Tom Swift and His Flying Lab (14 page)

"But it is necessary," concluded Señor Rigoledo. "At any rate, your party is not known by sight, so there is no harm in driving you to the city, where you may wish to sight-see. This night, perhaps you will do me the honor of dining with me at the University of Santa Honore, our national institute. Only the most trustworthy of the faculty will be present, I assure you."

Tom accepted politely. Then he asked, "Incidentally, have you been in touch with my father and the group from our State Department?"

"To be sure," responded Rigoledo. "They arrived last night and left again very early this morning, all of them together. They are traveling by highway to a mountain town, Alta Bapcho. But you will not worry, please. A squad of police accompanies them in unmarked vehicles."

"Did my father have any message to relay to me?"

"Only his love, and his hopes that your flight was a comfortable one."

After Señor Rigoledo signed off, an assistant provided Tom and Rip with the precise route coordinates for their new destination. They reached the army base without further incident, setting the
Sky Queen
down on a hardpacked dirt parade-ground near the barracks. Several official government cars, polished and new, awaited to transport them to Cristobal.

"Maybe I should stay behind, Tom," Arv Hanson volunteered. But Tom shook his head.

"I don’t think it’s necessary. The ship will be electronically sealed, and we’ll be signaled automatically if anyone tries any monkey business. Besides," he continued, looking around, "these soldiers look more than capable of protecting her from any rebel attacks."

Señor Rigoledo’s estimate of twelve kilometers turned out to be "as the crow flies." The trip to the city wound back and forth down narrow roads and up shear mountain passes for more than two hours before the three-car convoy had passed the city limits. But it was not a waste of time, for Tom and the others enjoyed a colorful telling of the centuries-long history of the country, of its dictators and revolutions and the eventual adoption of the present democratic system. All the drivers spoke excellent English with a slight British accent.

Cristobal proved to be a study in stark contrasts. Late-model cars screeched with horns blaring around llamas with saddle-packs. There was much poverty, and the streets thronged with beggars. But there were also modern skyscrapers, and the Old City preserved the decaying splendor of the era of the
conquistadores
.

As they left the business district behind and drove through a hilly section of the city, they found themselves surrounded by large residences with high walls, as well as gated suburban-type tracts.

"Armed guards everywhere," Bud commented to Tom. "Guess it’s not easy being rich in a country like this."

"It’s not easy being poor, either, Bud," Tom replied dryly. "Most of those people we saw on the street looked malnourished."

"Maybe your uranium finds will help this society," Bud responded thoughtfully. "That is, if we can help them put down the rebels."

By prior arrangement the three government cars came to a stop in the Plaza of the Heroes, in front of the National Museum. Travelers and drivers exited to stretch their legs. It was mid-afternoon, and there was time for sightseeing before checking into the Palacio del Colon, Cristobal’s finest hotel, where the group would spend the night. They were not due at the
Universidad
until 7:30 PM.

"I think I’ll take in the National Library," said Tom.

"Arv and I have decided on the
Areña Desportes,"
Hank Sterling declared. "The Sports Arena. And other such educational pursuits." Rip quickly fell in with them.

Bud decided that he wanted to be driven to the hotel to shower and change before walking about the city.

"How about you, Chow?" asked Tom.

"Oh, don’t you worry about me," the Texan replied with a mysterious wink. "I got me some ideas. I’ll meet you fellers back at that big hotel."

"All right," said Tom. "You all have your televocs in case you run into trouble. Try to stay within the three-mile range."

"Man, this whole
city’s
in range," Rip Hulse remarked.

As agreed, the entire group met back in the lobby of the hotel at 5:30—all but Chow. In his place was his driver, Ramon, carrying a load of bags and packages. "Mr. Winkler wanted to shop for some most particular items," Ramon explained. "He made his purchases very quickly, and asked me to drive them to the hotel and have them delivered to his room while he did what he called ‘moseying.’ I told him I was not permitted to leave him behind, and I thought he understood. But as I was placing his purchases in the auto I saw him go by in a local taxi. He
waved
at me!"

Bud grinned and slapped Ramon comfortingly on the back. "That’s our guy! Don’t worry about it."

But it was Tom who was worried. He activated his televoc and spoke aloud, so the others could hear. "Chow? Do you read me? This is Tom."

"I know it is, boss—I kin see you with my own eyeballs!" Chow had come up behind the group while they were talking.

"Where have you been?" Tom demanded.

"Oh, here’n there, y’might say," answered the Texan. "Thanks for playin’ mule fer me, Ramon. I’ll put in a good word." He grabbed up his bags and headed off toward the elevator.

"Well," said Tom, mystified. "I guess that’s that!"

An hour later the group was gathered again in front of the Palacio, all looking fresh-pressed and handsome in the expertly tailored tuxedos provided by Señor Rigoledo’s ministry, which had been waiting for them in their rooms. Again, Chow was late.

"Now
where is he?" asked Arv Hanson, slightly irritated.

"Great day!" exclaimed Tom. "Get a load of what’s coming!"

It was Chow of course. He wore his tuxedo trousers as provided, but the rest of his outfit, from boots to bolo-tie to ten-gallon hat, was definitely his own unique concept of formal wear. Most alarming was his shirt, shimmering with a multiplicity of bright colors and angular patterns. Strangely enough, the effect was entirely pleasing, if not entirely dignified.

"Are you trying to get us deported?" Bud cried in good-humored anguish.

"Please, Budworth, my boy," replied Chow with mock hauteur. "I’m jest aimin’ to give these folks a right proper impression!"

The dinner at the University was a great success, capped by the unexpected appearance of Jaime-Carlos Fernans y Zuniga, the
Presidente
of the Republic, a tall, courtly octogenarian with iron gray hair. "It is greatly with honor, and with hope, that we greet our scientific friends from the North," he said in halting English.

Hank Sterling sidled up to Tom and inconspicuously drew something from his pocket. It was the Montaguayan dollar, the altaesito. "Look at this, chief," he said. "An engraved picture of the first president of the Republic, who is also the
only
president of the Republic." The picture was of a very young President Fernans.

"Stability," Tom remarked.

"To say the least!"

As Tom was about to enter his car for the ride back to the hotel, he hesitated and strode over to Rigoledo. "This was a wonderful honor," Tom said, and Rigoledo beamed. Then Tom added, "But I’m still a little concerned about my father. Can you tell me anything about what he and the others are doing?"

Señor Rigoledo looked sympathetic but shook his head. "I am responsible to my government, and can say nothing more than what you already know. It is a sensitive matter involving both Montaguaya and the United States, and your father brings to the table a certain expertise lacking elsewhere. I must ask you to be satisfied with that for now. But I tell you what," he added, "if it is permitted I will try to arrange for you to speak with him by radio, perhaps from your Flying Lab."

"I’d be grateful for that," Tom responded, shaking Rigoledo’s hand.

Tom was the last to arrive back at the Palacio del Colon. As he left the elevator on the floor that was reserved entirely for the
Sky Queen
party, he was surprised to find the others gathered in the hallway.

"What’s up? Is something wrong?"

"Chow’s been holding out on us," said Bud. "He’s discovered something important."

Tom shifted his gaze to Chow, who had loosened his vest and was puffed-up with pride. "Y’see, Tom, when I left Ramon behind, t’weren’t jest orneriness. I had me a plan."

"Where did you go?"

"To the big airport. See, I got to thinkin’-like. That jerkface on the radio, I figgered he’d want to
see
what was happening, y’know?"

"Of course!" Tom exclaimed. "He’d be in, or at least near, the airport. Maybe even work there!"

"Now yer cookin’. So I hightailed it over there an’ spent some hours nosin’ around. I speak Spanish like the best of ’em, cause o’ livin’ most of my life near the Rio Grande. I was right subtle, like a reg’lar detective."

"What did you find out?"

Chow’s face broke into a big grin as he spun out his story slowly, for dramatic effect. "I remembered ever’thing you and Rip said about that mystery jet, the one that snatched up that parachute guy. Now, if’n I was a jet, where would I go? Can’t land like the
Queen
in some little corral. No sirree. Pretty much had t’be the airport. So I asked a little here an’ a little there—"

"Chow!" interrupted Tom,
"What
did you find out?"

"That’s what I’m tryin’ to tell you, boss. Brand my spyglass! That plane you’re lookin’ fer is right there in a hangar at the airport! I know,
cause I saw it myself!"

"YOU SAW the jet?" Chow’s revelation left Tom almost speechless!

"Sure did, with these two eyes o’ mine. One of the runway jockeys pointed me in the right direction—a big private hangar,
numero 18-Norte
they call it. So I took me a little stroll on the roof—"

"On the
roof?"

"Well sure, cause it was flat, mostly, and had some skylight winders along the top. So I wiped a little section clear…" Here Chow acted it out. "An’ I looked down inside. Sure enough, thar she was! Mos’ly gray, but with special markin’s on the side, color o’—lemme see—" He pointed at a red splotch on his shirt. "Like that there."

Rip Hulse was grinning. "It sure matches the coloration of our phantom attacker. Cowboy, ya done good!" Chow beamed at the compliment.

Tom nodded his agreement, but with furrowed brow. "Yes. But listen everybody, Enterprises needs you and—I need you. Nobody expects you to take chances like that."

Bud looked innocent. "Chances? Us?"

The excitement over for the evening, they all returned to their rooms. Tom, after some thought, made a call to Señor Rigoledo at his private mobile number. Rigoledo promised that the Cristobal police would immediately lock down the jet and take its owner into custody. "And then we shall commence a thorough investigation," he concluded. Tom was satisfied for the moment.

The next morning, following a hearty Latin-style breakfast, the Swift party stood in front of the hotel preparing to depart Cristobal. Chow pulled Tom aside.

"Boss, I been thinkin’. How’s ’bout if I stay here in the city for a couple more days?"

"But why?" asked Tom, very surprised.

"Well, I sorta made some friends over at that airport, whatcha call
contacts
. I think I jest might be able to find out some more about the gang that owns that jet. Mebbe I kin find that parachute guy!"

"Chow, will you promise me to avoid risky situations? And bring in the police when you have something?" insisted Tom.

Chow held up his right hand. "On my honor as a Texan an’ a prairie cook!"

Tom laughed and said, "That’s
got
to be good enough!"

When Tom and the others finally arrived back at the army base, they were relieved to find the
Sky Queen
just as they had left it. After a quick check of all onboard systems, Tom thanked the base commander and boarded the majestic stratoship. Soon the Flying Lab was roaring toward the clouds.

"What’s the program today, Tom?" asked Rip Hulse from his copilot’s seat.

Tom clipped a printed sheet onto a holder next to Rip. "These are the air routes over Verano we’ve been authorized to follow. Rigoledo feels the government’s recent offensive in these areas temporarily drove the rebels back into the more distant mountains."

"So we won’t get shot out of the sky," observed Rip.

"That’s the general idea. Now I’ll leave the driving to you while I set up the Damonscope."

Bud put a hand on Tom’s sleeve. "Mind if I tag along? You know I like the smell of new transistors in the morning!"

"Great."

The Damonscope was moved to a small compartment on the bottom deck of the
Sky Queen
. It was mounted frontside-down, its lens assembly inserted into a port on the floor, which had then been carefully sealed to prevent any pressure leakage. Next to the boxlike console was a monitor and recorder, which was tied in to the ship’s satellite-based global positioning system.

"We’ll know exactly where the real estate on the screen is located," Tom explained to Bud.

Bud tapped on the outside of the device. "Now comes the part I really like, where you tell me how the thing works!"

Tom smiled at his pal. "Okay. The radiation given off by radioactive materials like uranium comes in three kinds. So-called
alpha rays
are actually nucleons, helium nuclei set loose by the process of atomic decomposition. They’re heavy, slow-moving particles and almost never get beyond the ore itself. Then there are the
beta rays,
which are just free electrons shooting out of the material at a fair percentage of the speed of light."

"In other words,
fast."

"Yep. Because they’re so fast and so small, they manage to get a little distance, especially if they make it out into the open air. Old-fashioned Geiger counters react to those particles—and you’ll notice how uranium prospectors have to hold their instruments low to the ground. You can’t really detect deep ore that way, much less work from a cruising plane."

"Got it."