Tom Swift and His Subocean Geotron (3 page)

Tom and Bud had a short wait, sipping hot chocolate. Mr. Brundage’s oaken door was closed, his vertical blinds shut.

The door swung open and a big red-faced man in a big dark-faced suit stalked by. A minute passed, and then a slightly-build youngish man appeared, sandy hair disarrayed. He wiped his red eyes. Beneath them his face appeared shiny. He extended his hand to Tom. "Mile Brundage, Tom. What an honor!—to be actually meeting Tom Swift!" He turned to Bud. "And you. Of course, you’re..."

Bud was hopeful. "Yes?"

"Mr. Sterling. Very well known in the engineering community."

"Not well known
enough
, I’d say," Bud said sourly. "Bud Barclay."

"My close friend and special advisor," Tom added.

"Please come in." Brundage started to lead the way, then paused and turned. "I—I apologize for—for this display," he muttered, wiping his eyes. "That man... I’m an emotional, empathetic sort of fellow. I hate having to discipline an employee. Bob has so many problems.
Anyone
might turn to drink. But—but the stockholders—they have families, too. Better ones than Bob’s, actually. I have responsibilities..."

"I understand, Mile," Tom said understandingly. "My father and I run Swift Enterprises as a team. It can be tough."

"I hope you’re better suited to the job than I am.
My
father
pushed
me into this. I just wanted to make furniture. But ohhhhh no."

The three sat in comfortable chairs. Tom showed Milendro Brundage photos and sketches and figures, and Milendro Brundage took it in through a damp-eyed haze. "Now... now if I can understand how this works... your extraction machine pushes down through the ground..."

Bud chuckled. "I call it the Hungry Earthworm."

"Do you?"

"I’ll explain how it works," Tom offered. "Obviously you’re familiar with Enterprises’ matter-repelling machine, the repelatron."

"Of course."

"I’ve developed a new version," the young inventor continued, "which is able to concentrate the selective repulsion force in a small area, rather than producing a linear field-beam that shoots off into space like a ray. As a result, the effective strength of the force is greatly increased. The model I’ve designed for the extractor tunes itself continuously to repel the surrounding earth and rock—any ground materials it senses nearby."

"I see."

"A number of these tight-focus repelatrons are clustered in the nose cone, the ‘head’ of the ‘earthworm,’ basically forcing the ground matter aside as it moves forward, trailing a segmented conduit behind."

Brundage nodded with unfocused, damp enthusiasm. "And then when you reach the vein of ore, or whatever—why, that’s the
hungry
part, I’d suppose."

Tom grinned. "It swallows it! A pulverizing system reduces it to small fragments, and a sort of vibrating helix inside the ‘throat’ conveys the fragments back to the surface in a continuous stream."

"Much more efficient than our standard conveyor equipment, it seems." Brundage paused to wipe an eye and think. "And you say your lithextractor can shrug off the tremendous pressures of deep-crust mining?"

"The repelatrons can run continuously, powered by a bank of our neutronamo generators—it
does
take a great deal of power, holding back all that rock." He added that the walls of the conduit and the "business end" had an inner honeycomb structure that resisted collapse or deformation. "And they’re made of an interlaced composite of Neo-Aurium metal and several other ultrastrong materials we’ve developed."

"Well then," declared Milendro Brundage with only a vague excitement, "I’m looking forward to your live demonstration."

Brundage returned with Tom and Bud to the field where the
Queen
had landed. Under Hank’s supervision, the lithextractor, coupled to a few of the telescoping conduit segments, had been readied for action. Mounted on a lengthy, extensible crane boom solidly anchored below, its tapering, awl-like nose was angled down against the rocky ground.

Eyeing the nose cone, the CEO managed a watery laugh. "Big as my car! And this is just a small prototype, you say?"

"The real work version will be much larger," Tom explained; "and you can add as many conduit segments as you like."

"Mmm—that reminds me of a question," Brundage said. "You’ve done something like this before, haven’t you? The molten iron business in Antarctica?"

"Now that was really something!" exclaimed Hank proudly. "But the lithexor works on a principle completely different from Tom’s atomic earth blaster."

"Yes, that was my concern. For this sort of operation we don’t want extreme heat. No subsurface smelting or vaporization. No blasting, of course. A serene glide down into the earth. Even the model that uses oscillating vanes—the mechanical blaster, you call it—would have some disadvantages."

Tom nodded. "I think we’ve overcome those problems, sir."

There was a pause, which Bud decided needed filling. "Er—‘lith’ means
rock
," he lamely observed. Brundage was too occupied with his inner tears to respond.

The demonstration commenced. Under Hank’s supervision the lithextractor’s cone was pushed into the ground with steady pressure from the crane boom. Beneath its point the earth seemed to peel back in all directions, circular ripples spreading like those in a pool—yet they were solid, never falling back. The operation was utterly silent.

But even standing a fair distance away, the watchers felt a wash of heat, and saw its waver in the air. "The repelatron field effect pumps a lot of energy into the surrounding earth as it forces it aside," Tom explained. "But it’s nothing like what the earth blasters do."

In moments Sterling announced that the boom had reached its maximum extension—100 feet down! Tom showed Brundage the collection bin at the topside end of the conduit. It was brimming with shards of rock. "Very impressive, Tom!" pronounced the executive. "And operating it seems rather straightforward. I suppose... well, even someone not quite at his best, someone who’d had too much to drink... Bob could certainly keep watch over the technical crew... that, at least." He seemed to be struggling with deep thoughts. "That wife of his, those children... how anyone could even get through the day..."

"Sir—the next part of the demonstration― "

But Brundage did not return easily to the real world. "And you, Tom—married?"

"No, sir."

"Ah me. To be already divorced at such a young age. This world is a hard, tough place."

"So they tell me," responded Tom dryly. He sent Bud a look that made his pal smile.

The lithexor was demonstrated at several other spots, where Hidden Resource’s geologists had found varying subsurface conditions. The machine performed perfectly. "I’ll report this to my Board of Directors, Tom," nodded Brundage. "And to Mom too, naturally. I’m quite sure we’ll be in business. This dirty,
harsh
business."

Brundage drove off, and Tom and Bud broke down in laughter.

As Hank and the tech team began to stow the machinery for the trip back to Shopton, Tom and Bud climbed to the middle deck of the
Sky Queen
. But at they reached the hatch to the control room, they were met by one of the day’s flight crew, Rich Durveene. "Tom—I was just heading out to get you—we took a call..."

"From Enterprises?" asked Tom.

"No. From a private cellphone to Hidden Resource. They routed it through to us. For you."

"Still on the line?"

"No. He spoke rapidly—said he was driving to meet you here, in the
Sky Queen
! He said to delay takeoff as he’d be arriving in minutes."

Tom was perplexed and somewhat annoyed. "So who was it?"

Rich looked embarrassed. "I—er—he had a bit of an accent, and—I think he said his name was Roy Kendall."

Tom shrugged, and Bud said, "Never heard of him. Maybe it’s a reporter. The local papers announced that you’d be visiting today, George Dilling told me."

"But Tom, there’s more," persisted the crewman. "I asked what he wanted, of course. He said it was urgent—that something had happened to a member of your family!"

AS DURVEENE had no further information, Tom immediately contacted his home, pale with anxiety, frowning with fearful questions. "Nothing wrong back there," he reported to Bud in relief. "Mom and Sandy are fine, and Dad just called."

"
Jetz
!" Bud exclaimed angrily. "It must be just a gimmick to get in to see you!"

But Tom was troubled. "To see me for what purpose? To catch us off guard?"

"Hey..." Bud gulped. "Li Ching has an accent!"

"I doubt the Black Cobra is tooling around in South Dakota, flyboy; and of course we’d recognize him on sight. Still—I think we’d better be a little self-protective."

Bud nodded. "Yeah. I hear it’s a
hard, tough world
out there!"

Tom gave Rich some quick instructions, then returned to the lower deck with Bud in order to watch from the hatchway. In less than a minute a square-framed, tank-tough auto pulled to a stop. The man who exited, big and ruddy, might have been similarly described. He climbed the extensible access stairs with hand outstretched. "Hello there, Tom Swift! Ah, and Bud Barclay, eh?" The accent struck Tom and Bud as Dutch.

As Bud enjoyed the rare thrill of recognition, Tom shook hands. "Mr. Kendall?"

The man chuckled. "Oh me, so much for international reputation. The name is Nee Ruykendahl."

Bud’s brows lifted. "Really? You mean—you’re the—mm― "

"Explorer, adventurer, soldier of fortune. And indeed, some would say
mercenary
. All too often these days,
has-been
."

The boys knew who the man was; or at least who he "
had been
". Less known in America than in Europe and Africa, Nee Ruykendahl, a South African of Dutch ancestry, had been a headline celebrity some years before—perhaps twenty of them. He had fought in brush wars, penetrated jungles, climbed the unclimbable and crossed the uncrossable. He had also been canny in publicizing his exploits.

"There was a TV miniseries—" Bud began.

"Inaccurate and sensational, precisely as I wrote it," said the man blandly. "What have I in life as I grow older, but my reputation—my name? To be blunt, my
brand
."

Tom nodded, beckoning the man forward as he closed the hatch. "I’m sure we’re honored, sir, but I’m told you said something about a threat to my family? Or was that
also
sensationalized?"

"Have I set off your suspicions?"

"Please answer my questions."

Ruykendahl shrugged. "Perhaps my call was a bit garbled. When I read of your demonstration here, I seized, in my characteristic bold manner, this opportunity to come see you." Seeing Tom flush with anger, he added: "But no, my friend, what I said is quite true. I am concerned about a relative of yours." He held up by handle what appeared to be a padded metal case for photographic or video equipment. "In here the matter rests. May we go to some place where I may show it to you?"

"Up to the lounge," Tom said brusquely. "Top deck."

He led Ruykendahl up, Bud following. As they stepped into the viewlounge, the explorer swore under his breath. The floor-to-ceiling viewpanes showed that the skyship was already in flight—hovering above the clouds!

The big man looked at Tom shrewdly. "I see, I see. If I were one of those implacable foes of yours, being trapped high in the air might make me hesitate in my diabolism. Hard to get away from the scene of the crime."

Bud smiled at him. "Nice view. Relaxing."

"But I am already relaxed, my young man."

The three settled around a table, and Ruykendahl began his account. "Nowadays, boys, in my beefy decline, I am involved in recreation of the most stirring kind. If one is easily stirred. Bluegreen Safari-Adventures, it is called. I do not own it, but without me it is nothing, nothing. Mountain climbing, scuba diving, what have you. Always ending in comfortable surroundings, drink in hand."

"Do you know Bob?" Bud asked mischievously.

"Please get to the point, Mr. Ruykendahl," Tom insisted. "Who in my family are you concerned about?"

"Who? Your cousin, Edgar Longstreet."

Cousin Ed! Wealthied and coddled by life and circumstance, the son of Tom’s mother’s brother had woven himself in and out of Tom’s life for years, even taking part in Enterprises activity and peril in New Guinea and Kabulistan. Ed Longstreet was a world-traveler and, like Nee Ruykendahl, a
Challenger
of unknown places—though less muscularly. "Has something happened to him?" demanded the young inventor.

A shrug met the question. "But I said only ‘concerned,’ Tom. Is that not enough to bring to your attention?

"Last summer, Ed was one of my safariers on a cruise. We set off from Mexico in BSA’s little cruise ship, the
Wascala
, and went south along the coast, stopping for scuba and snorkel, and to see the nice pretty fishes through the glass bottom window. Good resorts, some exploration of tame tourist jungle, a touch of Andes climbing. Then on across the Pacific to Hawaii, with a stop or two. Many find love, even marriage, on such adventures. I myself have found both on occasion."

Tom tapped the case. "What’s in here?"

Ruykendahl unlocked and opened it, taking out a small object and placing it in Tom’s hands. The young inventor frowned at it. Fist-sized and very light in weight, it was shaped overall like a truncated pyramid with a square base, made of some rough, pale material. But it was strangely malformed and incomplete. Its shape was as if it had been sliced neatly in half on the vertical diagonal.

"Let us call this
Artifact A
, Tom," said Ruykendahl. "We scubaed in shallow waters off Easter Island, a brief stop, four years ago, collecting interesting lava-rocks worn by time, and so on. I naughtily urge my guests to keep an eye out for remnants of lost Lemuria, the Atlantis of the Pacific—as imaginary as much of my reputation, hmm?

"But strange shapes do turn up. A guest gave me what looked like a chunk of rock that he had found on the bottom and thought interesting—but not so interesting up topside. It was only much later, when I had returned to my home in South Africa, that this rock turned up among my things and I began to consider it. On a hunch I took scalpel to it, removing layer after layer of seafloor encrustation to find this beneath. Clearly it has been made by the hand of man."