Tom Swift and His Giant Robot (6 page)

"If you spill a soda onto it, the liquid just runs right through."

"Yes, and the result is that you can’t get enough suction going with sand, or most other powders, to overcome their internal friction and pump them."

Bud smiled. "But Swift chemical magic has conquered
that
detail, right?"

"You just saw the result," Tom confirmed. "It was basically a mass of
plastic powder,
made up of separate grains. But the new substance has unique electrical and mechanical characteristics. It conducts electricity with very low resistance—but only in one plane, along one direction, more or less. At right angles to the flow, it’s an almost perfect insulator. You could make a high-power cable of this stuff and hold it safely in your hand, with no insulation covering it."

"Wild!"

"Furthermore, a current causes it to structure itself into fibrils, like little threads, all along its length. The fibrils slide freely along one another, which makes the mass extremely elastic. But the individual fibrils are incompressible and hug closely, so it holds together—and you can pump it like water and use it for a hydraulic-like pressure system in the robot’s ‘muscles.’ See?"

"Hey, of course!" Bud joked. "But what did you do to give it a shape and grow fingers?"

"Just something I rigged up to test its capabilities," the other replied, gesturing toward the lab counter. "I have a sort of ‘sleeve’ back there with special sensors that modulate the current in the plastic, so that it imitates both the movement and general shape of my hand and arm."

"That’s great, Tom," Bud said wonderingly. "What do you guys call the plastic powder?"

Tom looked slightly embarrassed. "It has a big, long chemical name, but—don’t laugh—we’ve nicknamed it
Herculesium!"

"I wouldn’t laugh, pal," Bud remarked. "After all,
my
real name is Budworth!"

Tom gestured toward a sliding door in the wall of the lab. "Inside that cubicle is a big, deep vat of the stuff, almost like a well. I remodeled one of the pressure tanks, because I wanted to have a fair amount ready-made and on-hand. What I’m going to do is give Robo Boy a kind of ‘transfusion,’ replacing an earlier formula plastic with the latest batch, which is far superior. You can help me if you like."

"Sure," Bud replied. "Will we need to put on any protective gear?"

"No, that’s part of the beauty of Herculesium. The particles won’t bond with living cells at all, inside or outside. It hardly sticks to anything; you can just brush it off."

The two close friends worked together for hours, barely taking a break to wolf down Chow’s luncheon of sandwiches and sodas. Then, as the shadows began to deepen across Swift Enterprises, Bud reminded Tom that they had promised to meet the girls for dinner at TinCanz, a new restaurant and dance club on the Lake Carlopa shoreline.

"Why don’t you go on ahead, pal," said Tom, his mind still on his work. "You drove in separately, anyway. I’ll shower and change here at the plant and meet up with you three later on."

"Okay," Bud responded, adding: "But don’t pull the absent-minded-professor routine and show up late—Bashalli might bean you with a jar of coffee beans!"

Seeing that he was near the end of the meticulous "transfusion," Tom worked for another half-hour, then closed-up and secured the access panels on his machine man and left the lab, locking it with his electronic key. The ridewalk—a conveyor-belt transport system that criss-crossed the four-mile-square plant—had carried Tom almost a mile toward the administration building when he suddenly groaned. He had forgotten to have Robo Boy lie flat on the lab floor to help the newly injected Herculesium powder "settle" evenly.

"Man, maybe I
am
getting absent-minded!" he muttered, stepping across to the adjacent ridewalk, which moved in the opposite direction.

Back inside the lab, he activated the control console, inserted the appropriate disk, and manipulated the control dials. The headless robot obediently crouched down, then smoothly rocked back and flattened himself against the tiled floor.

"Good boy!" Tom whispered affectionately, approaching the recumbent form.

Just then there came a slight sound—the faint scuff of a shoe against the floor. A cloth, reeking of chemicals, was whipped across Tom’s mouth and nostrils by arms that came from behind him. He gasped, twice, and then collapsed helplessly, legs like rubber. Unconsciousness passed across him like the shadow of a cloud.

Tom’s eyes fluttered open.

He seemed to be standing upright in a warm darkness that pressed against him from all sides.

What in the world…?
came his confused thoughts.

His arms were at his sides. He tried to move them and discovered that they were unbound. Yet they moved against a strange, molasses-like resistance, which the young inventor could also feel against the rest of his body up to his jaw. And as his arms moved, he seemed to sink down further into the yielding material. Now it was almost touching his lower lip.

Suddenly he understood! He was suspended upright in the vat of Herculesium powder in the cubicle that adjoined the lab. The ultra-fine substance was acting like quicksand, and Tom was sinking fast!

TOM TRIED shouting for help loud and long, with little expectation that it would do any good. He quickly determined, from the echo of his voice, that the cubicle door panel had been shut. No one would be able to hear him.

His brain churning furiously, he tried to remember every detail of the lab, the cubicle, and the vat. Was there something that could help him haul himself free of the powder before he suffocated?

By effort of will he calmed himself, taking care to keep all movement to a minimum. Tom remembered that thrashing and struggling would only cause him to be pulled down by suction all the faster.

If only I had my televoc pin!
he thought. But in his mind’s eye he could see his personal super-miniaturized communications device resting on the nightstand next to his bed at home. Despite every effort, he left home without it all too often.

Tom visualized the accumulation vat. It was a good six feet in diameter, the cuplike bottom about seven feet below the surface of the plastic powder. The tank sides, of polished titanium, extended a further yard upward. Even if he could manage to touch the sides, his grasping fingers would simply slide.

Abruptly he slipped several inches further toward the bottom. The powder now covered his mouth completely! He slowly arched his back and lifted his jaw, forcing his lips into the open air—but only slightly.

Had his attacker emptied his pockets? It was very likely. But with aching slowness Tom pressed against his pants pockets with his right hand.

To his surprise he felt coins, his ring of keys, his billfold—even the small electronic key device, about the size of a credit card, that gave access to the various secured sections of Swift Enterprises
. The guy must have been in a real hurry,
Tom thought.
Not that any of this stuff will get me out of here!

He then pressed against his left-hand pants pocket and felt the outline of a small squared-off bulk. At first he couldn’t remember what it was; then it came to him in a rush. The midget remote-control signal device that Bud had used the night before! He recalled now that Bud had handed it to him earlier, when Tom had expressed curiosity about what Bud and Hank Sterling had put together.

I wish I’d examined it right away,
he thought ruefully. He’d only glanced at it before dropping it into his pocket while reading the morning paper. However, Tom did remember noticing that Hank had adapted and modified an auxiliary remote-controller that Tom had been using weeks before, while experimenting with the earliest versions of his robot apparatus. He wouldn’t be able to transmit sophisticated commands with the crude device,
but—!

Tom gently worked his hand into his pocket and slowly withdrew the transmitter unit. He knew he would have to get it clear of the Herculesium, for the powder’s electrical properties would interfere with the signal. He inched his hand upward toward the surface, and then—

The remote-control unit slipped from his grasp. He had forgotten that the powder acted like a slick lubricant!

Trembling, Tom felt around in the dry fluid. Almost immediately his fingers touched the signaler. The Herculesium was viscous enough to keep the light-weight device floating in place!

Struggling to keep his nostrils above the surface, Tom was finally able to push the controller into the open air. He clicked the main activator switch, which Bud had demonstrated. He could hear no sound from beyond the chamber wall, and could only hope that Robo Boy had stirred to life.

The young inventor reviewed the preset routines on the disk that he had left in the drive. He knew he would be able to have the robot rise to his feet, but couldn’t recall whether other basic movements, such as walking, had been recorded on the disk for convenience. He could only make the attempt.

The controller was configured somewhat like a hand-calculator, with 24 buttons on its face. By pressing the right sequence, Tom could access different routines. He knew the code sequence for "get up," and activated it. In a moment, through slitted eyelids, he saw wisps of colored light reflecting through the cubicle’s window from glass and metal in the lab. Robo Boy was active and on his feet!

Unsure of the codes for the other routines, Tom could only make reasonable guesses. Several times he could hear, very faintly, the sound of crashing and breakage as the giant robot blundered around helplessly. Once he actually saw Robo Boy stalk past the quartz view window, heading off in the wrong direction. But finally a loud thud announced that the automaton had successfully zeroed-in on the transmitter and, having gotten his bearings, was on the other side of the door panel.

It would not be possible for Tom to direct the robot to punch the buttons that would cause the panel to unlock. But Tom had another plan. He had Robo Boy slide his claw-hands to either side of the panel, so that they were pressed against the doorway frame.

Now to test those new muscles!
Tom said to himself, starting to gasp for air. He signaled the metal man to open his arms wide against the frame, gradually increasing the pressure. The robot obeyed! With an unearthly screech the strong metal frame began to bend, a change that Tom could make out only faintly. The frame bent more—more—and suddenly the door panel tumbled inward, almost landing flat on Tom’s upturned face. He instantly grasped the edge of the panel and shakily forced himself upward out of the vat.

In a moment Tom was lying on the lab floor, panting and covered with blue-white powder.
"Thanks, pal!"
he rasped, as Robo Boy stood motionless, awaiting his next command.

Miles away, TinCanz was alive with music and the aroma of festive foods. Bud sat trying to maintain an increasingly strained line of amusing chatter, his light sportcoat only enhancing his broad shoulders and athletic build. Sandy Swift and Bashalli Prandit smiled politely at their table companion, but their smiles had begun to droop—Tom was already an hour late.

"I wonder if you shouldn’t try calling again," said Bashalli to Bud.

"I’ve already called the lab, his office, and the house," Bud replied helplessly.

"Tom may be a super-genius," fumed Sandy, "but sometimes I think his brain-antenna doesn’t pull in all the channels! I wonder who he’s off rescuing
now!"

Bud began to reassure her. "Look, I’m sure he’s—"

"He’s
here!"
cried Bashalli.

Tom made his way across the restaurant floor, handsome and striking in blue-toned sportcoat and slacks. "Hi, folks," he said. His face assumed a pitiable expression. "Guess I’m a little late—ran into some last minute problems back at Enterprises!"

"We’ve been living on bread and water for an hour," Sandy said with a frown. But then she relented and smiled. "You look awful nice, though, Tom—for a big brother."

Tom grinned his thanks and the table ordered dinner. Meanwhile Bud kept eyeing Tom with suspicion, and when the girls stepped away he leaned over and said quietly, "I know that expression on your face, Tom. Something’s up."

Tom nodded and briefly described what had occurred. "I alerted Harlan Ames right away," he concluded, "and then I showered and changed and sped over here with pedal to the metal. But I don’t want to spoil the girls’ evening; not after all the drama last night at the armory."

Bud agreed to say nothing about the incident. Soon the foursome were enjoying a good meal and the usual bad jokes, now and then pausing to appreciate the moonlight falling on Lake Carlopa.

Over dessert Bud remarked, "You know, Tom, it’s been months since we’ve played tennis. Not that I blame you! I seem to remember I was pretty good at it."

Tom smiled slyly and winked in Bashalli’s direction. "How about tomorrow—around three?"

"Sure! At the high school courts, or the country club?"

"Neither," said Tom. "Just meet me at Enterprises. Come for me at my lab—you know,
just in case
I forget!"

Further comment, including a tart retort by Bashalli, was interrupted by the appearance of a server who told Tom there was a telephone caller awaiting him on the restaurant phone. "Be right back," Tom said to the others.

"I doubt it," was Sandy’s breezy comment.

In the lobby Tom was directed to the telephone alcove. He picked up the receiver and identified himself.

"Yes," said the man on the other end, "I recognize your voice. They said at your home where you’d gone for the evening."

Tom was mystified. "Who is this?"

"My name is Marco Gallanan. I’m calling to apologize and try to explain why I did what I did."

"Why you did what?"

The response left Tom thunderstruck. "I’m the one who knocked you out this evening, and put you in that tank!" Before Tom could say a word, Gallanan went on: "Please, if I have your word that you won’t have me arrested—not until I’ve said what I have to say—I’ll lead you to the person who is back of all your troubles—the man who’s after your giant robot!"