Tom Swift and His Giant Robot (4 page)

"What does this crow look like?" Tom inquired.

"Very much like what you have described," the woman replied. "As I say, very big and completely dark, but with red-burning eyes and silver talons. His tongue is like the tongue of the great desert snake."

Tom and Bud exchanged startled glances. This detail of their encounter had not been mentioned to Chow!

Jessee took a sip of water and went on. "Oi-Pah flies to your enemy and brings punishments and evil fortune with him. He has ninety-nine children that dwell secretly within his feathers, and when he finds whom he seeks, they all burst out like seeds and fall upon the enemy as a swarm, doing whatever is just. And then they disappear like a flame put out."

Bud gave what would have been a low whistle if he had been able to wet his lips. "This is unreal!"

"Has anyone ever claimed to have actually seen the crow?" Tom questioned.

Jessee smiled. "Oh, you know how it is—
someone
always knows
someone
whose uncle knew
someone
who said—and so on." She took a few bites of her salad. "I don’t really believe these tribal urban legends. I’m a librarian!"

Tom now described Nicky Ammo’s several experiences, taking care not to mention the man’s name. "Have you ever heard of anything like that in connection with the old stories?"

"Oh yes," Jessee responded. "Oi-Pah himself could do it. Once he is called to vengeance, he can take on any shape he likes. But that is a power he shares with one other thing."

"What’s that?" asked Chow, his eyes wide.

"Imagination!"

Driving back to the Citadel over long dark roads, Tom and Bud talked excitedly of Jessee Thunder Lake’s story—though in strangely hushed tones.

"Tom, there really
couldn’t
be anything to it," Bud observed. Then he glanced nervously at his pal. "Could there be?"

"We both saw it," Tom responded. "I’m not one for telling the universe what it can and can’t do. But it’ll take a
lot
of convincing to make me believe you and I and Nicky Ammo are up against a crow with revenge on his mind."

"Yeah," said Bud. "Still… know what we need?"

"What?"

"A ghost
scarecrow!"

The boys slept uneasily that night. But the next day, as the sun burned its way high into the midday sky, Bud piloted the high-altitude jet into the ionosphere, with the newest version of the relotrol mounted above him, and Tom strapped in behind.

"Any problems yet, genius boy?" Bud asked Tom.

"Not a one," answered Tom happily, "and we’re well above yesterday’s altitude mark. I’d say the new system works like a charm."

"And it seems to be a lucky charm, too—no crows anywhere," Bud observed. "So what kind of sunscreen did you smear on your machine?"

After a chuckle, Tom explained: "I guess you could say I’ve invented a ‘smart’ sun block that reformulates itself as conditions change! Seriously, I’m using a new form of double-redundant digital encoding that responds almost instantly to altered radiation conditions and adjusts itself accordingly."

Bud flew the jet higher and higher, and the radia-tector instruments began to show dangerous levels of background radiation streaming down from space. But still the relotrol performed flawlessly.

"Nothing like success to take a person’s mind off magical mystery menaces," joked Bud.

"You can take ’er down now," Tom said. "The next step is to try exposing the new relotrol to some serious hard radiation from the main reactor."

But back on the ground in the Citadel, Tom received disappointing news. The main reactor core had been powered-down that very morning to perform some routine maintenance required by the Nuclear Regulatory Commission.

"Some day Robo Boy himself—or his offspring—will do those inspections," Tom remarked to Bud. "But for now we’ve got a holdup of several days."

Bud grinned. "Want to join me in nature’s tanning salon?"

Tom laughed but replied, "Actually, I was thinking of hitching a ride back to Enterprises, along with the robot. If I’m going to set the relotrol aside for awhile anyway, there are some parts of the main machine that need attention."

Tom and Bud set about arranging for the giant robot to be freighted by jet to Shopton. They would all travel back aboard the same Swift Construction Company craft that had brought Chow to the Citadel. "I imagine Chow will be going back, too. He won’t want to stay away from his customized kitchen for too long."

"And besides," Bud added with a twinkle, "he’s probably got Jessee Thunder Lake out of his system for at least a while!"

Late in the afternoon, as Tom was in his apartment making notes in his computerized journal log, the front office put through a telephone call with Tom’s consent.

"Hello," said a pleasant but unfamiliar voice, "this is Richard Hermosillo. Forgive me if I’m disturbing you."

"Not at all," Tom responded. "What can I do for you?"

"A great deal, perhaps. I’m a professor of archeology out of the University of Albuquerque, and right now I’m working on a ‘dig’ out on Purple Mesa, about eighteen miles or so northeast of your plant."

"I believe I’ve seen it," said Tom.

"It’s a fairly striking land formation. I’m engaged in special, rather delicate work here, and—well, I’m not quite sure how to put this…"

"Do you need some technical assistance?"

"No," replied Professor Hermosillo. "I need help of a rather different sort. You see, Purple Mesa is a sacred spot for one of the local tribes, and some of their leaders object to our digging up here. Normally that would end things right there; but this tribe, the Arapajo, has never been officially recognized—it’s regarded as part of another tribe, and these local leaders have no clear authority over the university’s activities."

The Arapajo—Jessee Thunder Lake’s tribe! Tom had to smile at this latest coincidence. "I know an Arapajo, as it happens," he commented. "But how can I help you?"

"Well," Hermosillo continued, "the whole situation is kind of up in the air, and our funding sources are getting nervous. I know you folks have a lot of contacts in the governmental scientific establishment, and—"

"You thought I might put in a word or two," Tom concluded. "I’d be happy to, but my father and I have always agreed that science and invention ought to be respectful of human values. If what you’re doing really offends the Arapajo, I’m not sure Swift Enterprises would want to get involved."

"I see." Professor Hermosillo was clearly disappointed, and as a fellow scientist Tom felt sympathy for his predicament.

"Tell you what," said the young inventor. "I’m flying back to Shopton, New York, for a few days; I expect to return here by midweek. If you won’t mind, I’ll make some inquiries about your project, and also speak with my father. Perhaps those who are objecting don’t fully understand what you intend to do. It may take a few weeks, but if we
can
help, all things considered—we will."

"We’d all be most grateful," Hermosillo said, relieved. "I’ll contact my colleagues at the university and have them transmit our project proposal to you, and other background information."

After exchanging some further details, Tom hung up. Then he contacted the plant switchboard and asked to be put through to Chow, who had said he would be "whuppin’ up" some experimental dishes in the facility’s kitchen.

"Chow, I wanted to ask Jessee a few questions," Tom said when the cook came on the line. "Would you mind giving me her phone number?"

"Wouldn’t mind, Tom," Chow replied. "But if’n you aim t’call her right now, it wouldn’t do any good—she’s workin’ at the library in Tenderly. Got that number, too."

"Thanks, Chow." Tom then proceeded to call the small town library, where Miss Thunder Lake presided over the reference section. When she answered, Tom apologized for calling her at work and asked what she had heard about the archeological operations on Purple Mesa.

"Oh,
that!"
she said with a ladylike laugh. "Tom, most of my people couldn’t care less about it. That mesa was never a burial ground and has no real significance to the Arapajo Nihavi, except that it was once used as a lookout point. But I know where the trouble is coming from."

"Where?"

"A man named Joseph Cloud Bear and his grandson Kevin. They run an auto detailing shop just outside Tenderly, on Highway 380. Old Joseph’s decided he’s a tribal shaman, and he’s been writing to the government, getting up petitions, and so on. Now he’s got Purple Mesa stuck in his craw. Everyone I know just laughs at him, and if I were you I’d do the same."

Tom thanked her for her help and hung up the phone, wondering if he should call Professor Hermosillo back immediately and offer his support. But he decided to wait until he had discussed the matter with his father.

That evening Tom, Bud, and Chow were airborne, jetting eastward with the red sunset at their backs and Robo Boy securely stowed in the cargo hold.

As Bud and Chow began a game of cards, Tom reclined his seat and found himself starting to drift off to sleep. Suddenly he was aware of excited voices and a hand shaking his shoulder.

"Tom!"

He wearily opened one eye, and saw the jet’s co-pilot standing next to him.

"It’s happening, Tom!" the young man cried excitedly. "Up ahead, above us!"

Tom shook his head, trying to come to full wakefulness. "What’s up ahead, Jack?"

"The crow—
the monster crow!"

TOM LEAPT to his feet, all drowsiness dissipated.

"Did you see it? Where?" he demanded.

Not answering, the co-pilot turned and sprinted up the aisle. Joined by Bud and Chow, Tom followed.

Bursting into the cockpit, Tom saw that the pilot, Ed Mills, had gone rigid with fear. Wordlessly he pointed through the forward viewpane, and Tom worked his way forward to get a better angle.

A huge, black object, flapping like a bird, was circling in front of the jet!

Despite his earlier experience, Tom could scarcely believe his eyes. Again he took note of the dead-black feathers, the lighter beak and claws—which he now realized were silvery in color—and the eyes that glowed red.

From behind him Tom heard a gasp. "Great day an’ dishpans! It
is
a crow!"

"Sure is, pard!" came Bud’s voice, awestruck.

Tom placed a calming hand on Mills’ shoulder. "Got anything on the scope, Ed?"

"Not a thing!" the man exclaimed. "It’s just not there—
but we see it!"

"Keep your eye on it," Tom directed.

"It's got
its
eyes on
us!"
said Jack Vincenzo, the co-pilot.

The mammoth crow wheeled around in a spiralling motion, effortlessly keeping pace with the jet and slowly descending.
Maybe we can get another photo!
Tom thought excitedly.

But even as this crossed his mind, everyone gave a shout. The crow had vanished! Not a trace was left in the darkening vault of stars.

After a shocked silence, Jack said:

"Man alive, I’m sure glad you spread the word about this thing, Tom. I’d’ve thought I was losing my marbles."

"That’s the way Tom and I felt, Jack," said Bud quietly.

"Brand my high-flyin’ fritters!" breathed Chow. "I shore wish Jessee’d been on hand t’see that
Ow-eee-paw
of hers!" As Tom turned, the cook looked him in the eye, worriedly. "Boss, this means some cayuse has got you marked fer vengeance!"

Tom did not reply. He double-checked the instrument readings, then returned to his seat, troubled and thoughtful.

Some hours later the jet roared down to a smooth landing on the brightly-lit main runway of Swift Enterprises. As Tom and the others debarked, Tom’s father drove up in a jeep. He greeted his son warmly.

"It’s good to have you here safe," said Damon Swift. "So there’s been another incident involving that phantom crow, eh?"

"And we’re no closer to figuring it out," Tom confirmed. "What do you think, Dad?"

"Obviously, it’s a hoax of some kind," he responded. "As to how it’s done…" His voice trailed off in a verbal shrug.

"Say there, I got me an idee!" said Chow, who was standing nearby. "Mebbe them Martian pals o’ yours is behind it! Seems like they can do jest about anything!"

Earlier in the year a small automated space missile had plunged into the grounds of Swift Enterprises, bearing an array of symbols that seemed to represent concepts in the universal language of mathematics. Not yet announcing the event to the public, Tom and his father had tentatively deciphered much of the message. It appeared to have originated with friendly scientists who maintained a base on nearby Mars. Subsequently Tom had been able to exchange simple messages with these beings by means of a video-oscillograph transmitter.

Tom smiled. "I guess you could be right, Chow," he said. "But why our space friends would want to get involved with the likes of Nicky Ammo is anybody’s guess!"

"Nevertheless, it might be worth the attempt to contact them," Damon Swift commented. "I’ll spend some time tomorrow trying to construct an inquiry in the space-symbol language."

The young inventor went home for a much-needed night’s sleep. He was late for breakfast the next morning, but his mother, his sister Sandy, and their friend Bashalli Prandit were enjoying cocoa and doughnuts from The Glass Cat, the Shopton coffee house where Bashalli worked, and having a lively discussion.

"Good morning, all," Tom said, kissing his mother and giving each of the girls an affectionate pat on the shoulder. "Hi, Bash! How’s tricks?"

"I would say tricks are at their worst, Tom. That’s why I’m here. You are just the
very
person to save the day."

Tom sat down, dug a spoon into half a grapefruit, and grinned a boyish grin. "Bash, you’re making a hero out of me even before I know why. What’s the story?"

Bashalli, a pretty girl with dark hair and large brown eyes, had come to Shopton from Pakistan. In the short span of time since he had met her, just prior to his trip to South America in his Flying Lab, she had become a good family friend and was always Tom’s date at parties, with Sandy and Bud usually completing the wholesome foursome. Sometimes the four young people would go off together on scientific outings led by Tom. Sandy was an excellent pilot, and Bashalli had a flare for sketching which many times had come in handy.