Tom Swift and His Giant Robot (10 page)

"We’re almost there!" called Sandy excitedly, as the huge mass loomed before them.

"It’s still a number of miles off," Bud observed. "Distances are deceiving out here."

The mesa was indeed several minutes’ flying time away. Alone and brooding, it seemed to bear down upon them as they approached.

"Why, it isn’t purple at all!" exclaimed Bash. "It seems to be rust-colored."

"Wait until sunset," Bud remarked.

"We won’t be here then," Bashalli retorted, a note of disappointment in her voice. "You made us promise to be back by suppertime."

Bud smiled at this reminder of his one minor victory. "I’ll take the
Skeeter
up. We’ll hover over the top and look for a landing place," said Bud.

The helicopter rose alongside the sheer wall of Purple Mesa.

"It
is
steep," gasped Sandy, "and craggy. No wonder the tourists haven’t sifted all through it looking for treasure!"

The cliff’s edges had been filed into sharp and fantastic shapes by the countless desert sandstorms. Bud carefully spiraled the
Skeeter
in for a landing on the flat top of the mesa. "We’ll have to be careful not to disturb Professor Hermosillo’s work," Bud cautioned sternly.

"Oh, look!" cried Bashalli. "Here comes a family of vultures. They must nest on the mesa."

As Bud held the ship steady, he glanced over his shoulder and up into the sky, which was already turning a dark-blue with the first early touch of evening. Then he gave a startled yelp.

The birds were not vultures but an aerial battalion of jet-black crows, each of monster size!

The girls shrieked as they realized what they were seeing—and the shrieks were redoubled as, suddenly, the chopper was buffeted around.

"What’s the matter with the
Skeeter?"
Sandy cried. "Is it the birds?"

"Updrafts from the cliff!" yelled Bud. He kicked desperately at the control pedals, but it was no use. The rotor compensator was out of control and the cabin began to spin.

"Hang on, we’re going to crash!" Bud shouted in warning.

The helicopter dropped, clipped the edge of the mesa, and plummeted over the side!

THE
SKEETER
hung on a crag at the edge of the precipice, a momentary respite.

"Kick the window!" Bud yelled. Sandy’s foot flew against the large pane of safety glasstic. The pane popped free and Sandy tumbled out onto a broad angled ledge a few yards below the top of the mesa. Bashalli scrambled after her just as the helicopter tipped and started to skid down the steep cliff wall.

The girls watched in horror as the craft, with Bud still trapped inside, grated noisily down the incline. A rotor blade snapped off and went spinning away.

A moment later a formation of up-jutting rocks about a hundred feet down caught the
Skeeter
like a giant outstretched hand. The girls stared blankly at the wreckage, hoping against hope that Bud was still alive. As they waited, frantic because they could not help, the seconds seemed like centuries.

Suddenly Sandy grabbed Bash’s arm. She had heard a faraway creaking sound. Slowly the twisted door of the helicopter was being forced open. Bud staggered out, seemingly uninjured. The girls called down to him.

"I feel like a one-wheeled tricycle!" Bud yelled. The wind whooshed and his voice was barely audible to the girls. "Pretty banged up but all in one piece. But I’m seriously thinking of giving up air travel!"

Sandy and Bashalli sighed in relief but their elation was short-lived. Bud was still trapped! Hanging precariously midway down the cliff, he could neither climb down nor locate any footholds for an ascent.

Realizing the near futility of his situation, Bud knew he must not become panicky. Settling back against the helicopter, he surveyed the scene. A descent was out of the question. The cliff walls rose in a sheer line from the desert floor. One slip and he would be battered against broken boulders that fanned out at the base.

His only chance was to risk a climb. He would have to do it without the assistance of caulked climbing shoes or a pickax. But one essential he could not do without was a rope. There was none aboard the
Skeeter.
There were, however, control cables. These were built into the fuselage and ran from the cabin to the engine and rotors, and might be pulled out and tied together. Bud waved at the girls above, then turned back to approach the rear service panel of the jetrocopter.

Suddenly a cascade of small boulders and loose dirt rumbled down the cliffside, and the
Skeeter
swiveled violently. Out of sight behind the tail boom, Bud gave a startled cry, which was cut off short. Then the chopper broke free and somersaulted wildly down the rock wall, landing far below with a shattering crash.

There was no sign of Bud anywhere!

"Oh no, oh no!"
Sandy shrieked tearfully. "Oh, Bashi, he’s
gone!"

Bashalli comforted Sandy, her sharp artist’s eyes searching below for some sign of life. But there was nothing to see. "Sandy, he may just be knocked out in the shadow of those rocks," she murmured. "We didn’t see him falling."

Sandy dried her tears. "When Tom gets here, he’ll search every inch of that cliff," she said.

The two spent several minutes calling out to Bud. But their voices soon grew hoarse, and the air was becoming cool. "We’d better move away from the edge," urged Bashalli, guiding Sandy upward to the summit.

For the first time, the girls noticed that the flat top of the mesa was perforated by narrow shafts marked with stakes and brightly colored strips of plastic.

"It’s that professor’s work," said Sandy listlessly.

Just then Bashalli grabbed Sandy’s sleeve. "I heard something!"

They instinctively looked skyward. Were the crows returning to finish their work?

The sound came again, and now both girls could here it.
"Hey! Hey!"

"It’s Bud!" cried Sandy joyfully. "But where in the world is he?"

Bashalli stood next to one of the shafts and looked downward. "You know," she said, "I do think it is coming from in here!"

Sandy dashed over to the shaft and yelled down
"Bud!"
at the top of her lungs.

"Yeah," rose the faint reply, "it’s me, San. The chopper whapped me into some kind of crack in the cliff. I can see you way above me against the light."

"It’s the archeological dig," Sandy yelled.

"That’s what I thought," Bud responded. "It looks like they’ve scooped out some places here and there in the rock that I can use for hand and foot holds, all the way up."

For ten minutes they heard the young pilot huffing and groaning with the effort of the climb. Then, finally, they could make out the top of his head, and a minute later they were able to reach down and pull him up to the surface.

"Thank goodness!" both girls cried, hugging him in their relief.

Bud grinned, but he was too physically exhausted to make one of his usual wisecracks. He lay down flat, panting, his hands badly scraped and bruised.

It was many minutes before the full import of the situation dawned on them. Hours would pass before they were reported missing and a rescue party sent after them—and the sun was beginning to dip low in the sky. Soon the hot desert day would turn to shivering night.

"At least we’re all safe," Sandy remarked philosophically.

"But the crows may return," Bashalli worried. Bud shook his head. "They’ve done their work for today. They don’t seem to like coming back for an encore." Approaching the edge of the mesa he looked down at the badly mangled helicopter and thought of how close they had come to total disaster and tragedy.

Their situation, nevertheless, was far from pleasant. They were without food or supplies. The chance of a stream on this barren mesa was nil. Should they have to remain past sundown, they would suffer from the night’s intense cold, since they were not warmly dressed.

"It will be hard on you two," Bashalli commented jokingly. "There is no television!"

Bud, realizing the urgent need for psychology to keep the girls from becoming frightened, sprawled out casually on the ground and scooped up a handful of earth. "Do you think that the legend about buried Indian treasure on Purple Mesa could be true?" he mused aloud.

"Is there a legend?" asked Bashalli.

"I’m
sure
it’s true," said Sandy, brightening. "The legend says its fabulous," she added. "There are supposed to be hundreds of hand-carved necklaces, solid-silver brooches, and bracelets set with precious stones. I read about it!"

"Then let’s start looking around," Bud urged, relieved that he had been able to divert the girls’ minds from their plight. "We may not be coming back any time soon."

Bash and Sandy eagerly discussed the most likely spot to search.

"If I were an Indian I’d bury the treasure near that mark on the rock," said Bud, indicating an uneven discoloration in the ground. "That way I’d have a marker and know just where to find it."

Bashalli did not agree. "No wise Indian would do that. It would be too obvious."

Using small loose rocks as tools, the trio began digging for the legendary treasure. Each one chose a different area to explore.

By sundown there were a dozen miniature foxholes on the mesa top. The girls were beginning to tire. "Maybe we’d better rest for a time," Bud suggested.

"No way, Buddo!" said Sandy. She tossed a scoopful of earth over her shoulder and continued to dig. "Think of all that treasure!" she said.

Bud grinned, shaking his head helplessly. "Carry on, girls. I’ll just supervise for a while."

He sat on a flat rock and watched, sore and aching, as the girls plowed up the surface of Purple Mesa. Suddenly a shriek of joy sent him leaping to his feet. Fifty yards away, Bash was jumping up and down, shouting, "We found the treasure! We found it!"

Boggling, Bud dashed over to where the young Pakistani was holding an object aloft. After she had wiped the clinging earth from it, Bud whistled in amazement. It was an ancient turquoise-and-silver ring!

"I can’t believe it!" he said in astonishment. "Let me have one of those rocks!"

In no time he too had forgotten that the trio were cut off from civilization. For another hour the three clawed at the earth, digging one hole after another. The sky turned scarlet, then magenta. Finally the weary searchers were forced to give up as a chilling dusk came on. The treasure hunt was at an end with only one ring to reward their efforts.

Now Purple Mesa took on a rather eerie aspect as lengthening shadows of lavender and violet crept across its surface. Deeper purple hues cast an unreal pallor on their faces. The bone-deep cold of the desert night began to make itself felt.

"If only we had a fire!" moaned Bashalli, her teeth chattering.

"If only we had a railroad track and a jet engine!" Bud retorted wryly.

"I’m getting hungry," Sandy said wistfully.

Bud’s eyes watched the ever-darkening skies for some hopeful sign of a rescuer.

"Tom will be here," he said. "When we don’t return on schedule, he won’t waste a minute in starting a search."

Bud was right. As the last ray of daylight filtered out, the powerful beams of the
Sky Queen’s
landing lights appeared on the horizon. The huge ship thundered toward them until it was directly overhead. The Flying Lab hovered high over the mesa and began to descend.

The three marooned below waved frantically, caught in the clear beam of the Swift searchlight. Tom,. relieved to see them alive and safe, blinked his lights in answer. He held the ship motionless in the air, keeping the intense blast of the jet lifters away from the trio on the mesa. A landing would be impossible.

Tom’s solution to the rescue problem soon became apparent. He maneuvered the
Sky Queen
over beyond the edge of the precipice and then slowly permitted the ship to sink down until she was slightly above the mesa top. The wide door of the hangar bay was opened, and Tom and a crewman hurled a ladder of nylon cord across to the castaways. On the third try Bud caught it and managed to hold it taut while first Bashalli, then Sandy, scrambled to the safety of the
Sky Queen.

With no one to anchor the ladder, Bud realized that as soon as his feet left the ground the ladder would swing forward under the belly of the
Sky Queen
and expose him to the intense heat and air blast of the jet lifters. Though the trailing end would slow the swing, he had been weakened by his climb up the shaft, and he wondered if he would be able to climb up, hand over hand, fast enough to escape being blown off the ladder. It was a chance he would have to take.

Stepping onto the first rung, Bud felt the ladder start to move. Quickly he reached up and grasped the next rung, and the next and the next as the end of the ladder dragged across the rocky ground.

"Hurry!"
cried Sandy from the bay.

But speed on the twisting, swaying ladder was out of the question. It was all Bud could do to hang on. Terror in his eyes, he looked at the lifters.

The next moment, the ladder was swept toward the fiery blast!

EVEN AS Bud Barclay was facing the cruel blast of the lifters, the stratoship executed a maneuver Tom had devised before slinging out the ladder. The crewman at the controls in the flight cabin gave a short burst of the forward engines, while simultaneously commanding the
Queen’s
supergyros to dip the tail slightly. In response the ladder swung backward away from the jet lifters, with Bud playing the role of the plumb-weight on a pendulum.

Instantly Tom, the two girls, and another crewman yanked the ladder into the hangar hold at top speed. In seconds Bud was catapulted into waiting arms.

"Permission—to come—aboard, sir!"
the young pilot gasped, sinking down on his knees.

"Granted!" Tom exclaimed gratefully. Then he added: "Though I ought to skin you alive for taking the girls to—"

"Please!" said Bashalli imperiously. "As if we couldn’t take care of ourselves. And look, Thomas." She held up the turquoise ring she had uncovered.