Tom Swift and His Flying Lab (15 page)

"Finally you’ve got
gamma rays,
which are high-energy electomagnetic waves, a notch higher than x-rays on the spectrum. They have mucho penetrating power, and gamma sensors are often used nowadays. Unfortunately, even gammas get too diluted and fuzzy to give an accurate reading at a distance of thousands of feet, which is where we’ll be."

Bud nodded his understanding. "Like looking through a fog. Okay then: big problem. So what did you come up with, Professor?"

"Well, high-energy electromagnetic radiation is sometimes called ionizing radiation, because it has the ability to knock electrons loose from atoms, turning the atoms into
ions
with a positive electrical charge. Now when light waves pass through electrical and magnetic fields, like those that surround ions, they become polarized—the waves march in step, so to speak, instead of their usual jumble."

"Which is what makes polarized sunglasses work."

"Right. So what the Damonscope does is receive and amplify light reflected through the air from the small section of the ground below that we’re interested in. By analyzing the light for polarization effects, we can determine the likelihood of an underground gamma source in that area."

Bud clapped Tom on the back. "You
must
be a genius, pal, to be able to make me think I understand how it works! So go to it, uranium bloodhound!"

When Rip signaled that the ship was in position for the first experimental pass, Tom activated the Damonscope. A view of the terrain below appeared on the screen in muddy-looking black and white tones. But immediately Tom was thrilled to see streaks of green, indicating radioactive emission.

"It works, Bud!" he cried.

As the flight progressed, the greenish patches became brighter and more numerous. Finally Bud said, "Man, that mountain below must be made of solid uranium!"

"Not quite," replied Tom, his expression thoughtful, "but the readings do look mighty interesting."

Suddenly the intercom buzzed. "Tom, you’d better get up here fast!" insisted Rip Hulse. "There’s something going on back at Enterprises!"

Tom and Bud raced up to the command deck. "It’s not a direct link to Shopton," Rip explained. "It’s being relayed through the American embassy in Bogota, Colombia, then on to us by satellite."

A chill ran through Tom as he reached for his headset. Had something happened to his father? To his mother or sister?

"Are you there, Tom?"

"I’m here, Harlan."

"We’re on an encrypted link, extended to you via a tight-beam transmission. We can speak freely."

Tom asked Harlan for his personal identification code, lest he prove to be an impersonator using voice-mimickry technology. When the security chief had provided the code, Tom said, "All right, tell me what’s happened. Obviously something serious."

"Extremely serious," responded Ames. "And the only way to tell you is to say it straight out. The space missile has been stolen!"

"Stolen!"
gasped the young inventor. "But how is that possible? It was in a secured laboratory!"

"Right, and we had it on camera at all hours of the day and night. Nevertheless, at 2:19 this morning I received a call from Bill Poulousa, who was on the monitor shift. As you know, he has nine small screens in front of him, switching constantly from one view to another. He followed protocol and noted the presence of the missile in its normal place at 2:14. On the next camera sweep at 2:18, it had disappeared completely—vanished!"

"The live monitoring is only intermittent, but the taping is continuous," Tom pointed out. "What do the tapes show?"

"That’s just it, Tom," Ames replied. "I’ve been over every second of those tapes a dozen times. The missile just sits there undisturbed until 2:15:51 AM, and then, without a flicker,
it’s just not there anymore!
I’ve spent the day overseeing a search of the grounds, checking fingerprints, examining the radarscope records… and there’s nothing to see."

Tom was silent, his brain churning. "Harlan, it’s possible the projectile was destroyed, or moved somehow, by the beings who sent it. But that doesn’t ring true. They obviously intended for us to decipher their symbols and take some further step to establish communication. They would leave it in place until they knew we had finished the job."

"Then it’s an earthly enemy. But we’ve had no sign at all of any unauthorized intrusion."

There was a pause on both sides. Then Tom said, "Can you transmit to me a copy of last night’s monitor tape over this link?"

"I’m sure of it," Ames responded. "I’ll use databurst compression, which your computers there can interpret. I’ll also send the radarscope output, and the printed log of comings and goings for yesterday and today."

"Thanks. By the way, why are you using the Bogota embassy instead of Cristobal?"

"To tell you the truth, I’ve begun to have some doubts about the motives of the Montaguayan government. Nothing specific. But I’d advise you not to trust anyone there too freely."

Tom signed off and proceeded to couple the radio input to the Flying Lab’s onboard computer system. As he did this, he briefly outlined to the others what Ames had said.

Hank Sterling whistled. "This is mighty serious stuff, Tom."

Tom shook his head. "Serious? No. I’d say
cataclysmic
. The phantom jet proved that there’s some connection between our South American enemies and Central Europe, where there are many underground factions with no love for the U.S. and its ‘hegemonistic ways’."

"Then just what are you saying, Tom?" asked Bud, wide-eyed.

"I’m saying that if we don’t get the missile back before our adversaries unlock its secrets, it could mean
the destruction of the human race on Earth!"

"What I’m saying is just common sense," Tom continued earnestly. "If an unstable terrorist group gets their hands on alien technology, they may not be willing to just issue threats—they’ll be tempted to use what they’ve got, with consequences no one can predict."

The others looked at one another, aghast. "Is there anything we can do?" asked Arv Hanson, his face as pale as his blond hair.

"We’ve got to put all we’ve got into nabbing the thieves!" Bud declared heatedly. "We can call out the FBI, the CIA, the National Guard, the Marines—!"

"The first step is probably to inform that FBI agent, Hal Brenner. I’ve got his card in my wallet. We’ll use the same radio-and-cryptophone setup Harlan used. Bud, you make the call; put Brenner on the intercom to my lab cubicle if he has questions that Harlan probably couldn’t answer." Tom handed Bud the card. "No need to go into details about the missile. Just tell him it’s part of a Swift project with national security implications."

"That’ll get him interested fast," commented Rip Hulse.

"In the meantime I’m going to study what Ames is transmitting to me. Maybe I can figure out how they pulled off the robbery."

While waiting for Ames’s transmission, Tom returned to the lower deck to continue the aerial prospecting project over the Verano region. Rip had the
Sky Queen
execute a complicated flight pattern over the Montaguayan Andes. Though the majority of the sorties yielded little, there were a few "strikes" showing up on the Damonscope that momentarily took Tom’s mind off the crisis in Shopton.

If that’s really uranium down there, the people of this country are going to be tremendously enriched,
Tom thought.
If the rebels already have a clue about this, it’s no wonder they’re fighting to hold on to the territory!
But there were other instrument readings that left Tom intrigued, puzzled—and excited.
What I’m seeing can’t be true,
he said to himself. And yet…

Tom periodically made a remote check of the Flying Lab’s computer. Finally the databurst from Swift Enterprises had been received, and Tom was able to begin working with it in the electronics laboratory cubicle.

He minutely studied the copy of the security videotape. It was as Ames had said. At a certain instant, the tape running without interruption, the object suddenly blanked away into thin air. The plant radarscope tapes showed nothing unusual at that time, and there was no indication of an intruder.

"Okay, ‘genius boy,’ think!" he ordered himself. "This is just the ‘unknown X’ in the equation; you’ve solved plenty of those. When did the missile pull its disappearing act? Around 2:15 in the morning. So what goes on at Enterprises at that time?" He again scrutinized the radar output for that point in time. "Nothing! Of course we know our pals can defeat the system to keep a man from showing up on the scope, and the missile doesn’t reflect radar anyway. But it’s bulky and heavy, which means they must’ve used some sort of carrier vehicle. Which ought to ping on the scope, unless they’ve developed a more powerful radar-trapping unit."

Or unless…

What if the theft didn’t happen at 2:15 after all?
Tom thought. "Let’s assume they did something to the camera, causing it to continue showing the missile even after it’d been taken. That’s technically possible if you’ve got someone working on the inside. So the theft could have occurred any time after the last time someone eyeballed the missile directly—which was probably Dad, before he left for Washington."

Now Tom examined the radarscope tapes and admission schedule for the day preceding. Abruptly he leapt to his feet. "That’s it!" he cried.
"X!"

"Bud, put me through to Harlan Ames," Tom said over the intercom. "I think I’ve solved it."

"Here he is, Tom," said Bud Barclay after a few minutes.

Ames came on. "What do you have?"

"Lots," replied Tom. "First of all, I’m guessing that somewhere within a few yards of the camera—probably in the room overhead, concealed somehow—you’ll find a photodiode-override transmitter. It would have a dish antenna focused directly on the camera’s image emulator."

"Some kind of jamming device?"

"No, a masking device. It overrides the electronic pattern created inside the camera by the lens system and substitutes a new pattern—in this case, just the unchanging image of the missile in its place, held constant. I didn’t think they’d been perfected to this point, but we’re dealing with some top scientists, it seems. The thing probably runs on battery power, and uses a lot of electricity; at 2:15 it just went dead, and the real scene appeared again on the monitor."

"All right," said Ames. "So they switch on the masking gadget, and we can’t see them. Then what?"

"Defeating the lab’s other security systems, including the electronic locks, wouldn’t give them much trouble—not these boys. They get in the room, pushing some kind of cart or handtruck, maybe just a framework with wheels that can be folded up. They use it as a lever to pick up the missile, and then they roll it out the door. And I know when they did it, too!"

"When?"

"Late yesterday evening, a little before midnight."

"In other words, a little over two hours before the time we thought the theft took place." Tom could tell that the security chief was beginning to fit the pieces together. "We know the missile isn’t hidden in the building, because we’ve searched it. So I’ll say the thief exits the building out onto the grounds, in the open air. Why don’t the cameras pick him up? They’re mounted high up on poles—one of those masking devices couldn’t get within range."

"The cameras
did
pick him up, Harlan," Tom exclaimed. "But you didn’t know what you were seeing! Twice a week, around midnight, the tank vehicle from Northeast Enviro-Management enters the plant to drain off the toxic waste from our chem labs. They’ve done it for years. Their drivers are bonded, and we trust the company completely."

"I know where you’re going with this, Tom, but it doesn’t work," interjected Ames. "The security guard at the gate is one of my most reliable men, and he knows the NEM driver by sight. He swore it was the usual guy."

"Sure—coming
in!"
Tom retorted. "But I’ll bet the driver barely rated a glance as he left. My guess is you’ll find the legitimate driver tied up somewhere near the chem building, suffering from memory loss. And surprise!—the radar-scope tape shows that the truck paused for about two minutes right next to the door of the lab where the missile was being studied!"

"Which would have blocked our line of sight pretty thoroughly," muttered Ames, chagrined. "He drove off with the missile somewhere in the truck, maybe even in the waste tank, and we didn’t have a clue."

Promising to inform the authorities and to contact the NEM company for information, Ames signed off. Tom secured the tape copies he had made and prepared to return to the Damonscope.

He was on the verge of leaving the compartment when he absent-mindedly glanced out the window. To his surprise, he saw only open sky and distant clouds, not the mountain peaks they had been threading their way through for hours. Stepping closer, he looked down through the multi-layer glass. The
Sky Queen
was maintaining a straight and steady course over the green velvet jungle of the western Amazon basin—the easternmost quarter of the narrow snake-shaped country that was Montaguaya, an area claimed in its entirety by the Verano rebels.

We’re not cleared to be here,
Tom thought.
If they have surface-to-air missile capability, we’re in trouble!

He reached for the intercom button on the bulkhead, then paused. It would be more efficient to go up to the cockpit and speak with the others directly, as he wanted to keep them abreast of the complicated situation back home.

Trotting forward to the command compartment, he slid open the dual entry panels and stepped inside. Rip and Bud were still at the controls. "Say," said Tom, "what’s up with this—" But he stopped, overcome with shock and dread. The two pilots were shifting limply with the slight motions of the ship, held in place by their safety harnesses. Unconscious—or worse!

The young inventor raced to the side of his friends to check their pulses. As he did so, a fearsome new sight caught his eye.

Arv Hanson and Hank Sterling were both lying crumpled on the deck!