Tom Swift and His Dyna-4 Capsule (2 page)

"Hmmph. Without a list of unsuspected suspects?"

"I managed," grinned Tom. "There wasn’t a pressure drop after all. As those exterior plasma puffs dispersed—like bursting bubbles—they sent out enough of an electromagnetic pulse to give the
Queen’s
brain—"

"A headache?"

"The pulses couldn’t get through the Tomasite, but they got into the system through the hull sensors. The
Queen
gave us some false alarm readings, and the pulse that caused that last swerve also caused an emergency shutdown of one of the lighting circuits—just for a moment, thankfully."

Sandy nodded but looked a little disappointed. "I was hoping for a little danger and excitement, big brother—and a juicy mystery. When you and Bud go off anywhere..." She halted herself midsentence. Her sympathetic look told Tom that she understood the concealed pang reflected in his face.

The huge craft’s jet lifters let the
Sky Queen
down easy in an open stretch of desert in the area near the southern border of Nevada known as the Nevada Test Site, owned by the United States Department of Energy. "Not exactly prime resort land," Sandy commented wryly. "Except for the cactus, it’s flat as a pancake."

Tom pointed through the viewpane. "Well, there’s Bunyon Butte on the horizon. And
there
—our welcoming committee. You’ll come out with me to meet them, won’t you?"

The pretty blond girl shrugged. "Oh, I suppose. After flying
this
far."

The two young Shoptonians shook hands with the little knot of men, some in business suits, some in pocket-protectors. "Good to meet you Tom, Sandy," said the first to offer his hand. "Jack Walkin, Governor’s Office." He introduced the others—officials of the DOE, representatives of the private corporation managing the Nevada Test Site, and even a small physicist. "Nuclear physics," explained the man. "Hyram Beecher. Cal Tech. I can’t tell you any more."

Sandy smiled. "I’m
sure
it’s a lot to remember."

"Those three things? Not at all. —Oh, I see. Security restrictions."

"My father tried to explain the Subcommittee’s concerns regarding the time-transformer project," said Tom. "But I don’t think I quite understand. The full-scale installation needs a great deal of power, and building it at the Citadel—"

"Obviously a logical first idea," said one of the suits. "But our thinking is that your New Mexico nuclear facility is just too close to the good citizens of that beautiful state."

"Close? But the town of Tenderly—"

"You’re forgetting the Native American reservation. And, as a matter of fact, the public highways."

"Built by the taxpayers," a man added darkly.

Tom nodded but objected, "Still, the government has no problems with the Citadel’s operation. There’s no danger of radiation or explosion with the dyna-4 capsule."

"That’s a matter of dispute," stated Hyram Beecher. "You fellows would be futzing around with the spacetime continuum right next to a nuclear reactor. Spacetime!—space
and
time!"

"I know what the term means, sir."

"Oh, surely you do," said Mr. Walkin soothingly and hastily. "You’ve been to the moon, and, uh, many places."

"Tom did sort’ve
save the world
a few times," snipped Sandy with a bland smile.

"You’re scaling up a near-microscopic effect tremendously, by a factor of billions," Beecher declared. "Not everything scales up smoothly without effect—bird wings, for example. Your Dr. Kupp’s mathematics are somewhat hard to follow..."

Tom smiled. "So are his verbal explanations. But the model works, you know."

One of the men said, "We’re told there might be—conceivably—the production of a quasi-singularity. Isn’t that the term, Dr. Beecher?"

The young inventor was incredulous. "A
black hole?
"

"Oh, let’s avoid loaded terms. ‘Black hole’ is a bit pejorative. Perhaps a localized ripple in spacetime. Let’s just call it that."

"Asymmetries,
space-tides
in the continuum, could produce a breach in the reactor," insisted Beecher. "Perhaps worse. Perhaps a runaway reaction! My equations suggest such a thing. At least a possibility. The possibility of a possibility."

Thoughtful for a moment, Tom wiped the sun-sweat from his brow. "I see. Well..."

"Washington has given Swift Enterprises many privileges," snapped the Friend of the Taxpayers. "You can’t expect us to fall on our swords for you. The politics of the situation—"

"We don’t demand public
hara-kiri
, sir," Tom responded evenly. "So—I have my explanation. Now where exactly is the site you want us to use?"

"Look that direction, Tom," pointed Walkin. "Those small shacks and concrete structures—see them? When we were using this site for underground testing—before the Treaty—those were blockhouses for observation."

"So the blast cavity is below?"

"Nearby and deep down, yes. The location was selected because of the density and strength of the surrounding rock."

"As well as the radioactive absorption capacity of the impacted sand stratum," noted Beecher. "A surrounding layer of fulguritic glass, you know."

"In effect you have available to you an enormous, hardened underground dome in which to locate the critical parts of your, er, time device," finished Jack Walkin. "Frankly, this was a condition imposed by my boss, the Governor. We’re committed to keeping deadly radiation away from the citizenry."

"That sounds like a very admirable policy," commented Sandy dryly. "Dead people don’t vote, do they."

"Not in this state!"

Tom invited the group aboard the Flying Lab for a boggle or two, then lifted off. He flew in a tight circle low to the ground, running several of the
Sky Queen
’s specialized instruments, including the ground-probing penetradar and LRGM gravity-mapper. Finally he used his telesampler to take specimens of the subsurface environs of the great hollow space deep below.

Tom provided his report as Sandy landed the
Queen
. "Basalt, heavy on the pyroxene; stratified granite; magnetite; carbonaceous silicate... The walls of the dome have been fuse-crystallized."

"All as reported to your people," said the representative of the Bureau of Land Management. "Strong stuff, you’ll agree."

Tom smiled. "Yes. We’ll use our own technology to do a bit of carving and sculpting, of course. But the blast-dome looks fine for the main mechanism."

"I’ll inform the Subcommittee of your cooperation," said one of the suits. "Always appreciated. In these challenging times."

Tom re-smiled. "Are there ever times that
aren’t
challenging?"

The flutter of a cellphone caused many eyes to dart about and many hands to pat their owners’ bodies. Walkin’s turned out to be the culprit. "Walkin. Yes. Oh? ...Well, I’ll see what he wants to do." Holding the phone he turned to Tom. "Kind of a peculiar thing—someone at the nearest access gate is asking if he could speak to you before you leave."

The youth raised an eyebrow. "Oh? I didn’t realize this meeting of ours had been publicized."

"Oh, it wasn’t," responded Walkin quickly. "But you know..."

"Things
do
get around, don’t they," observed Sandy in a smug tone. She had little respect for suits
or
pocket-protectors.

Tom asked Walkin who the visitor was. "The name? Mm... the attendant says he didn’t give one, but claims you know him. We’re supposed to pass along—er—‘red-haired and ready to go.’"

"Oh!" said Sandy.

"Oh no," said Tom Swift—but with half a smile. "All right. But rather than talk over the cell, I’ll walk over and give him some face time. Where is the gate?"

Walkin pointed through the big viewport. "That direction. About, oh, twenty-two miles."

"We’ll go air," Tom pronounced dryly.

The two-member flight crew landed gently in the desert only yards from the gate and the parking lot. As expected, a diminutive red-haired figure awaited them, grinning, anxious, and slightly apologetic.

Gabriel Knorff, freelance photo-journalist, had inserted himself into the life of Swift Enterprises on the fly, by means of a personal rocket backpack. Seeking originally to photograph Swift Enterprises’ fledgling rocket ship, Gabe proved a lively and resourceful individual—friendly enough to be amusing, headstrong enough to be annoying at times. And inevitably underfoot. He had joined the Enterprises expedition to the phantom satellite, Earth’s tiny second moon, and had played a role in a couple other Swiftian exploits as well.
If Bud were standing here
, Tom thought,
he’d be grimacing.
Bud Barclay’s feelings about Gabe Knorff were a wry mix. But Tom and Sandy had come to like the young go-getter.

"Hi, you two!" Gabe called out. "Surprise!—I know, not necessarily a surprise you want."

"At least the security gate kept you out this time," Tom said as he shook hands.

Gabe winked. "Let’s
say
that’s true."

Sandy giggled. "Oh Gabe, how have you been?"

The young man shrugged. "Fortesque, Utah, is how I’ve been. Nice town. Teeny tiny town. Think Shopton, New York, without Swift Enterprises. They’re all excited about the new shopping mall—
two
nail salons."

"How’d you end up there?" asked Tom.

"I hope I
haven’t
ended up there. Please don’t dash my hopes, Tom. I’m determined to make a name for myself even if I have to change it to something else."

Sandy asked curiously, "How did you know Tomonomo and I would be here today?"

"Oh, you know—
sources
," smiled Gabe. "But guys, I’m not here for a picture and an interview. Strange but true, I’m not here for
myself
at all. I’m on a mission."

The three sat down inside the gatehouse waiting area and Knorff commenced what promised to be a story as quirky as the teller.

"I’ve been working as a photographer and layout man for a glossy mag called
Peak Experience
. I see blank looks. The magazine is known the world over. I mean that literally—you find it in the pouch on the back of the seat in front of you, next to the air-sickness bag."

"I’m afraid the
Queen
doesn’t carry either," Tom commented.

"Well, think about it—I get a commission. Anyway, someone noticed my name—it’s kind of distinctive—and came walking into my studio. I’d left the door up. See, my studio is also the garage of my rented house.

"So here’s this nice little lady asking if I could put her in touch with Tom Swift, Space Cadet."

"Why didn’t she just call him at Enterprises?" Sandy inquired skeptically. "Or just send an email or even one of those white square things. What are they called? ...Letters."

"We do get a lot of ‘incoming’," Tom acknowledged. "It can be tough to get through."

"To get through and get
noticed
," Gabe corrected him. "She felt she needed an ‘in,’ and of course I was so flattered I was compelled to take her on."

The young inventor nodded. "Now comes the moment where foreshadowing becomes plot. Please don’t dash
my
hopes."

Gabe chuckled. "Okay. Her name is Mina Finch. Mild, soft-spoken type. She looks like somebody’s nanny, but actually she was a housekeeper for some retired science bigshot named Eckdal."

"Joeren Eckdal?" asked Tom in surprise.

"Yup. I knew you’d know of him."

"He was an important physicist—nuclear weaponry."

"Mm-hmm," said Gabe. "Not the father of the H-bomb, but a second cousin at the least. Knew his stuff, I guess."

Sandy looked wary. "This doesn’t have something to do with nuclear weapons, does it?"

"No. This little old lady came to me unarmed. It has to do with an inheritance, a will, and a mystery box. So whataya think so far, Tom? Have I caught your interest?"

"Very!" replied Tom.

GABE KNORFF was pleased to have an attentive audience. "Well, you two, the story is complicated, and full of drama and pathos. I don’t entirely follow all the details, but that doesn’t matter—I’m a journalist."

"I see," Tom grinned. "Maybe I should arrange to meet Mina and get it from her directly."

"You’d be willing to?"

"I’m sure I could schedule it."

"How are your next ten minutes?" Gabe jerked a thumb toward the parking lot. "Got her in my van. Air conditioned, natch."

"You’re what they call ‘something else,’ Gabe," commented Sandy.

"We won’t worry about definitions."

Gabe led the two Shoptonians to his van, where Mina Finch awaited in air conditioned comfort. She rolled down the window and offered a dainty hand. "I’m so happy, so grateful to meet you," she said to Tom after being introduced to Sandy as well. "But I’m a bit... embarrassed. This is such a silly, personal matter."

"We Swifts are problem-solvers," Sandy assured her. "It’s genetic."

"Let’s pile into the van," Gabe suggested. "No need to squint and sweat out here."

Inside, taking a deep breath, the gray-haired little lady began her story. "This is all about an inheritance."

"From Dr. Eckdal, I’d guess," nodded Tom. "Gabe told us."

"That’s right," she confirmed. "Where shall I start? Dr. Eck—he liked me to call him that—was well-known and controversial decades ago. I’m sure your father would know his name. He worked on hydrogen bomb development, you know, and advised the President. During the 1960’s, crowds used to shout at him and protest. Well before your time, you two..."

"But Mother and Daddy told us about it," Sandy put in. "The Peace Movement."

"They misunderstood Dr. Eck. He sincerely believed that a well-developed nuclear defense would promote world peace. But finally, he dropped out—out of sight. He retired to his little farm, just outside Terreton, Idaho, and worked quietly as a private consultant for many years. When he lost his wife to divorce, he hired a series of live-in housekeepers. I was the last. I worked for him forty-one years.

"We became very close. Now don’t misunderstand. It’s just that he was a lonely, aging man who sometimes wanted to talk—
needed
to talk."

"I’m sure you were very important to him," Tom commented reassuringly.