Tom Swift and the Mystery Comet (7 page)

"That’s a good approximation," Tom smiled.

"At any rate, we in COSMOSA have the impression that Col. Mirov is somewhat out of favor these days. I don’t mean he’s suffered any bad consequence, Tom. But I think right now he wishes to enjoy a private life—and the politicians are pleased to permit him to do so." He changed the topic. "Now then,
pal
, as this
flyboy
of yours calls you in the stories, I suppose I should find my quarters and commence―"

Lett Monica was interrupted by a string of rhythmic musical tones. "Aha!" he laughed. "The Brungarian National Anthem!—here I am in America with my cellphone."

He held the unit to his ear and answered. "
Daz
? Oh! Most surely." He looked up at his host with raised eyebrows. "Somebody asks to speak to
you
, Tom."

Strange
, Tom thought. "Hello," said Tom into the phone. "This is Tom."

There was a lengthy pause, long enough for Tom to wonder if anyone was on the other end. "Tom Swift. Do I have your attention now, Tom? Think very carefully about the message I gave you. Stay away from Feng.
He has earned his fate!
"

"WHAT? What do you mean? Who is this?" But Tom’s words came without thinking—he knew they would prove useless, as always in such cases. He handed the phone back to Lett Monica. "He hung up on me."

"One of those mysterious telephone threats, is it?" asked the Brungarian with a smile. "Or is that only in the stories?"

"It happens," Tom frowned. "He had your cell number, Lett, and obviously knew you’d be here with me right now. In fact... might someone have followed you here to the building?"

"I noticed no one,
genius boy
. You might ask my security escort, Maury. Nice guy."

"I will. Did the voice seem familiar to you?"

"Not at all. And Tom, if you’re really asking whether it sounded to me like another of my fellow dirty Brungarian spies—
also
no. But all he did was ask for you, just a few words."

"He said more to me," snorted the young inventor. "And actually—the voice
did
strike me as a little familiar, somehow. But I can’t place it."

Monica chuckled. "Sure! In every plot there has to be a buildup of mystery."

Tom cut off the banter as politely as he could. "I’ll report this to Security. Now I’ll walk you over to the plant guest duplex, where you’ll be staying."

"And maybe I’ll meet Bud Barclay and your father," said Lett as he stood. "Not to slight the
semi
-regulars, eh?" Tom forced a thin smile.

Returning to his office after leaving Monica to relax and unpack, Tom was pleased to find Bud awaiting him—especially pleased, because Tom wanted someone to listen to his account of the Brungarian visitor and the phantom phone call. "C’mon, pal, it’s not a real threat if they don’t say ‘or else’! Could be worse. Might’ve been an attorney.

"So what do you think of this ‘Lett’ guy?"

Tom shrugged. "Nice guy. Since you’ll be involved in training him, flyboy, I should warn you—he’s read those darn books and likes to use expressions like... flyboy."

"Well, it’s not like they’re trademarked," laughed the San Franciscan. "Of course, if he starts in with
genius boy
...!"

Tom was swift enough to withhold comment. "My brain feels a little full right now.
Human
threats are one thing, but I’m totally baffled by the repelatron field phenomenon. Quite a bit of our undersea work depends upon the repelatrons."

"Not to mention our space trips," agreed Bud. "Man, it’s hard to imagine a world without repelatrons these days! Do you still think the big comet might have something to do with it?"

Tom leaned on his desk, thinking. "The only reason I even thought of the comet was that it was a new factor in the ‘equation,’ and our initial problem occurred in space. But really," he continued, "there’s nothing at all unusual or unexplained about Comet Tarski. We’ve looked it over with the megascope and the usual long range instruments in preparation for our visit." Enterprises was planning a trip to the comet, including a landing, in the
Challenger
. Lett Monica would be part of the mission.

"You know, with a few exceptions comets are mostly
visual
phenomena, things to be seen. However bright they look against black space, however long their tails might be, they don’t really amount to much physically. They have little mass or heat. They’re not radioactive. It’s just that they’re striking to look at—people like to read a lot of significance into unusual things like that."

"In other words, comets have good publicity agents. Image is everything!"

Not smiling, Tom studied his friend thoughtfully. "Do you really think that’s true?
Is
image everything?"

Bud lost his jauntiness. "What’s wrong, Tom? What’s going on with you? I know this repelatron bit endangers lives, but—we’ve faced that more than a few times, right? You
always
handle it."

"Yeah," replied Tom. "That’s what heroes and genius boys do, hmm?"

Casting about for a change of subject, Bud snapped a mental finger and said, "Um, say—shouldn’t you be telling me about your latest invention?"

"Like in the books?"

"Forget the books!" responded the black-haired youth sharply. "What about that space-scooper gadget you mentioned?"

"Want to hear about it?"

"Jetz, since when do you ask?"

Tom smiled. "Okay. I call it a telesampler."

"Naming it’s a good start."

"I have to name ’em quick or they get nicknamed. Want to see it? I’ve been fooling around with it in my electronics shop just down the hall."

"Absolutely!" Bud exclaimed. "Let’s head down to the lab and see what’s on the slab."

"Huh?"

"Nothin’. Something my Dad says."

As they walked the few dozen steps to the door of Tom’s mini-lab—one of many throughout Enterprises’ four-mile-square complex—the young inventor gave Bud a preface. "I started working on the idea quite a while ago, when Dr. Tarski identified the comet by telephotometry, long before it was visible to the eye."

"Heading in from Comet Central, hmm? The Kuiper Belt?"

Tom shook his head. "This one’s an oddball. It’s coming into the plane of the solar system at a high angle—possibly from interstellar space; so I guess it
does
have a little special interest after all."

"Could it have come from some other solar system?"

"That’s not a likely scenario, flyboy. It probably originated in a cloud of interstellar material not orbiting a star but floating free—leftovers from the galaxy’s early days. Some random collision jarred it loose and sent it on its way."

"Got it," Bud nodded, "and I know the astronomers have all said it won’t come near the earth."

"No, but it does cross the earth’s orbit more or less, about a third of the way ahead. Then it’ll snap around the sun and head back out into deep space. But it’s got itself roped by the sun now, and it’ll be orbiting back in, oh, a few million years or so."

"I’ll keep an eye out."

They entered the lab and Tom gestured toward one of the work counters, littered with wires, components, and test equipment. "The telesampler!" Tom said grandly. "Or at least—the telesampler in the making."

Bud approached the counter and walked around it, eyeing the heap of technology. "Hi there, Swift invention!" he said jauntily. "So this is your super space scooper. Does it work, Skipper?"

"Good enough for a demo. I’ll switch it on and set the focus to―"

Tom stopped as a low, wavering humming sound seeped into the lab from the hallway beyond, like a drone from some distant world.

Bud’s face brightened with a mischievous grin. "Get your telesampler bench rig ready, Tom!" he urged in muffled tones. "Chow's coming!"

Tom admitted he was ready for a spark of diversion. The two conferred in whispers for a moment.

Then the door swung open and a plump, cowboy-booted figure came clumping into the room, pushing a lunch cart in front of his ample midriff. "Thought I hear’d Buddy Boy in here. Soup's on, buckaroos!" he boomed. "An’ looky here at this chocolate cake I jest baked!"

"Mmm, boy! Looks delicious!" Bud said. He reached one hand down behind the laboratory workbench, out of the cook’s view, then pulled out his fingers globbed with chocolate frosting. "Tastes delicious, too!" Bud added, licking off the icing with loud lip smacks.

Chow blinked in surprise. He looked at the cake, then stared at Bud, goggle-eyed. "B-b-brand my beefsteak, what's goin’ on here?"

Although Bud was ten feet from the lunch cart, a hunk had just been gouged out of the cake frosting!

Chow’s eyes, bulging more than usual, fixed on Tom. "Time t’ mess around with my ole bald hat-rack, huh. Okay boss, what’s this here whipsnipper doin’ this time?"

"Don’t panic, old-timer," Bud said soothingly. "I don't aim to eat it
all
up—not in one gulp, anyways." He thrust his fingers out of sight again and in a moment was licking off more icing.

Chow's jaw sagged and his double chin quivered in helpless astonishment—with a Tabasco touch of indignation. Before his very eyes the gouge in the cake frosting was growing larger!

"Quit funnin’ me!" he bellowed, glaring at Bud. "My brain’s one thing, but now yuh’re messin’ with my cake! You’d best b’lieve me when I say
yew don’t wanna do that!
"

At Chow's ferocious expression, the boys gave way to howls of good-natured laughter.

Tom switched off the device. "Don’t mind flyboy, Chow. He’s not really the one who’s swiping your icing—my telesampler here is the culprit."

"Your telee-whozis?"

"Telesampler, my newest invention. It’s designed to obtain samples of any substance at a distance."

Chow stared at the complicated hookup of microcircuitry, enclosed in protective panels of transparent plastic. Clamped to the top of the assembly was a swivel-mounted dish antenna, from the center of which protruded an odd microwave emitter of latticework rings. The whole antenna was mounted in turn at the center of a much larger metal grillwork, curved in the manner of a trough. A flexible tube led from the rear of the assembly to a large Tomaquartz beaker, which Bud now brought into view. Chow could see a few smears of cake frosting in the bottom.

Chow walked closer, scowling, and pointed a finger suspiciously at the antenna. "You mean t’say this here thingumabob sucked the frosting right off the cake—
my
cake!—like a—like a gol-blame
vacky-oom
cleaner?"

Tom grinned. "Well, not quite like a vacuum cleaner. But it’s the guilty party all right. The device operates by an electromagnetic wave action. In principle at least, the final version can work at ranges of hundreds of
millions
of miles."

"Hoppin’ horned toads!" the cook blurted. "Then if I cooked up a mess o’ frijole beans out in Texas, you could sample ’em right here in Shopton—is thet what yuh’re sayin’?"

"I could if I had a clear line of sight and my telesampler had enough power to work with. This experimental lab setup couldn’t do it, of course. Anyhow," Tom added with a chuckle, "I’d rather have you working your chuckwagon here at Enterprises, pard."

Though Chow never held a grudge, his wide face did hold a frown as he eyed his victimized cake. "Nice t’ hear! Don’t look to these eyes like you two got much
ree
-spect fer my perfession. Didn’t need to take out sech a holy hunk to make a point."

"Just
funnin
’ ya, Chow," said Bud apologetically. "And, er—besides―"

"Besides, old Tom needed some cheering up," Tom finished wryly. "Don’t let the telesampler spook you, though. It was only able to grab such a large amount of material―"

"Frosting!"

"—because the distance was only a few feet. Under its normal conditions of use, it will only be able to convey a stream of individual molecules, just enough for an analysis at the receiving end."

Mollified, Chow began to dish out an appetizing lunch of lean steak and fatless French fries—much more flavorful than its description. "Jest a few bitty mollycules, huh. Don’t plan t’ make much of a hole fer yer minin’ operations, I guess."

"It’s not for mining, pardner," Tom explained. "You see, really long-range instrumental analysis of distant objects—planets and other space bodies, like asteroids—isn’t as precise as scientists might want. Telespectrometry, Doppler radar analysis—it gives a general picture, but it’s like taking a snapshot of a distant mountain. Some of the details get blurred out."

"Cain’t see th’ forest fer th’ trees, hm?"

"Yep. And of course some things out there are two attenuated or distant to reflect light back to optical instruments. That’s why we send landers to planetary surfaces, or let them fall into atmospheres: it’s the only way to get actual samples of matter to examine in detail."

"Tom’s going to try it out on the comet," Bud said through a few French fries.

"That so?" Chow continued to peer at the telesampler rig. "Wa-aal now, how does she work, boss? I figger ya already went over it with Bud, like as always."

"Well, basically," Tom explained between mouthfuls, "the antenna pulses out a high-energy microwave beam, concentrated like a superthin laser beam, that knocks particles loose from the surface of the target substance. Sort’ve the same way a beam of light knocks free electrons off a photoelectric plate."

"I don’t unnerstand
that
neither, son," grumped the ex-Texan. "How d’ye make them lil bitty party-cules o’ the stuff come back to you?"

"Robot carrier pigeons," Bud said unhelpfully.

"The momentary ‘hotspot’ produces a microsized puff of what’s called
plasma
, a very thin gas of molecules with a net electric charge. The plasma is barely detectable, but it packs just enough punch to carry the loosened target molecules along with it back to Earth—the plasma, because it bears a charge, can be propelled along by the reflected electromagnetic beam as it returns to the transmitter."

"Like radar," Bud put in. "The bounceback carries the ion gas, and the ion gas carries the target particles. Piece o’... cake."