of direct sunlight every year in which to grow."

Dr. Faber interrupted with a smile. "Tut-tut, my dear chap. If you get started on your favorite subject, we may all be standing here till midnight. And I have yet to introduce the third member of our party—Mr. Harold Voorhees."

Voorhees was a materials-science engineer who specialized in extreme low-temperature applications. A big, handsome, powerfully built fellow, with blond hair and light-blue eyes, he had a smug, self-satisfied air which caused Bud to take an instant dislike to him.

"Rather young to be engaged in this type of work, aren’t you?" he said, smiling at the boys in a patronizing manner.

Bud drawled mischievously, "We have signed permission slips from our parents! But tell you what, Hal, old man. Maybe you’d like to take a look and see if we’re dry behind the ears yet."

Voorhees’ smile faded abruptly. "I’m afraid that remains to be seen. Incidentally, I would prefer not to be called
Hal
. It’s a nickname I’ve never cared for."

"Hmm," Bud replied. "What nickname do you like?"

To smooth over the awkward moment, Tom suggested that they have lunch immediately, then return to the laboratory for a look at the nearly completed blaster. "I’m having a duplicate blaster made over at the Swift Construction Company," he added. "You never know what can happen."

"No," said Voorhees. "You never do—do you."

Returning later that afternoon after a sumptuous western-flavored lunch prepared by Chow Winkler, Daryl Blake remarked, "Say, guys, if your atomic pile ever goes on the blink, you can probably run the machine off one of those shirts that cook of yours seems to favor." Chow’s shirt of the day had been a bizarre jumble of gold, indigo, and magenta in a pattern resembling a fight to the death among schools of fish.

"We’ve thought of it," Bud laughed.

"If he’s going along on the expedition, I presume he’s been cleared by your security," said Voorhees—a remark that gave Tom an inner chill. He quickly changed the subject.

"This one," Tom announced, gesturing at the partially-opened blaster, "is the model I plan to use for digging the tunnel day after tomorrow. Unlike the final version we’ll use to penetrate the ice cap, this one will operate through unreeling power cables. The atomic pile will be installed as a separate module just before we leave."

Voorhees was scrutinizing the section in which the small atomic pile would later be installed. "I can tell you right now that you’re way off the beam on this part," he scoffed. "The thickness of these heat-transfer walls is entirely inadequate. Of course the correct design depends on certain thermodynamic formulas with which you probably aren’t familiar."

"Are these the ones you mean?" asked Tom politely, pulling out his notebook and rapidly jotting down a number of formulas.

With a startled look, Voorhees glanced at them and admitted grudgingly that they were indeed the ones he had been referring to.

"Perhaps we’d better check them right now," suggested Tom. "If I
have
made a mistake, I certainly want to clear it up as soon as possible."

Using pocket calculators and a handbook of tables borrowed from one of the company engineers, Tom and Voorhees proceeded to work out the formulas.

Tom was the first to finish. A few minutes later Voorhees also completed his calculations. As he compared his answer with Tom’s, his face flushed a dull red.

"Well—hmm—I—uh—seem to have spoken too soon. Your figures seem to be quite correct after all."

Bud clapped Voorhees on the back and laughed. "Don’t take it hard,
Hal
old boy; even the greatest minds have an off-day once a millennium or so!"