Tom Swift and the Mystery Comet (22 page)

"I don’t say you do. Reizlinter was never a suspect on my list. When I received documentary evidence a few months ago, I was chagrined—chagrined at all the years wasted on false leads."

"
Stop
!" Tom called out desperately. "Think about what you’ve stood for—was that just a sham? Where’s your rational skepticism now?—when you’ve got such a personal stake in your own ‘
feelings of truth
’!"

"I mentioned the irony, Tom," quavered the skeptic. "One lives with inconsistency. Rationality... yes, I’ve crusaded for it, fought the good fight against popular credulousness, the mass hysteria that leads to lynch mobs and fascist demigods. Yet finally, in the end, you face—
It
. What good did reason and rationality do those victims?"

"And what good does
this
do
you
?" cried Tom. "You’re trapped in a spaceship! Murder all of us and then what happens?"

Randolph Sarkiewski sighed. "Murder all of you? No murder; one execution and one suicide. The ties that bind, Karl, the ties that bind us all, across time." He raised the gun higher and stood unmoving. "Tom... you might like to know... security measures work as poorly against amateur magicians as against séance mediums... you should have searched inside my laptop..."

Tom tried to keep the man talking, but he only shook his head. Feng slowly backed away, but came up against the bulkhead. The intercom was off. The elevator was silent.

Tom saw that the barrel of the gun was shaking. Suddenly Sarcophagus thrust it forward at arm’s length! "Now... now I..."

The arm folded up. The gun drooped.

"Whattaya know, whattaya know," whispered Randolph Sarkiewski. "All these years and... I don’t have it in me. Sure don’t. All gone. The fight goes to
It
. As always."

Tom panted a sigh of relief as Dr. Feng lowered his hands.

Lethal Monica stepped forward and held out his hand. "The gun, Sarco." Sarkiewski numbly handed the Brungarian his pistol.

Lett stepped back a ways. He aimed the gun at Dr. Feng!

"Lett!" Tom gasped. "What, what are―"

"I regret it all, Tom," replied Lett with real sadness in his voice. "Talk about wasted effort, Sarco! Oh man did I think myself a clever Brungarian lad, sending you those phony documents, maneuvering to get you two here. But you don’t have the right stuff, eh? I have to do it myself after all.
T’rem
gad’t! I so much don’t want to do this."

"Right," said Tom bitterly. "
You
had possession of the sword carton all afternoon. Never left your hands. You expected
Feng
to pick up the swords and hand them to Bud and Wolf. Dr. Feng, frail and helpless—
he
was the target."

"A perfect analysis, Tom," responded Lett Monica.

"But
mein gott
, why in all heaven do
you
wish my death?" cried Karl Feng.

"Oh, I have my reasons. No big exposition. They can make up something for the book version, Tom."

Now it was Lett who held out the pistol to fire at his victim. Yet this situation was different—for Lett stood
between
Tom and the other two. As he half-turned away, Tom launched himself and rocketed forward with his right fist leading the charge!

For a few seconds Tom and Lett filled the corridor with struggle and noise—and one wild gunshot. And then Lett Monica was down. The pistol, unaffected by the slight magnetic field that held the crew against the deck in the absence of gravity, floated uselessly at the far end of the corridor.

The Brungarian looked up at Tom with a resigned, cynical expression. "
Hrm-tah
. Seems I’m gonna supply the exposition after all, hey?"

"Just who are you?" Tom demanded.

"Not a phony, not a fake—genius boy," replied the astronaut trainee. "My legal name is truly Lethal Monica. But I wasn’t born with it. Hello, Tom, from Dimitri Mirov."

Tom nodded. "Streffan Mirov’s son."

"Sure am, buddy. The ties that bind are ties of blood. Let’s see now. How much time do I have? How many paragraphs in the book?

"I changed my name. I wanted to succeed on my own, not by favoritism to the son of a Brungarian hero. I was legitimately admitted to the training program. But despite all efforts, COSMOSA remains deeply infiltrated by
i- Szentimentlya
, the Sentimentalists faction that wishes to reestablish the old totalitarian state. Nothing escapes their beady eyes, and when they learned of my identity they were able to place me as the exchange astronaut, to get me into America for a special mission."

"You’re a member of the faction?"

"No!" Monica spat out. "I despise them! I despise the betrayals they have forced upon me—of you and your friends, of Dr. Feng...

"But they had a hold on me. Binding!"

"
Blood ties
," Tom repeated. "Something to do with your father?"

"They threatened to kidnap and murder him, Tom, and in such things they’re real pros," he said. "And I’m afraid our democratic government wouldn’t work too strenuously to prevent it. They have very mixed and wary feelings toward the popular Col. Mirov, who is known to have cooperated now and then with the West. Dad!—what could I do, Tom? A hero, a noble man—my father! Little enough, to take a life and give up my own."

Feng cleared his throat and asked in a reedy voice. "My own popularity seems to be in jeopardy these days, more so than an academic expects. Surely you know why these people marked me for murder?"

"Some stupid thing. One of your psychiatric clients, years ago, was a bigshot in the faction. You know how it goes, paranoid fear about what he might have disclosed in your sessions. Who knows how long professional ethics would keep you from passing your case notes to the authorities?"

Tom was putting the pieces together. "You had a crony dress up as me and get his picture taken with Dr. Feng. He submitted that threatening card. I know why. You wanted me to get interested in Dr. Feng as a figure of intrigue involved in a mystery plot."

"Yuppity-yup, Tom. The department of planning and connivery put it together, not me. Pay attention to Feng and his comet theories, bring him to your plant where I could get at him at will—except I didn’t want to do it any more than Sarco. So I made my own plan. Frabricated evidence. Trick Sarcophagus into thinking a man he already disdains is descended from some now-identified person he
hates
—obsessively." He looked over at the pale, glowering Sarkiewski. "No offense, Doctor, and I admire your work. But really, you’re a little bit crazy. Your psychology, and your family history, can be put together by those who seek, eh?

"But I was a little crazy too, getting impatient and trying that stunt with the toy swords. I ended up feeling stupid, believe me.

"Okay, is that it? Oh—I sent the fake letter to Feng, of course, to get him to make the first move to take advantage of your planted interest in him, Tom. The threatening call in your office? Me! I recorded it and sent it via automatic timer."

"It was
you
who induced me to come down to this room," grated Randolph Sarkiewski. "You couldn’t have known I was armed."

"No. But clearly you were going mad, chum. Matter of time before you tried
something
murderous. I stuck close to you just to watch it all happen. Maybe help it a little—or fake the result if need be. Our time together was about up, you know. But at last, good old American opportunity knocked."

"It seems I may possibly live to an older old age, Tom," said Feng. "What is to be done now?"

The young inventor suddenly realized that he felt buoyant, as if a great weight had been lifted. "These two are about to be locked away and shipped down to Earth. It might be, gentlemen, that you’ll be treated leniently. You both had...
your reasons
. We’re all bound by the past, one way or another, aren’t we? Me too. I was
born
with something to live up to.

"Of course, there
is
that little detail about attempted murder or conspiracy or—well, others can work it out." Before intercomming Hank to come down with a Swift impulse gun, Tom promised Lett Monica—Dimitri Mirov—that he and Enterprises would try to arrange some protection for his father through their contacts in the U.S. State Department.

"I thank you," he said.

"What about me?" huffed Sarkiewski.

"You may be off the air for a while. Midseason hiatus. Don’t let it soften your skepticism, though—guys like me need it."

Hours later, Tom stood before the
Challenger
’s twin viewpanes with his friends—Bud, Hank, Ken Horton, Dr. Feng, and Chow Winkler. "Any time!" Tom said—and even as the words came out his mouth, the chamber filled with light. Millions of miles away, on the other side of a comet that wasn’t entirely a comet, a tiny piece of star had departed for its particular heaven.

"The mission of the White Queen—the labor of compassionate beings of far away and long ago—is complete," said Dr. Feng.

"Good night
and
jetz!" Bud exclaimed breathlessly. "A big thank-you to space friends everywhere, including spaceboy Swift!"

"Please hold your applause to the end of the performance," Tom joked. "There’s still a lot out in space for a real scientist—
and
a tinkerer!—to fool around with." Including, as it happened,
The Captive Planetoid
with all its mystery and danger.

"Is it always worth the price?" murmured Ken Horton. "Because it seems there always
is
a price."

"Aw, brand my frazzled brain, jest set aside all the philosophizin’ an throw ’er to th’ coyotes! An old poke like me never knows jest
what
t’ believe." Chow scratched his head and amended his statement. "Wa-aal, I dunno. Mebbe it’s best not t’ even
try
! Makes ya crazy."