Tom Swift in the Caves of Nuclear Fire (6 page)

Tom approached the door to the cabin and cautiously twisted the knob.

The next instant the woods thundered to a violent roar!

THE BLAST had come from inside the cabin. It blew the door to kindling and splinters, propelling Tom backwards into Bud. They both lay in a heap on the ground, unconscious.

Meanwhile the interior of the small structure began to flicker with orange light. Fire! Licking the fragments of the shattered door, the flames crept out into the open, igniting the weeds and dried brush.

Tom was the first to revive. He rolled off his pal and struggled to his feet, coughing in the smoke, wincing from the heat.

"Bud!" he choked. "Get up!" Kneeling, he shook Bud vigorously, and the youth’s gray eyes flickered open.

"Tom, is something on fire?"

"Come on, help me!"

The two of them managed to stomp out the fire in the brush before it had spread. The fire in the cabin seemed to be slowly dying away of its own accord.

"The door must’ve been booby-trapped!" Bud exclaimed furiously.

"No," responded Tom. "Didn’t you hear the glass breaking just before the explosion? Somebody pitched a grenade into the cabin!"

"Hoplin must have circled back," Bud muttered. "We still could’ve wound up dead!"

"That
I agree with!" declared the young inventor. Then he groaned—he was beginning to feel the pain of his bruises and burns.

"Let’s call the Fire Department and the Shopton PD from the car," Tom said, "and then head for home."

At the Swift home the other searchers were returning from their excursions one by one—first Mr. Swift, then Chow, followed by Tom and Bud with their unsettling tale. They were greeted by Craig Benson, who was restless for action.

"Did anyone hear from Anne and the girls?" asked Mr. Swift.

"I’ve been here all along, and the phone didn’t ring," Craig replied.

"Guess they took that there ‘radio silence’ idea t’heart, Tom," was Chow’s suggestion. But Tom and Mr. Swift were worried nonetheless as the minutes crept by. They were about to leave on a search when Bud called out: "Here they are!"

Tom’s sports car pulled to a halt, and Mrs. Swift, Sandy, and Bashalli Prandit, a young and pretty Pakistani who had become a close family friend, rushed inside.

"While you men were lounging around, we were chased!" cried Sandy.

"Chased!"
exclaimed Damon Swift in alarm.

"Not exactly
chased,"
Bashalli said. "But followed."

"Not
followed,
precisely," corrected Tom’s mother in calm tones. "But there
was
something suspicious."

Chow snorted. "Brand my gopher gizzards! If’n they’d been one more female in that car, it’d turn out they never left in th’ first place!"

"Please, Anne, just tell us what happened," begged Mr. Swift.

"After we picked up Bashalli, we drove along the lake, all the way to Carlopa Heights," Tom’s mother began. "We didn’t see anyone who looked like either of those men."

Added Sandy excitedly, "We did see Jennifer Lee walking along with Billy Houtenloff. He’s
much
too old for her."

"Now Sandra, that is simply a prejudice," interrupted Bashalli. "In Pakistan, we—"

"But—"

"Anyway,"
continued Anne Swift, "we ended up driving around in the Heights for a long time. We theorized that the men might be staying with rich accomplices in one of those big houses. All of a sudden Sandy saw car lights behind us."

"It was as if they’d been driving along with their lights off, then switched them on," Sandy explained. "That’s pretty suspicious, wouldn’t you say?"

Tom asked, "Could you make out the car?"

"Alas, not well," replied Bashalli. "As you know, they do not have anything so mundane as street lamps in that rich part of Shopton. They prefer the illusion of a countrified atmosphere, though not so much that they would move one mile away and actually live in the country."

"It was mostly a silhouette, but it seemed somewhat high, like a truck," Tom’s mother said. "We made a number of turns, going in a big circle and zig-zagging, but they kept following us one block behind. We were getting nervous."

"Finally Sandra had a wonderful idea," said Bashalli.

Sandy gave Tom and Bud an imperious look. "I
do
have them now and then!"

"She had mother Swift turn a corner very fast, and then pull right up in a driveway and choke off the lights. We waited—"

"Our hearts were
pounding!"
Sandy elaborated.

"And in moments what was surely the same truck, our mysterious pursuer, rounded the corner. When he saw that he couldn’t see us—if you see what I mean—he gave guns to his motor and shrieked his tires."

"He went by very fast, and we heard him screech around the far corner of the block. And that was the last we saw of him—or them," concluded Mrs. Swift. "But we took the long way back just in case."

"I’m amazed they were so bold as to try to follow you three on a public street," declared Mr. Swift.

"Wait’ll you hear what happened to
us!"
Bud exclaimed. "We just got the blood wiped away!"

"Blood!"
gasped Tom’s mother.

Before Tom and Bud could repeat their stories for the newcomers, Chow spoke up. "Listen, mebbe what I saw had somethin’ t’do with that car that follered the women!"

"You saw something too?" asked Craig as the others turned to the Texan in surprise.

"Sure did!" Chow declared excitedly. "Y’know, you had me nosin’ around Swift Construction in my pickup, but I didn’t see hide nor hair, so I headed off toward th’ lake. Purty soon, blame if I wasn’t goin’ up an’ down the streets of some ritzy part o’ town—prob’ly the same place you women went to—great big houses and no street lights.

"Didn’t seem t’be a soul out on the streets. But then I saw tail-lights a ways up ahead. They’d sorta go faster and slower, n’then almost stop. Thought it was a mite peculiar, so I took a side street and came out behind ’em. Didn’t want ’em to see me, so I kept a ways behind—but I kept up with ’em, even when they started drivin’ all around like they wanted to lose me!"

Tom nodded. "But they couldn’t lose an old Texas bloodhound like Chow Winkler."

"Not a bit of it!" said Chow proudly. "Wish I coulda kept my lights off, but they started a-goin’ faster, and I figgered it wasn’t safe—besides which, th’ p’lice might have stopped me. Anyhoo, that dang prairie dog tried to shake me, but I kept on his tail."

"Tom—Daddy—it must have been the same car!" cried Sandy in growing excitement. "Chow must have started trailing him right after he passed us!"

Mrs. Swift gave the cook a serious look. "Charles, did you trail the car all the way to a house?"

"I’m a-feared not, ma’am," said Chow with evident regret. "All of a sudden they took a corner at top speed, and by the time I got there and turned after ’em, they’d got themselves hid away someplace. But betcha it’s one of the houses on that there street—Penstellar Lane."

"Penstellar Lane!" Sandy gasped. "That
proves
it was the same car! I noticed the street sign—it was Penstellar Drive where we—where we—"

"—where we turned to escape the car that was following us," finished Bashalli sourly. "Sandy, my dear—"

"Oh, Bashi,
don’t
say it," whined Sandy, turning red.

"Charles, you did a very good job," pronounced Mrs. Swift. "You couldn’t know that the car you were following was—"

"Us!"
moaned Tom’s sister.

When the ensuing jibes and commentary had died down, Tom and Bud narrated their dangerous experience at the cabin.

"Do you really think they were trying to kill you?" asked Craig.

"Whether they were
trying
to or not, they almost
did,"
was Tom’s retort.

Added Bud: "We’d be just as stiff either way!"

"I’ll feel much better when Agent Brenner is on the case," said Mr. Swift firmly.

Craig Benson appeared deeply troubled. "I’ve brought all this down on you folks," he murmured. "I never dreamed it would turn so serious and endanger you this way."

After more excited discussion and a call to Harlan Ames—who reported that he had left a message for Hal Brenner but had not heard back thus far—the groups of searchers drifted off on their separate ways. Tom was left alone in the living room for several minutes, where he sat contemplating the day’s events and considering whether his plans for the expedition to Borukundi needed to be altered. A soft sound broke his concentration.

"Bud! Thought you went home."

The dark-haired pilot shook his head and held a finger to his lips. "Look at this, Tom." He approached his friend, holding out his left hand. Something dark was smeared on one of his fingers.

Tom frowned. "What is it?"

"Sure looks to me like mud and grass and pine needles," he replied softly.

"Okay. Where did it come from?"

Bud hesitated. "From the bottom of Craig’s shoes," he finally said in a grim voice.

"Sure, but why did you—" Then Tom broke off his comment and regarded Bud with wide eyes. "You’re thinking
Craig
was the third person in the woods?"

Bud gulped. "Sorry, Tom, but listen. When we got back I noticed a little dirt on the carpet in the living room. Your Mom is pretty careful about that—it seemed unusual. Then I just happened to notice that Craig had changed his shoes, sometime while we were all out searching. It got me to thinking about how he sort of appeared out of nowhere with that wild story. And now he’s got himself living in your house with you."

"But that was
our
idea!" protested Tom.

Bud ignored the interruption. "Just now, when Craig went into the kitchen with your folks, I went by the guest bedroom and saw his other shoes on the floor. Tom, stuff like this was all over them."

"It was all over our shoes, too. That’s why we had to scrape them off on the porch."

"That’s the point, genius boy," Bud pronounced. "We walked through the same soft, damp ground as those three guys who left the footprints. I don’t like it any more than you do, chum, but you just might have the enemy living under your own roof!"

BUD’S CONCLUSIONS amazed Tom. For a moment he didn’t know what to say. A million thoughts flooded his agile brain.

"Bud, sometimes we have to trust our instincts more than the evidence," he said at last, laying a hand on his pal’s arm. "You don’t really know Craig as I do. He taught me to fly!"

Bud nodded, his face showing sympathy and understanding.

Tom continued, "In mystery stories people just go from clue to clue and jump at conclusions right and left. But in real life you have to be careful—real people can get hurt, and evidence can have an innocent explanation." Tom had in mind a recent situation involving Bud himself, which he had never fully described to his friend; nor had Tom ever completely forgiven himself for his unfounded suspicions.

"Okay, Tom," said Bud. "I won’t make a big deal about it. Maybe I’m off track on this. I just wanted you to know."

Tom thanked him for his loyal concern. Bud went home, leaving Tom alone with his thoughts—thoughts that he very much did not want to have.

The following day Tom and his father met in their shared office and determined that planning would be resumed for the Africa expedition despite the latest indications of danger.

"We can’t risk losing a single second," Tom pointed out. "Now that they’ve shown their hand, Hoplin and Cameron are sure to try something else to keep us from heading for Africa. We must get underway before they can create more mischief."

Damon Swift agreed. "We’ve all faced danger before, and the scientific prize of discovering stable antiproton matter in nature is too great to abandon."

Later in the morning Tom and the other members of the expedition, including Sterling, Hanson, and two other crew members hired for their scientific expertise, reported to the medical department for special inoculations. When it came time for Chow to be jabbed, he yelled:

"Ow! Brand my cow pony’s sore hoofs, where in tarnation did you rake up a crowbar fer a needle, Doc?"

"Well, I’ll tell you, Chow," replied Dr. Simpson with a wink at Tom and Bud, "I keep this for Texans with specially tough hides."

The boys roared with laughter and Chow finally grinned as a patch was put over the prick in his skin. He left the room immediately, however, to attend to supplies for the galley of the
Sky Queen
. "Gotta earn my pay some way, folks," he said on the way out. "Cain’t get by on jest bein’ colorful!"

Tom turned to Bud. "I want to give the terrasphere tank section a final road test in a more challenging environment than the grounds here at the plant," the young inventor said. "But I need to be outside the tank to make observations. How about you taking over?"

"Okay, pal. I’ll put those three-ring wheels of yours through their paces." Bud had just completed two hours of training on the operation of the tank section and crane controls.

Bud went down to the hangar where Terry was housed. The crane and sphere had been detached. The entire machine sported a new coat of paint.

"Is olive green this season’s hot new color?" joked Bud.

"Protective anti-radiation coating," Tom explained. "Can’t hurt."

Bud climbed up into the driver’s dome atop the crane turret and took the vehicle outside the Enterprises gates, into the rocky, brush-covered lot that separated the plant from the paved highway by nearly one mile.

For fifteen minutes Bud exercised the motor—a revolutionary steam-pressure turbine powered by a bank of Tom’s lightweight solar batteries—at various speeds. He tested the strange, circular treads, nested inside one another on independent hubs, at various angles of orientation, and ran them backward, forward, and corner-turning as Tom looked on attentively. The three-sided tank platform seemed able to surmount any obstacle with ease. Bud beamed in satisfaction.

Tom sure knows how to put machinery together to get maximum performance,
Bud said to himself.
Wish he’d get around to designing a convertible for me!
He picked up the microphone to the external radio and told his friend, "I’ll run down to the edge of the pond, then put Terry away."