Tom Swift and the Visitor From Planet X (9 page)

"Let me show you two around Exman," Tom began. But Bud interrupted him immediately.

"Exman?"

Tom chuckled. "Our
ex-
traordinary spaceman who has travelled
ex-
treme distances from Planet
X!"

"Oh, I getcha, boss," Chow commented. "Buncha
x
’s, like a brand. I thought it maybe meant ‘a used-ta-be man’."

Tom started his account at the bottom. The canister stood atop a wide, circular base. "You can’t see it, but there are miniature flexi-treads underneath, similar to those we used on the spectromarine selector platform. Exman will be able to negotiate his way over rough terrain—and even climb stairs!"

"Now
that
I gotta see," murmured Chow skeptically.

Above the tread housing the canister narrowed and then broadened again, like an hourglass. Tom explained that this section would contain some of the heavier pieces of equipment, including the solar-battery power compartment, the gyrostabilizer apparatus, and a densely-packed computer of advanced design. "You can think of that part as Exman’s auxiliary brain, which will act like a middleman between the outer world and the energy matrix itself."

At the top of this section came the device’s broad "waist," which was girdled by a flat circular rail to which were affixed three small parabolic dish-antennas. "Bet I know what
that’s
all about," Bud piped up. "Three little repelatrons scooting along their own little track."

"Give that man a prize!" Tom exclaimed. "The repulsion force-beams will give our visitor a means of exerting a push on selected items in his vicinity. They’re like the ones on the
Challenger;
they can be re-tuned to repel different elements and compounds."

"Help him get his exercise," observed Chow approvingly.

The tapering cylinder that constituted Exman’s top half contained most of the communications and sense-perception processing circuitry, as well as a small version of Tom’s gravitex stabilizer, a device that would work in tandem with the internal gyros to keep the container solidly upright. A ring encircling Exman’s neck area was an all-directional radio transceiver. "At least at first, he’ll communicate with us by radio, using the oscilloscope symbol-code."

Chow stepped forward tentatively, extending a finger. "What’re these, his arms? Looks like he’s wearin’ boxing gloves." Mounted on either side of the upper body, the "arms" were actually sets of moveable jointed rods which could be mechanically extended, retracted, and swung about. But in place of hands, Exman sported two multifaceted globe-shaped units.

"I call these sensarray globes," Tom said. "See how each facet has a small opening in it? Think of it as a specialized artificial sense organ, each one adapted to some aspect of sense perception. It’s just as it is in us poor humans, you know. Eyes and ears are differently shaped and function in completely different ways, and your taste buds and the nerve cells in your skin, which give you the sense of touch, are customized for use." The energy-brain would be able to rotate the spheres freely and extend the arm-rods to bring the selected facet of a sphere near to, or in contact with, the subject of perception.

"So let’s say Exman—who, let’s face it, doesn’t know anything about our planet’s dangers—wants to take a sip of Chow’s chili surprise," Bud said with a friendly poke to Chow’s arm. "What does he do, suck it up through one of those holes?"

"Actually, he has artificial ‘tongues’ to use for the sense of taste," replied the young inventor. "About fifty of them, in fact, specialized for various kinds of taste. Each tongue is about as thick as your little finger, and pops forward out of whichever opening it sits it." The many other microsensing instruments were adapted to the whole range of the specific aspects of perceptual data.

"Wa-aal, let’s get past my chili and on t’the big question." Chow gestured broadly. "You plannin’ on makin’ this ole Exman a sheriff, or what?"

The grizzled cook was indicating a big housing attached near the top of Exman’s canister, affixed to the front like a face. The housing had the form of a five-pointed star. "Chow, that’s the actual container for the brain-energy. During his stay, he’ll live in a little shielded compartment or ‘cell’ in the center of it, which he’ll enter through a shuttered port at the top. Each of these five star-points contains the electronics for translating the signals from the sensing instruments into the electromagnetic fluxes that, according to the space people, will modulate the energy and give Exman a form of conscious perception.
Five
modules—corresponding to the five basic human senses."

Bud’s face shone with pure awe. "Skipper, for once I’m not even gonna try for a joke. This is just unbelievable—an artificial man special-designed for an alien space-brain!"

Tom felt a glow of pride—and eager impatience—as he closely inspected the device he had explained. If it worked as he hoped, this odd creature might one day provide earth scientists with a priceless store of information about intelligent life on Planet X!

Chow was feeling restless and rambunctious in the face of so much exotic science. On a sudden impulse, the old cowpoke took off his ten-gallon hat and plumped it down on the creature’s rounded top. Then he removed his polka-dotted red bandanna and knotted it like a neckerchief just below the star unit.

Tom laughed heartily as Bud howled, "Ride ‘em, spaceman!"

Suddenly a beep announced a call on the lab’s telephone. "Tom here."

"This is Jilly, Mr. Swift—you know, at the main switchboard?"

"Hi, Jilly."

"Mr. Trent told me where you were. Someone just called for you, but said he couldn’t stay on the line. He just wanted you to know that he called. He was very insistent. He made me read back his name twice."

"I see," Tom said. "What was his name?"

"Irwin Roswell Samuel. He said you have his number."

Breaking the connection, Tom repeated the name to his friends.

"That’s quite a name," Bud commented. "So who is he?"

Tom shrugged. "Pal, I don’t have the slightest idea! And as far as I know, I don’t have his number, either."

Chow was muttering the odd name under his breath. Suddenly his face lit up. "Boss! His initials are I.R.S., jest like th’ tax bureau! You s’pose—"

Bud picked up on the notion instantly. "Collections—the Taxman!"

Tom had already drawn the same conclusion. Even as Bud spoke he was rushing to the lab computer. He accessed his personal journal file. Just as he had expected, a message awaited him.

MACAULEYVILLE OHIO
HIRAM ODELL FARM
MORE SYMBOLS

His excitement tinged with alarm, Tom read the message aloud and looked up at his friends. "This can only mean one thing. More of the space symbols have appeared out of nowhere!"

BUD clamped a warning hand down on his pal’s shoulder. "Tom, I know you’re chopping to get down there to Ohio—‘you,’ as in
‘we’!
—but do you really know this isn’t some sort of bogus message to lure you away from the Exman project? It smells fishy. That Taxman guy has never contacted you this way before, leaving a name with the switchboard operator so you’ll log on to your computer."

"That’s true," conceded Tom with great reluctance. "And he usually takes a more suave, casual style in his messages to me, almost like he’s joking around." He turned back to his keyboard and typed a message of his own.

"I’m not satisfied that you are who you say you are,"
he typed.
"You don’t sound like yourself. Are you the agent we call The Taxman?"

The response appeared quickly.

YES

"The same one I’ve contacted before?"

CANT EXPLAIN

"At least tell me why you’re holding so much back from me. If you know who’s behind all this, tell me the details."
For once there was no instant reply. Tom exchanged frowning glances with his friends. He was about to switch off the computer in perplexity when a line of type popped into view.

SMALL SAFE WINDOW

"Now what’s
that
s’posed to mean?" demanded Chow. "Feller’s as bad as them space-symbol folks!"

"I think I understand it, Chow," Tom said thoughtfully. "I think he means he doesn’t want to risk transmitting any more words than absolutely necessary. He’s keeping things safe by using as narrow a transmission ‘window’ as he can get away with."

"But these guys can do just about anything when it comes to secret spy stuff," Bud objected. "You can’t tell me they’re afraid of their phone being tapped!"

"I doubt it’s anything that simple," responded the young inventor. "Remember, the X-ians are tied into this somehow, or at least their super-technology is. Collections may be afraid the Brungarians—or whoever—have started monitoring their encrypted messages and could dope out how to decipher them if they can acquire enough of a sample. So he’s keeping the sample small."

"Okay. So do we trust him?" Bud asked.

"This time, I think we have to. And that means we’re off to Ohio, flyboy. I can’t afford to pass up
anything
that might impact our visitor’s arrival."

After informing his father and Harlan Ames, Tom told Bud to meet him out on the airfield at a small Swift company jet he had requisitioned. Arriving at the jet, Bud asked his pal: "So what’s with this dinky jet, skipper? Did the
Queen
sprain a wing?" The mammoth
Sky Queen,
Tom’s famous Flying Lab, was the young inventor’s customary mode of supersonic transport.

"Pal, there’re only nine public airports in the U.S. able to accommodate that big baby so far, and the nearest one to this Macauleyville burg is a good four hour drive," he explained as they climbed into place. "Besides, I’d prefer not to attract attention."

Their quick flight, with Bud at the controls, ended at the Wright-Patterson airfield in Dayton. They drove their rented compact eastward toward tiny Macauleyville. Ames had been able to provide Tom with the general location of the O’Dell farm, but at a fork in the narrow rural highway Tom had to pull to a stop. "Say there," he called to a repairman up on a nearby telephone pole. "You happen to know the direction of O’Dell’s farm?"

The man gave a snorting laugh. "These days, who doesn’t? Takin’ a look at those crop circles, are ya?" When the young inventor grinned back without answering, the man continued. "Left fork, ’bout four miles up, dirt drive on th’ right with a mailbox. But listen, m’friend, don’t spend much time on ol’ Hiram. He don’t know nuthin’. You talk direct to Valkynser."

Deciding not to pursue the shouted conversation, Tom thanked the man and drove on. In minutes they had pulled up in front of a modern farmhouse, fresh-painted. Beyond lay a wheat field, tan-gold and rolling in breeze-driven waves like an ocean.

A strong-looking older man with a piercing stare answered the doorbell. "Take it you’re the feller who called me, hmm?"

Tom offered his hand, receiving back a powerful grip. "I’m Tom Swift, Mr. O’Dell. This is Bud Barclay. I appreciate your letting us take a look at this—
phenomenon
of yours."

"I’m not gonna turn down Tom Swift when he’s takin’ himself a science look-see," the man said as he led the boys through the house and out the back door. "Half of M’cauleyville’s been out to see it—also the
Morning Gazette-Herald
and that slicked-up lady from Channel 14. Sheriff, too."

"When did the markings first appear?" Tom inquired.

"Oh, couple ’r three nights ago, musta been. We’re guessin’ early in the mornin’, afore dawn."

Bud gave his chum a slight nudge. The time may have matched the appearance of the Enterprises symbols!

Tom asked if anyone had actually seen the markings appear. "Naw," O’Dell responded. "It was Valkynser who stumbled on ’em. Fool likes to run around for exercise way early up, hours like a farmer. Best ask him about it all."

"Who is this Valkynser, sir? Does he work for you?"

Mr. O’Dell chuckled a bit sourly. "Don’t imagine he’ll ever work for anybody. Went t’ college, got hisself trained in book-readin’ or something. He’s my tenant—rents the old tractor shack next to m’ west forty. I fixed it up, though. Moved the tractor out."

They were standing on a covered porch. O’Dell gestured toward a wooden bench at the far end of it. "You two go stand on that bench and look straight out. You kin see ’em purty good. Then I’ll walk ya over to Valkynser."

"Is he home right now?" Bud asked. "No need to make you walk all that way for nothin’."

"He’s allus home. Now go take yer look."

Tom and Bud mounted the bench, and what they saw struck them silent. About a hundred yards distant, symbols exactly like those on the Enterprises lawn had been inscribed into the wheatfield, reflecting the lowering sunlight in a manner that made them stand out clearly. "They look like the same symbols to me, Tom," Bud muttered softly. "But you’re the expert. Is it the same?"

Tom shook his head. "No. It looks similar, but I can already tell that the set is not identical to the other. I can tell something else, too. It
is
like the other set in one way—it’s truncated and incomplete."

"Jetz!" said Bud in disappointment. "But maybe the other guy can give us a clue."

They crunched through the fields behind farmer O’Dell. When they came insight of the small tenant shack, he turned and walked off. "Got work t’ do, boys. But I’m there if y’ need me. Don’t let Valkynser spook ya, though—he’s crazy, that’s all."

Bud rolled his eyes. "Another kook. Maybe he belongs to Informatics."

The splintery door was opened by an unkempt, longhaired young man in small round-framed glasses. "Whoa, it really is you! Tom Swift!" They shook hands and Valkynser invited them in. Turning to Bud, he said, "And you—sure, I recognize you. In fact, I’ve got a picture of you. Downloaded it from the Net."

Bud smiled. "In my football uniform?"

"No. You play football? This shows you standing next to—"

Bud interrupted. "Let’s talk about the wheatfield. My good pal Tom here is a very busy young inventor, you know."