Tom Swift and His Repelatron Skyway (5 page)

"B-b-brand my grubsack, it’s
me
!" Chow wailed as Tom pulled out the tiny voodoo doll. "I know about this! Them p-pins mean I’m marked fer d-d-death!" The roly-poly cook was trembling like an aspen in a high wind.

"Now, hold it, Chow!" Tom said calmly. "Don’t come all unglued. Maybe someone’s just playing a prank on you."

"A prank?" said a third voice. Bud Barclay walked into the room wearing an innocent smile. "Hey, who would do such a thing to a fearless space-walking Texan like Chow?"

The cook stared at Bud, open-mouthed for a moment, then suddenly cried out in alarm and pain! "N-no! It’s all real!
Look what them voodoo pins is doin’ to me!
"

He suddenly pulled up his shirt sleeve, and Tom and Bud drew back in shock. A stream of bloody crimson was dribbling down his arm!

Bud was aghast. "It—how in the― "

"We’ve got to get you to the infirmary!" urged Tom, grasping the cook’s arm. But then his expression changed. Eyes narrowed, he brought his red-stained fingertips to his nose and sniffed. "This isn’t blood."

"Naw.
Ketchup
!" Chow leaned back and broke into a thunder of laughter. "Buddy boy! You’re the varmint what done it!" he howled. "Knowed you ’as up to somethin’ when you came sneakin’ round the galley jest now, afore I left! Figgered I’d improve the joke a smidge!"

The red was now on Bud’s face. He ducked back sheepishly, half expecting Chow to hurl a plate at him. But the cook quickly recovered his good humor as the boys collapsed with laughter. "From now on, don’t jest take fer granit that I won’t know when my leg’s bein’ pulled," he said to Bud.

Bud took another step back and looked downward. "Say! You
do
have legs!"

"Now watch out. You ever hear o’ Fat Libby-ration?"

"You mean you’re planning to turn it loose?"

"Aaa!...Wa-aal, reckon we all got a right to laugh," Chow conceded with a chuckle. "Who’d want to hoodoo a good ole honest trail cook anyhow? No evil eye fer me!"

"Not with that
eagle
eye of yours, pal," winked Bud, patting his friend’s shoulder.

The two boys were just finishing their late lunch when Tom took a call from the attendant at the visitor reception desk. A visitor named Darcy Creel, describing himself as a "professional zoological journalist", was asking to see Tom. "If he wants an interview on the African business, he should speak to George Dilling," directed Tom.

"He says that’s not why he came, Mr. Swift," was the response. "Says there’s a special matter he’d like to discuss with you in private."

"All right. When you’ve security-scanned him, please have him escorted up to my office."

Curious about the unexpected visitor, Tom and Bud left the lab building hastily, taking the moving ridewalk toward the tall administration building.

Suddenly a tone rang out shrilly from the tiny cellphone hooked to Tom’s belt—followed by a whoop of sirens from all directions.

"It’s the plant radar alarm!" Bud cried out. The boys’ eyes followed the pointing fingers of stare-struck workers and looked upward. The blue sky was dotted with tiny sparkling gleams, swirling and darting in all directions like drifting sparks!

"It’s flyin’ saucers!" one panicked employee yelped out. "
We’re being invaded!
"

Tom snatched up the telephone and called the security office.

"What’s happening, Harlan?" he inquired.

"We don’t know yet, Skipper," Ames replied tensely. "We’ve got ‘snow’ all over the Patrolscope monitors. Some strange metal objects are fluttering down over the plant!"

"I see ’em."

The objects had begun to reach the ground. Bud scooped one up and brought it to Tom. Tom examined it closely.

"What the dickens is it?" Bud asked, mystified.

"Seems to be made of stiffened aluminum foil. But don’t ask me what it’s supposed to be." The foil had been cut and folded in a strange geometric design that looked oddly birdlike. "The technique looks like origami—you know, pal, the Japanese art of paper-folding. These ‘birds’ are like little paper airplanes."

Bus responded with a skeptical look. "Right. What next,
spitwads
?"

By this time, other employees had come running across the grounds. They scattered to pick up the pieces of foil. Mystification had been replaced by chagrined laughter.

Ames joined the youths, bringing another batch of the queer foil shapes which had caught the bright sunlight as they floated down to the Enterprises airfield. "What do you make of them, Tom?"

"Beats me." Tom studied the pieces with a frown. "It’s an old trick for confusing radar, of course, but what’s the purpose?"

"Were they dropped from a plane?" Bud put in.

"No, the control tower says none passed over the plant," Ames replied.

"Must have been projected from outside the plant wall—maybe by someone in a car speeding along the highway," Tom speculated.

"But how could thin foil like this stuff be spread so high in the air?" Bud objected.

"Easy," Tom said. "Stack the stuff together under pressure in a tight, compact bundle with some kind of automatic release." Tom’s eyes dropped to the palms of his hands. He added with sudden worry: "Maybe we ought to make sure this stuff really
is
aluminum foil!"

They had all touched the metallic foil—just as Munford Trent had touched the poisoned ink!

TRYING to hold down their growing alarm, the two boys hurried back to Tom’s private laboratory, Harlan Ames following. Here the young inventor examined several pieces of the foil under X-rays and with a Swift Spectroscope. When he finished, Tom looked at the others, much relieved but baffled.

"Just plain aluminum foil, that’s all."

Bud gulped. "That’s a pretty
good
‘all’, Tom!"

Ames, equally puzzled, finally left the laboratory. He promised to launch a thorough search for clues outside the plant wall.

Suddenly Bud snapped his fingers. "Hey, you forgot your visitor, Tom!" he exclaimed.

"Oh, good gosh! I’d better call upstairs and apologize. I just hope he hasn’t left." Then Tom added a wry coda: "Sort of."

He hadn’t. Darcy Creel turned out to be a blond man with a slender, wiry build, deeply tanned, casually dressed. Though he appeared to be in his forties, it seemed he favored a younger look. His loose-fitting shirt was almost as colorful as Chow Winkler’s—but as wrinkled as if he’d been sleeping in it.

After greetings and apologies were delivered, Creel said to Tom, "Thanks a lot for seeing me, guy. Ya got quite a security setup here. Mini police-state, hmm?"

Tom barely kept an indignant frown off his face. Bud’s was unsuppressed but unseen by the visitor.

"I told the guard—let’s face it, that’s what he is!—that I didn’t come about your African transportation project, but that’s not entirely true," Creel continued without rue or apology.

Tom was instantly cautious. "Just what
is
your occupation, Mr. Creel?"

"I call it zoological journalism—maybe
environmental investigative reporting
would be a little clearer. Big corporations go charging here and there around the world, fouling up the biosphere, wrecking the environment, hiding behind the magic word ‘development’ in the cause of an even
more
magic word, ‘profit’."

"Seems to me I’ve read something about that," Tom put in dryly.

"And now Tom Swift Enterprises heads off to Ngombia to build a highway or an airport or something in the middle of an unspoiled jungle."

Tom began to correct him. "It’s only a request that we’re considering― "

"And besides which,
guy
," came a dark-lidded voice from Bud’s direction, "that nice jungle
is
spoiled, by a lousy swamp running through it."

Creel didn’t turn in his chair but kept his eyes on Tom. "Right. The
human-centric
point of view. You’ve got your vanishing species—endangered animals, plants― "

Tom cut him off impatiently. "Why exactly are you here, Mr. Creel?"

"Bottom line? I want to go along with you."

"To Ngombia?"

"As a reporter, to document your environmental—choices. Could be in your best interest, you know. Nice publicity for good old TSE, noted kid inventor keeping the world safe for neat consumer stuff like breathing, eating, and drinking."

There was an edge to Tom’s quiet voice. "I’m not concerned about ‘nice publicity’. We always consider very carefully the long-term ramifications of our projects. If Enterprises chooses to go ahead, what we do will be valid in terms of human values as well as science."

"Sure. As decided by
you
, out of the public eye."

Bud started to rise from his chair. Tom waved him back down. "I think you’ve made your point, Mr. Creel. Or is this your idea of a warning? Do you and your associates plan some kind of disruption or protest if you don’t get your way?"

Creel smiled. "Just asking for a ride, Tom. I’m a poor freelancer. Saving the world doesn’t pay very well. It’s not like I could afford to launch a jungle expedition on my own. Let me tag along. I’ll do a little writing, keep an eye on the native flora and fauna—including the humans who might not be into falling under the plow of progress—that kind of thing."

It was Tom who stood. "We don’t take passengers along on our project expeditions. Blame our insurance company if you like. Goodbye, Mr. Creel."

Darcy Creel shrugged and rose to leave. "Class dismissed. But as far as warnings, Tom― "

"I figured you’d have one."

"Oh, it’s a friendly one. That jungle you’re going to is a pretty interesting place. I’ve heard rumors about huge animals of an unknown species existing in the Ngombian rain forest," Creel said. "It’s never been properly explored—you might make an outstanding zoological find. But don’t think of your company safari as an afternoon’s pleasant amble through the palm trees. Your people could be in real danger. And not from crazed tree-huggers like me."

"What sort of danger?" Tom demanded.

"Let’s just say there’s a monster in the woodpile." With that Creel slunk out through the door.

"You know what’s amazing, genius boy?" grumbled Bud. "Guys like that actually have
mothers
!"

"It’s a real insult, someone thinking the Swift family would ever endanger― "

Bud gave Tom’s arm a playful punch. "You don’t have to convince
me
of anything, Tom. Let’s move on to something important."

Bud, who was scheduled for some face-time training in the Workchopper, headed off to the hangar. Tom remained in the office, puzzling over the aluminum "birds."

He had noticed that they were cut in several different patterns. Did the shapes have any significance beyond crude aerodynamics? he wondered. Could they represent some kind of religious symbols or totems that might mean something to a native African?

"Seems pretty farfetched," Tom concluded. But nevertheless, he thought it might be wise to show a selection of the objects to an expert in the field of African art and tradition.

But that would have to wait.

Feet up his desk, Tom was debating whether or not to call the Ngombian Embassy in Washington when the question was resolved for him. Trent’s temporary replacement announced an incoming call from Ambassador Onammi. "Young Mr. Swift, I must tell you—there have been some developments in this matter that have left us very unsettled."

"Has something happened?"

"Something quite remarkable. The recorded camera data you transmitted to us― "

"You received it, didn’t you, sir?" Tom asked.

"And a shock! The man who visited you in our name—
he is not War’kno Kwanu!
"

Tom was flabbergasted! "Good night! Because your embassy had told us to expect Mr. Kwanu, it never occurred to us to question his identity!" Tom asked if the man’s face was known to the Ngombian security authorities.

"Indeed so, I am sorry to tell you," was Onammi’s reply. "The man is Ulsusu, a known agent of political subversives who work against the new government. His name is R’na Inbimah. He is an expert in technological spying and theft."

"And what of the real Mr. Kwanu?"

"We do not know. There was a bit of confusion at the time of his departure from the airport here. He was somewhat delayed—it is no doubt significant that his driver has also disappeared—and the plane was held for him by our request. He was positively identified as the man who entered the plane at the terminal, the last to board. Yet—and how can one believe this?—he was
not
the man who exited that same plane in Shopton and who rented a car at your airport!"

"You’re sure?"

"Absolutely," the man insisted. "The terminal security video tapes in Washington clearly show Kwanu, short and fat, in a business suit. In the Shopton terminal, the video shows this Inbimah scoundrel, very different, in a tribal robe. A robe!—We do not encourage this sort of image, this backwards costumery. Somewhat embarrassing."

The Ambassador fell silent, and Tom plunged into deep thought for several moments. "You say... Mr. Kwanu was late, perhaps by intention. So he had to hurry to board the plane, after all the other passengers had been seated... "

"Yes, Tom."

"I don’t suppose you know anything about the boarding rampway at that terminal—the covered corridor they sometimes call a ‘jetway’?"

Dr. Onammi expressed surprise at the young inventor’s query. "When I was briefed by our investigative personnel, they provided a diagram of the terminal, which I glanced at. But what might you wish to know?"

"Do you recall if the corridor was forked at the end—shaped like a ‘y’? Many are, allowing planes to be parked on either side. When boarding to the right, for instance, the left-hand segment is closed off."

"I understand. The answer is yes. This is indeed such a rampway. Boarding was to the left on this occasion. Might this be significant?"

"I’m just running over the possibilities in my mind, sir," replied Tom. "I can imagine a scene like this. Mr. Kwanu is checked through, then hustles on up the jetway. Probably no one is watching from the terminal end, and if the plane is at a somewhat acute angle to the connecting segment, and the flight attendant is a couple steps back from the hatch as they usually are, the intersection of the little branched corridor and the main part might be out of view... "