Tom Swift and His Flying Lab (12 page)

While waiting for the lifter work to be completed, Tom was restless. As he paced the auxiliary lab of the underground hangar, Bud suggested that he try to solve the mystery of the symbols on the strange missile from parts unknown. "I guess I forgot to tell you, Bud," said Tom, "that I think I’ve made some more progress on it."

"So what does it say?" Bud asked.

"I can’t quite tell you
that
just yet, but I think the cluster of symbols next to the two triangles represent nine radical solutions to the basic tensor equations for—"

"Ohh-kay. I’ll let it rest there." Bud grinned. He left his friend. Several hours later when he met him again, Tom had to admit that he had not made any further progress on interpreting the strange symbols.

"I guess solving it will have to wait until we get back from Verano," he said.

"When do we leave?" Bud asked.

"As soon as we make a successful test hop," Tom answered.

Bud asked if Tom were going to take anyone on the trip in place of his father. Tom said he had already made arrangements with Arvid Hanson.

Two days later the
Sky Queen
was finally ready for its second test. This time Tom chose to make the test after midnight to minimize public view. After the take-off, he put the plane through a series of tortuous maneuvers for over two hours. The
Sky Queen
came through with flying colors.

"Now I’m going to try for an altitude record," Tom said to Rip and Bud.

With the instrument panel indicating that the refitted lifters were working to perfection, Tom poured oxyhydralytic fuel into the roaring engines. The altimeter swung up, up, up—ten, twenty, fifty, eighty thousand feet! It kept soaring higher and higher! The curvature of the planet beneath them was now plainly visible, and the star-laden sky was silky black.

"Tom, we’re higher than man has ever gone in a jet plane!" Rip cried. "You’re in rocket territory now!"

"Do you think it’s safe?" Bud asked apprehensively. "If we go much higher we’ll be hurled right out of this world! I can see the headlines—
Tom Swift Adrift In Space!"

"Don’t worry," the excited pilot replied. "This is as high as we’re going for the time being. Is the pressure system okay?"

Bud checked the dials on the big panel. "Tight as an eleventh-inning ball game," he replied.

"Then we’ll sit up here for a while," Tom said. "I want to test the automatic stabilizers."

The
Sky Queen
hung in space while the pilots and the other crew members had sandwiches and hot drinks on the lounge deck, sitting like passengers on a luxury ocean cruise and enjoying the majestic view through its wall-high picture-windows. Half an hour later Tom said he was ready to descend.

"I’d advise you not to drop too fast, Tom," Rip spoke up. "You know atmospheric friction plays strange tricks."

But Tom brought the
Sky Queen
down as easily as if he had been flying an ordinary plane no higher than the clouds. The test flight had been a stunning success!

That evening at the Swift home Sandy and her friend Brynna arranged a gay
bon voyage
dinner party. Bashalli Prandit was there at Tom and Bud’s request, along with Rip Hulse, Bud Barclay and a number of Enterprises employees, including Roberts the hangar night watchman. When the party was about to break up, he called Tom aside.

"I just wanted to say again how grateful I am to you and your father," Roberts said humbly. "Thanks for the second chance."

"By the way," Tom asked, "have you heard anything from your son lately?"

"Not a thing. His wife is extremely worried. I hope you find out something about him while you’re in Montaguaya."

"I’ll certainly try," Tom promised. He didn’t tell Roberts that locating his son’s lost party was part of the reason for the Swift expedition.

Early the next morning, as the expeditioners prepared to board the Flying Lab, Mrs. Swift, Sandy, and Hank Sterling’s wife and young son were on hand to wish the travelers Godspeed.

"Do be careful, Tom," his mother begged, "and don’t take chances. I know that sounds like boring motherly advice, but maybe you’ll remember it. Oh, one more thing—"

She took a small, neatly wrapped package from her purse and handed it to Tom.

"A very sweet young lady with an accent dropped it off at the house last night. And don’t worry, it’s been x-rayed with that detector machine of yours."

Tom grinned and hugged his mother. "I’ll bet it’s just the thing for a snack in the stratosphere, Mom. If you happen to pass by The Glass Cat, tell her I said
Thanks!"

Tom, Bud, Rip, Chow, Hank Sterling, and Arvid Hanson climbed aboard the gleaming ship. They stood in the open doorway a moment to wave goodbye. Then the hatch panel folded upward and sealed itself shut.

Soon the great lifting engines roared to life. Minutes later the mighty
Sky Queen
was off on her maiden trip!

IN LITTLE OVER two hours the
Sky Queen
was flying above the Caribbean, nearing the coast of Costa Rica, which they would cross en route to the South American mainland. A short time later, Central America behind them, the stratoship was over the Pacific Ocean. At the prearranged point Tom banked the Flying Lab and headed inland. Soon they were running along the spine of the mighty Peruvian Andes, leading them to their destination.

"Bogey on the radarscope!" Rip suddenly announced. "A plane’s coming at us from two o’clock, closing fast!"

As Tom maneuvered the ship out of the way, he caught a glimpse of a sleek European jet fighter as it flashed across the nose of the
Sky Queen.
It was slate-gray in color and bore bright red markings.

"That guy must be crazy!" Bud howled.

"He may be crazy, but he’s making deliberate passes at us," Rip warned. "Here he comes again from eleven o’clock."

"He’s firing on us!" Bud cried, as a bullet careened against the hull below them. "If he puts a hole in this pressurized cabin, we’ll be gone gooses!"

Already Tom was arcing the ship skyward, getting more altitude, as Rip grabbed a pair of electronic binoculars and studied the rogue jet, which was now circling like a vulture far below.

"Tchernou 4-041, manufactured by the Hungarians in 1990," he declared crisply. "It’s their high-tech fighter model, but this one’s been modified—it’s a snagger-tooth."

"What’s that?" asked Tom, his voice tense.

"That means it’s specially equipped to snag materiel directly off the runway without landing," Rip explained.

Meanwhile Bud, at the communications console, had been attempting to contact the pilot. "No response. Shall I try to raise the Peruvian authorities?"

"Not just yet," Tom replied. "It’s possible this is some sort of mistake. It’s happened before."

"Look—he’s broken pattern!" exclaimed Rip, nodding toward the radarscope. The blip was no longer circling but appeared to be headed westerly, toward the ocean. Was it a ruse to lure the
Sky Queen
back within range?

Suddenly a slight shudder passed through the ship. "Getting a little turbulence," Bud commented. "High-altitude effects?"

Tom’s eyes surveyed the instruments. "I’m not—" His thought was interrupted by a warning beep as an indicator light began to flicker. "We’re losing pressure in storage cubicle five on the bottom deck!"

"I’ll say we’re losing it," Rip Hulse muttered. "We’re leaking like a sieve! Now we’ll
have
to take her down."

Tom stood up from his chair, tearing off his headset. "Rip, you and Bud take over. I’m going down there to see what we’re dealing with."

The young inventor clambered down the inter-deck stairway, pausing only long enough to grab an emergency oxygen mask and fit it over his face. A Swift invention, the mask in-pumped, filtered, and compressed atmospheric oxygen, thus eliminating the need for an airtank.

Tom reached the sliding access panel for the cubicle in a run. Peering through a small porthole in the panel, his worst fears were confirmed. The loading hatch in the floor of the cubicle was yawning wide open!

"Good night, no wonder we’re getting vibration and pressure loss!" he said to himself. Intercomming the control deck, he briefly outlined the situation and inquired as to exterior air pressure and temperature.

"We’re low enough down now; air pressure is satisfactory," came Bud’s reply. "But it’s freezing cold out there, Tom. Shall we continue descending?"

"No. Hover at constant altitude. I don’t want to make things too convenient for our attacker. Before I go into the cubicle, I’ll slip on thermal gauntlets. That should protect me for the few seconds it’ll take to secure the hatch."

Donning the gauntlets, Tom slid open the panel doorway, and then closed and pressurized it behind him. Like all such internal doors in the Flying Lab, the door doubled as an airlock, consisting of two airtight panels separated by just enough space for a man to stand.

Bracing himself against the wind and cold, Tom popped the seal of the inner panel and slid it aside. An icy blast almost knocked him back into the airlock. He squinted his eyes, forcing his way forward toward the hatch cover, which was leaning at an angle against a bulkhead. He grabbed its heavy bulk and yanked it forward to slam it closed.

Suddenly an unseen figure pounced from the shadows like a jungle cat! Wearing a thermal garment and pressure mask, he viciously elbowed Tom aside and threw himself through the hatchway into the bright blue sky below. For an instant Tom saw the falling man gliding away into space, silhouetted against the snow of the Andean peaks.

As Tom struggled to regain his balance from the unexpected shove, the
Sky Queen
gave a lurch. The violent motion, coupled. with the suction caused by the air rushing past the open hatch, threw Tom flat on his chest and nearly catapulted him out into space.

With every ounce of strength he held on to the base of a stanchion with one hand and gripped the edge of the hatch with the other. There was an intercom phone only a few feet away. The handle to close the hatch was just above him. But both of these were as far out of Tom’s reach as the moons of Mars!

The landscape whirled crazily below Tom, who was beginning to feel faint. Inch by inch he was being drawn through the opening. With his last bit of reserve energy he dug his toes in and forced himself back.

But it was no use. As fast as Tom pulled back, he was sucked forward again.
I’m losing it,
he thought.

Then in his last moment of consciousness he felt strong arms close around him, jerking him backwards. There was a clicking sound. The door to the hatch had closed.

"Tom!"

It was Hanson’s voice. He turned the young inventor over and shook him. "Tom!" he cried again.

In a moment Tom’s senses returned. He looked at Hanson gratefully, and in a weak, hoarse voice thanked him for the rescue. Presently he sat up.

"What happened?" Hanson asked. "Who opened the hatch?"

"One of our passengers," Tom replied, panting. "An uninvited one."

"Who was it?"

"I don’t know. He jumped."

After applying a salve to some bruises he had received, Tom made his way back up to the cockpit, where he gave a full account of what had happened.

"Crazier and crazier," Bud cried. "And we don’t even know which of the enemy groups he was with."

"Or what he was after," added Rip Hulse.

"Say," said Tom abruptly, "I doubt this guy was committing suicide. I got a glimpse of straps for a parachute harness. Maybe he’s still in the air!"

Bud initiated a wide radar scan. "He’s not down yet," he reported in a few moments. "The winds are carrying him to the southeast, and he’s coming down nice and easy."

At this announcement Tom felt a surge of returning strength. "Tail the guy," he directed Rip. "We’ll just creep along using the lifters. I’ll bet he’s using a maneuverable parachute system, and I want to see where he comes down."

"Ten to one it’s the rebel territory in Verano!" Bud remarked.

Within three minutes they could see the chutist dangling less than a mile ahead. "Maybe we could give him a shave and a haircut with our main jets," joked Hank Sterling, who had come down to join the others on the command deck.

Rip Hulse shook his head. "We’re not going to have a chance. Here comes our friend again."

Peeling off the distant horizon, the mystery jet now came at the
Sky Queen
like a javelin from below. As it roared past, the ship echoed with the impact of aerial bullets. Tom throttled up the lifters in response, and the stratoship zoomed skyward.

Through the downward-slanting portion of the viewport they watched in fascination as the jet neared the descending parachutist. An armlike tubular boom, with a grappling "claw"at the end, was now deployed from the belly of the fighter. At the last moment the craft veered sharply upward.

"Snagged him!" Rip shouted. "Now that snagger will fold in on itself and carry him into the hold of the jet."

"At least we can chase him!" Bud urged.

There was a silent moment. Then Tom said, "No. Let’s inform the authorities in Peru and Montaguaya—and the U.S. State Department. But we don’t need an international incident holding up the expedition."

Returning at last to full horizontal flight, the stratoship resumed its course toward Cristobal, the capital of Montaguaya. Soon the high peaks gave way to the lower coastal range, and in minutes the
Sky Queen
was hovering at twelve thousand feet above the narrow valley that enclosed the city on three sides.

"We greet you, Swift expedition," came the voice of air traffic control at Cristobal International Airport. "Here are your coordinates."

The Flying Lab made its way on lifter power toward the airport. Lacking a runway of thermal-resistant brick, the authorities had arranged for the ship to set down on a large, disused concrete slab that had once been occupied by a warehouse complex. Tom was uneasy when he noted how close the landing area was to residential housing.

"Tom," Bud called out, "something’s interrupting our radio contact."