Tom Swift on the Phantom Satellite (13 page)

"Brand my cookstove," Chow muttered, scratching his stubbly chin, "I’ve seen a heap o’ queer things since I been workin’ fer you an’ yer pa, Tom, but this takes the prize!"

The part of the atmos-maker that remained on the surface beneath the whirling dispeller resembled an elaborate construct of metal blocks, each one several feet long, joined to one another at odd angles.

"Looks like modern art," commented Bud to Tom. "I’ve been meaning to ask you why they’re put together that way."

"Why not?" Tom responded. "In this low gravity, we can fit the modules together according to functional efficiency, without worrying about whether the thing will stand up on its own."

"Tell me this, Tom," Gabe asked. "Won’t you have to have someone standing by at all times, feeding rocks into the smelter?"

The young inventor shook his head. "Underneath this part of the machine is a long, flexible feed-conduit which can extend out like a telescope. It’s hooked up to a special adaptation of my earth blaster digging machine." He explained that the digger would constantly rove about deep underground, testing rock samples electronically and pulverizing whatever rocks fit the specifications. "The rock dust will be blown through the conduit right up to the smelter," he said.

"Sounds like one o’ them automatic floatin’ things that bobs around in swimmin’ pools t’ keep ’em clean," Chow remarked.

"Well," added Kent, "the sort of rocks you want, Tom, are very plentiful on Little Luna and run deep down, I can tell you that."

Tom watched the spinning spider overhead approvingly. "We’ll be able to ditch our space suits once we get these machines in full operation," he said. "Because the machines are located at the poles, the rotation of the satellite will help spread the gases around."

"How can you possibly cover this whole mini-planet with air, though?" asked Dr. Wohl. "It seems it would take years!"

"We can’t wait that long!" Tom laughed. "Remember, the atmospheric envelope will spread broadly, but won’t be deep at all, just a hundred feet or so. In fact, most of the higher elevations of the surface will stick out into space, so we’ll have to be careful when we go exploring." He added that the "skin" of Inertite filaments would hold back the outflow of gases, trapping them as if in an expanding bubble. This would allow local air pressure to approach normal within a matter of hours.

"I jest hope this new-fangled air you’re making is fresher’n that dehydrophobiated grub I been having t’make meals out of," Chow grumbled.

Tom smiled. "You mean
dehydrated,
Chow."

"Wa-al, mebbe so, but a steady diet of that stuff is enough to give a man hydrophobia!"

As the cook clumped off in his space boots, Tom chuckled. Then he examined some of the dials on the atmos-maker control chassis. "Guys, I don’t see any reason why we can’t start running the smelter. If Hank’s ironed out the final problems at the other site, we could have at least a little atmosphere on Little Luna as early as tomorrow!"

To cheers, and photo-flashes from Gabe Knorff, Tom activated the rock-feeder. Then, minutes later, he switched on the smelter. Almost immediately a faint haze could been seen rushing out of the whirling air spreader in all directions. "We’re in business!" Tom cried jubilantly.

For hours Tom and his comrades monitored the operation of the machine. It showed no variance from the ideal parameters.

Suddenly a deep shadow fell across the canyon site, like the sweep of a great black wing. Sundown!

"I always forget how quickly night comes on Little Luna," murmured Dr. Jatczak. "And I was not finished with some of my instrumental observations. I’ve set up my own little observatory nearby, you know. But tomorrow morning will be soon enough."

"You’ll begin to get some atmospheric scattering tomorrow, Doctor," Tom noted. "If you want, I can try to calculate the refraction coefficient."

Bud clapped his pal on the back of his spacesuit.
"Don’t
go into that now, genius boy," he said, "or you’ll be slaving over a hot flatscreen all night. Weren’t you supposed to be taking it easy? I vote we head back to the ship."

"Second the motion," Tom said, yawning. He was bone-tired, and hungry too.

A surprise awaited the team back at the
Titan
. It seemed Chow had been inspired to new heights of creativity by his own grumbling! To celebrate the completion of the atmos-maker, the colorful Texan had prepared a special supper for the crew. To their amazement, the men found themselves served with appetizing hamburger patties, mashed potatoes, stewed corn, milk, and fruit pudding.

"What a chef!" Bud cried as he finished the last spoonful of pudding. "Chow, I take back everything I ever said about your rattlesnake soup and the other crazy concoctions you dream up!"

Chow winked, beaming. "High time you learned to
discern
good food afore you
digest
it, buddy boy!"

Jason Graves, newly mellowed, joined in the praise. "This meal really hit the spot, Chow. How did you manage it with all those dried-up rations we brought along?"

"Oh, ’t warn’t nuthin’," the cook replied. "I jest used a mite o’ injin-ooity—juiced the burgers up with some squirts o’ cranberry juice and fruit pulp. Almost brung ’em back to normal, if I do say so myself! Don’t wanna tell you all m’secrets, though."

"Maybe it’s better that we
don’t
know," Bud muttered.

After enjoying the afterglow of Chow’s meal for a time, Tom contacted the space outpost. In minutes he was on a radio relay back to the other camp at the northern pole.

Hank Sterling answered the signal. "All’s well here, skipper. The machine’s in great shape—in fact, since it’s still light here, we might as well start ’er up."

"Great!" exulted the young inventor. "We’ll fly the ship back by late tomorrow."

Before retiring, Tom took a last look out at the landscape of Little Luna, dark and forbidding. Yet somehow—if it wasn’t just imagination—the shadows looked a bit softer around the edges.

In spite of the late hour at which they had retired, everyone turned out at daybreak to witness the first atmospheric sunrise on the tiny moonlet. The eastern sky was jet black and sparkling with icy stars for the most part as the sun edged over the horizon. Then everyone burst forth in awe. Across the lowest strip of sky, and especially within the canyon itself, rolled a luminous haze flushed with dawn colors of rose-pink, gold, and crimson.

"Oh man, ain’t that a sight!" exclaimed Chow, crowding at the viewpane with the others. "When can we get shed o’ these suits, Tom?"

Checking some instruments, Tom responded with pleasure, "It won’t be long, pard! We’ve already got about 5 millibars of pressure at ground level—only 995 to go."

Chow’s expression soured. "That much?"

"Don’t worry. From here on the buildup will accelerate greatly. I think we’ll be walking around in shirtsleeves by lunchtime."

Tom’s bold prediction was dead on. Shortly before local noon, he made a final check of the instruments and told everyone the air was safe and breathable, though protection from ultraviolet would still be necessary.
"Yippee!"
cried Chow as he and the others, gathered outside the
Titan
, gingerly removed their spacesuit helmets, then breathed deeply. "Almost as good as it looks in Texas! Smells right fresh. And it’s gettin’ some color in." Though the sky directly above was still black, most of the great dome of sky was now touched with indigo, even blue. "The air’s balmy, too," Chow added.

"That’s because the atmospheric blanket has started protecting us from extreme temperature changes," Tom explained. "But listen, guys, the air is still quite rarefied—no hard work."

"I
suppose
I could force myself to hold back," Bud joked.

After lunch, which was served picnic-style in the open air, Tom issued orders that everyone keep an emergency "life tent" handy at all times. Compactly folded, these tents could be carried as packs and would inflate automatically if the atmosphere machines should ever fail.

The balance of the afternoon was spent in preparations for the departure of the spaceship back to the north pole base. A special monitoring system was set up to keep a careful eye on the atmos-maker. "We’ll relay the output through the space outpost," Tom explained to Rafe.

Minutes later Tom was interrupted in his lab cubicle by Violet Wohl. "Tom, have you run into Henrick recently?" she asked.

"Not since lunch," he replied. "Why do you ask?"

"I’ve been concerned about his health ever since the accident on the ship," she explained. "He mentioned yesterday that he has had a few dizzy spells, and I worry that he might overdo it in this thin atmosphere."

"Have you called for him by transiphone?"

Wohl nodded. "I just did, but there was no answer. Of course, the terrain may be blocking the signal…"

Tom smiled reassuringly. "I’m sure there’s nothing wrong, but why don’t you and I look around a bit? He’ll need to be getting back to the
Titan
soon, anyway."

Taking the derrick tank and joined by Bud, Tom and Dr. Wohl decided to look first in an area near the canyon where they knew Dr. Jatczak had been making instrumental observations. The walls of this high-sided valley were splashed with eerie bright colors.

"A pint-sized Grand Canyon!" Bud exclaimed. "Sure wish I had a color camera to—"

He broke off as a wailing shriek echoed through the valley, strangely muffled in the rarefied air.

"It’s the atmosphere alarm!" cried Tom. "The pressure must be dropping!" He glanced at the meter in the tank. "Good gosh, it’s dropped thirty percent!"

"And Henrick is out there in the open!" exclaimed Dr. Wohl fearfully.

They gunned the tank and sped toward the area where they hoped to find Dr. Jatczak.

The valley took a sharp turn, and Bud suddenly cried out and pointed. On a rise next to a set of instruments stood one of the life tents, fully inflated! Pulling on helmets and breathing gear that were stored inside the vehicle, the three scrambled and bounded frantically up to the tent, their feet barely touching the rocks. Inside the tent they could make out the form of Henrick Jatczak. The little astronomer lay sprawled face down, unconscious! They surmised that he had been so busy with his work that he had not crawled into his tent until he was almost asphyxiated. Full of dread they dragged the entire tent down to the tank and managed to push Jatczak through the airlock.

Inside Dr. Wohl felt the man’s pulse. "It’s very weak. He’ll need artificial respiration—fast!"

First Wohl, then Bud, then Tom straddled Jatczak’s body and applied rhythmic pressure to his lungs. But after twenty minutes of steady treatment, the victim showed no signs of reviving.

"I’ll try a shot of adrenalin," the doctor said tensely. Filling a hypodermic syringe from the tank’s emergency kit, she injected the heart stimulant, then waited.

Again there was no response!

White-faced, Bud threw a pleading glance at Violet Wohl. But the medic shook her head slowly.

"I’m afraid we may have found Henrick too late," she said sadly. "I’m more sorry than I can say."

"YOU MUST save him, Doc Vi, you must!" Bud exclaimed in dismay as he knelt beside Dr. Jatczak.

"There’s still hope, Bud," the physician said hastily, "but the odds are against us."

Knowing how fond Bud had become of the frail astronomer, Tom gave his friend’s arm a squeeze. "Keep your chin up, pal. We’ll work on Dr. Jatczak as long as there’s an ounce of hope!"

Spelling each other at five-minute intervals, the trio continued to apply artificial respiration. Again Tom’s turn came around. With a slow, pistonlike rhythm, he labored over the unconscious man, forcing air in and out of his lungs. Suddenly a long gasp escaped from Jatczak’s lips!

"He’s coming to!" Bud cried softly.

Energized with hope, Tom kept pumping until Dr. Jatczak’s eyes flickered open. Then Dr. Wohl waved spirits of ammonia under the astronomer’s nose. He coughed and gasped.

"Oh my!" he murmured weakly, trying to raise his head. "I did it again, didn’t I."

"Don’t talk, Henrick—just lie still," Violet told him gently.

They drove Jatczak back to the
Titan
at top speed, where he was put to bed in the ship’s tiny sick bay under the care of Dr. Wohl. She gave him a complete examination, then injected a sedative to put him to sleep. Emerging from the compartment a few minutes later, the physician found Bud waiting anxiously, along with Chow.

"Dr. Jatczak is doing well and resting comfortably," Wohl reported. "He’ll pull through all right."

"I sure hope so," Bud said earnestly.

Tom had been unable to wait for the doctor’s assessment. He immediately moved to take account of the other members of the crew, using his transiphone. By good fortune all the others had been working near the ship when the alarm sang out, and had either been able to scramble aboard, or were waiting safely nearby in their tents.

"But what in thunderation’s wrong with that machine of yours, Swift?" demanded Jason Graves, his brief mellowness having fled.

"I’m about to find out," Tom replied.

He went to the atmos-maker site in the company of Rafe Franzenberg. The silver spider was still whirling madly above, and the ore bins were full.

"It’s a baffler, chief!" muttered Rafe.

Tom opened up the service access panel and began to perform some voltage checks on the circuits within. "Got it!" he called out abruptly. "The frequency modulator for the coherence-wave generator is defective. The Inertite filaments aren’t connecting up with one another, and the gases are leaking away into space." Fortunately they had brought a variety of spare parts with them, and the repairs took only a few minutes.

Within an hour and a half, Tom was able to announce that a livable atmosphere had been restored. He then went to check on Dr. Jatczak, and was delighted to find the scientist sitting up and alert. Dr. Wohl reassured the him by saying, "Henrick should be back on his feet soon, but he’ll need plenty of rest. And, incidentally, this is a good place to convalesce."