Tom Swift and His Polar-Ray Dynasphere (16 page)

"This little emulator has various kinds of generic ‘doers’ that can be adapted to a wide variety of uses. In other words, they’re functionally flexible. But inside the box we don’t use dedicated circuitry at all. Instead there’s a computer-memory setup that electronically
emulates
the way different physical circuits, for varying devices, process currents—which, when you get down to it, are really just signals carrying information, separate from whatever powers the output."

"Got it. One little box, but you can use it for anything."

"Well, not exactly anything—you can’t clean your teeth with it just yet! But quite a bit in the areas of monitoring, remote control, and communication. As we ride along today, I’ll be using it to emulate a Loki, my localculator invention, to tell us exactly where we are."

"Great!" Bud exclaimed. "So let’s get riding!"

Tom had brought along in the
Queen’s
hold a pair of new inventions, one-man offroad vehicles designed for negotiating rugged terrains safely, at high speeds. He and Bud had tested the vehicles, nicknamed Roughriders, in the low hills surrounding Shopton, but the Himalayas would offer a grueling challenge like no other on Earth. The shirtsleeve weather of midday, which would turn freezing cold as the shadows lengthened, made it a perfect opportunity.

Raising the skyship a few yards on its extensible landing legs, Tom lowered the deck of the hangar-hold to the ground. In a moment the boys were whooping along in the morning sun at the speed of the open freeway!

They headed away from Chullagar, soon leaving the paved roads and winding among huge boulders and the sharp-tilted landscapes that bordered Vishnapur’s maze of narrow valleys. They bounded up rippling slopes like motorized mountain goats, often at the dizzying speed of 60 miles per hour, occasionally startling the unwary humans and animals who lived there.

Even without their hard-charging speed, the Roughriders had a strange appearance. The pilots sat strapped in an open framework on comfortable saddles similar to those of motorcycles. But what passed for wheels was similar to nothing at all! Twin hoops, some seven feet across, rose on either side of the rider. Composed of a material Tom had devised that could be electronically directed to alter its shape almost instantly, the hoops were usually not round, but any manner of shape—even square or triangular—depending upon the composition of the terrain and the angle of its slope. Pointed vertices sometimes bit into the ground like hiking poles, while on other occasions the rim became momentarily concave to soothe them over bumps and boulders with no slackening of speed. It was only on smooth surfaces that the wheels turned circular and
looked
like wheels. Usually the wheels were vertical, perpendicular to the ground, but they could easily shift their axis shafts in such a way that the tops of the whirling hoops nearly met over the rider’s head!

"Jetz!" Bud shouted to Tom in glee. "This is more fun than I’ve had since the Millennium!"

The young inventor was enjoying himself—but also maintaining a keen watch on the performance of his new invention, occasionally switching the function of his Spektor device to use it as a monitor. "Gyro sensors... gravitex compensators... solar battery junctions... perfect so far!" Glancing at his Spektor, he called over to Bud: "Tack a little right, toward the gap over there. The lake’s just over the rise."

They had set off with a specific destination in mind, the sad, deadly lake of Krei’i Bu. Tom wanted to take a private close look at its shoreline and other geological features—and also to pay a visit to the mountainside lamasery they had seen from the air.

They spent an hour at the lake, and Tom collected a number of additional samples of its murky waters. Then, guided by the Spektor’s emulated localculator, they mounted the lower skirts of great Chogyal. "We couldn’t literally climb to the summit on these bikes," Tom told Bud, "but we shouldn’t have any trouble picking our way around to the lamasery."

"Yeah—
gur’tu’laksma
willing!"

In minutes the ancient lamasery of Mahachogyal loomed ahead, looking down at the two from somewhat higher ground. They swerved and mounted up the slope, drawing nearer the gigantic bas-relief statues carved into the mountainside in shallow recesses.

They halted abruptly in a splash of pebbles and dust. Beaming brightly through the thin air, the midday sun beat down on a carved figure they had not seen clearly the other day from above. Like its companions it was at least one hundred feet high!

Bud stared at the eerie stone giant, then glanced at his chum questioningly. "Is that who I think it is?"

"Sure is."

Yamantaka!

"WHAT do you make of it, Skipper?" asked Bud tensely. "The lightning throwers are somewhere around here, and now we have a real tie-in to the bit with the spies and the bugged Buddhas."

"I don’t know what to make of it," Tom shrugged. "We know Yamantaka is a part of the Tibetan religion. The carving may not signify anything special."

Bud flicked his head and chin-pointed. "Maybe we could ask." Some distance away stood a wizened figure in a gray robe, evidently a monk or lama. Silent as a statue, his wrinkle-draped eyes regarded them unemotionally above wisps of white beard.

Stabilizing and locking down their Roughriders, the two approached the man. Tom smiled in a friendly way. "Hello, sir. Do you speak English?" The man stared, unmoving, and Tom repeated the question. At last the monk’s arm lifted rigidly, as if on a hinge. He pointed further up the slope to some flat boulders. For the first time the boys noticed another monk, sitting cross-legged on the bare rock in the lotus position.

The two approached, and Tom began, "Sir, do you― "

"Of course I do," the man said impassively, accent thick.

"We don’t mean to interrupt your, er, meditation," said Bud hesitantly.

"You are not. I am only working on my tan."

Tom laughed at the comeback, which was said with a perfectly straight face. "Are you from the lamasery, sir?"

"Yes."

"I’m― "

"I know. Tom Swift. And Bud Barclay. My enlightenment comes from the television news—the BBC, in fact."

Tom offered his hand, which the man only looked at. "It is empty," the monk stated.

"What’s your name, sir?"

"I don’t have one."

Growing impatient, Bud frowned. "Yeah? How do they call you for dinner?"

"I don’t eat."

Looking toward Tom, the young San Franciscan said uncertainly, "I
think
he’s joking."

The monk now smiled. "Of course I am. My name is, as you might put it, Brother Voo. Do I take it that you wish a tour of Mahachogyal, our beloved mother?"

Tom asked if very much of the lamasery was open to the view of visitors. "It is
all
open, to anyone. Why should it be otherwise? Our disciplines, our meditative practices, teach us to resist the world inwardly, not avoid it outwardly. Inside you will find halls of cold stone and many men in robes doing many things, most of them quite ordinary and uninteresting. In one chamber, chanting that never stops—the Nine Thousand Names of the Divine One-Who-Is-Many."

Bud wondered if it were another joke. "You just read off nine thousand names, one after another?"

"In a rhythm, the chant never ceasing until the end of all things. One group chants for about four hours, then the next group takes it up without a break. It has continued unbroken for many centuries."

"What happens when you get to the last of the names?" asked Tom.

"We start over."

With a smile, Tom inquired whether the monk had seen the lights in the sky. "Yes. We all see it. It seems to always stay above one of the valleys across the border, in China. Probably they are being industrious, building an electrical plant. Or might you believe in
gur’tu’laksma?
"

"You don’t, I take it."

"Electricity is enough of a miracle. The folk-demons of the peasants have no role in our beliefs. If that’s what you’re looking for, try our competitors on other mountains."

"How about― " Tom indicated the mountainside statue.

"Yamantaka? Yes, we give him honor here," Brother Voo replied. "But not as a doer of evil, or a trickster. To us he represents the world of days, giving us tests and challenges to strengthen us. Without Lord Yamantaka, we would be like discarded yorb, limp and useless."

"Another question," Bud put in. "Do you have any—any
idea
what’s causing the lake to go bad?"

"That is a matter for science, is it not? Something geochemical, I would think."

Tom and Bud thanked the monk, who nodded. "No doubt we’ll meet again," he said. "Whether in this life or the next, who knows?"

The two returned to their Roughriders, and Bud said:

"Do we believe the guy, genius boy?"

"Well—what he’s saying matches what I’ve read about the Tibetan religions," Tom answered thoughtfully. "And
if
something is going on in the lamasery, he took a risk in telling us that it was all open to view."

"Then again, whatever it is might be hidden away," Bud pointed out. "The ordinary monks might not know about it."

Tom agreed. But he hedged his concurrence. "While we were walking, I was looking at the slope higher up, above the lamasery. I could be wrong, but it sure looked to
my
deep-set blue eyes like there were big char marks on some of the boulders. But still..."

"Right, maybe they’re into singing around the campfire."

Returning to the
Sky Queen
and stowing their vehicles, Tom and Bud casually walked back to the palace, stopping for lunch and keeping their eyes open for Hugh Mortlake. "Jahan probably has him penciled in for a conniving session," Bud grumbled.

The streets of Chullagar were now even more thronged and vibrant, as the Festival was in full swing and nearing its conclusion. Everywhere were men in colorful garb hawking what seemed to be doughnut-shaped pastries dipped in yorb sauce, stacked high on sticks. Others offered gem-studded pins is the shapes of animals or demons. The boys bought several, for the girls and Mrs. Prandit, and to take back to Shopton.

The ceremonial banquet was set for eight-thirty. Tom and Bud donned the formal wear they had brought with them to Vishnapur, then waited with many others in the big antechamber to the grand dining hall. The crowd was largely male, and Crown Prince Vusungira explained to the Shopton visitors that the women of court would enter as a group after the male guests had been seated. "But Sandy and Bashalli aren’t ‘women of court.’ Shouldn’t they be here like the other female commoners?" Tom inquired. Vusungira didn’t respond.

The boys noticed, pointedly, that Prince Jahan was also missing from the crowd.

The hour struck, but a servant announced that entry into the hall would be delayed. "That there prince must be givin’ his act some fine tunin’," suggested a bedecked Chow Winkler.

Crown Prince Vusungira chuckled. "I suspect that Miss Swift and Miss Prandit have caused quite a dither among our court ladies!" Tom and Bud exchanged expressions of curiosity.

Presently the crowd was admitted to the vaulted hall and shown to their seats. When the event finally got under way to the
whang!
of a table-sized gong, Tom and Bud gaped. The court ladies, beaming with pride as they decorously entered the hall, had their long, jet-black hair done-up in fashionable American styles!

At the tail end of the procession came Sandy and Bashalli side by side. The two American girls wore traditional saris and gold bangles with a
tikka
, or beauty spot, above their eves. "Princesses everywhere, but Sandy and Bashalli are
still
the belles of the ball!" Hank Sterling confided to Bud with a chuckle.

"Man, I’ll say!"

"As I understand, they worked on these matters of style for many hours," noted Vusungira. "Now please pardon me. I must take my place with Mother and Father for our grand entrance." As he left the chamber, Prince Jahan entered, seating himself next to the Shoptonians at the table of honor, which was at the right hand of the royal dais. "A bit delayed," he murmured.

All the men rose and grinningly applauded as Sandy and Bash took their seats next to Bud and Tom. Bashalli was smiling demurely, but her words were: "Boys, it’s not easy to sit down in these wrappers of ours."

"But they do make a good impression," stated Harlan Ames.

"Man, I’ll say!" put in Neil MacColter, which earned him a look from Bud.

At last the lights dimmed and the guests rose and bowed their heads as the King and Queen entered, the Crown Prince four steps behind them. His Majesty and Her Majesty seated themselves in gilded thronelike chairs as Vusungira took a lesser chair between them as was the custom, separating the royals. After a dignified silence King Glaudiunda clapped twice, and the banquet commenced.

The meal had many courses, each superb. At the end all the visitors were in a delirium of flavor, Chow loudly so.

"I guess this is where we get the King’s speech," said Sandy. "Isn’t that right, Jah?"

"By our tradition it comes at the very end," Jahan replied. He added coolly: "That is, if it comes at all."

Tom whispered to Harlan Ames, "I’m afraid something bad’s going to happen here tonight, Harlan."

"So am I. But not necessarily to us. All we can do is be ready to protect one another."

Mr. Phudrim stood and asked for silence. After a few remarks in the language of Vishnapur, he said: "Sacred ones, honored guests, His Highness Prince Jahan has provided the gift that is to be our amusement this evening." The audience applauded and Jahan rose to his feet. Though there was a smile on his handsome face, Tom thought he looked tense and grim.

"Anticipating this banquet in honor of the Festival of Chogyal, I have spent some time preparing what you are about to see. To our foreign guests, let me explain that this is to be a performance of an ancient form of theater. It has two parts. The first, which tells briefly the theme, is in our traditional style. The second shall be presented, for your amusement, in a manner entirely contemporary."