Tom Swift and His Polar-Ray Dynasphere (19 page)

"It’s a theory. But think how it is with animals. Their inborn ‘brain wiring’ makes animals ultrasensitive to any sign that something nearby is ‘the other’, not ‘one of us’ and thus a probable danger. If something affected that buried part of the
human
brain, the smallest differences between people—an annoyance, even just the mere fact of being from another place—could cause that label of ‘other’ to be pasted-on indiscriminately and lead to out-of-control violence. The unconsciousness that follows for those who survive might be a form of extreme
exhaustion
!"

The face of General Utrong’j had been taught to give little away. But Tom knew by his silence that the theory was deeply disturbing. "
Iy
! You are a scientist. Let us say you’re right. What would be the source of the violence-making toxin in these situations?"

"That’s to be determined, General. But one thing’s for sure—all these people were
breathing
! It could be something released into the air, like a gas. I felt a strong wind in that crossroads pass last night."

"That is true," was the reply. "The wind always blows down those two valleys from the north—from the valley of the lake, The Gift of Chogyal." He seemed to consider the matter gravely as Tom waited. "I wonder if I might impose on you and your crew to investigate this matter, with your scientific instruments?"

"I intend to. Among all the other terrible things that it is, this is also a scientific mystery."

Changing the topic, the young inventor then asked Utrong’j about Their Majesties and the princes. "According to the Palace Secretariat, all four are in meditative seclusion today, as part of the Festival. The royals are sacred, you see. Their souls carry the prayers of our people to Lord Chogyal and return with his blessings. Why do you inquire?"

"I had hoped to speak to—well, whoever is the chief advisor right now, now that Mr. Phudrim
isn’t
. I have an idea for a project that could be of great benefit to Vishnapur."

"Who is in charge? I am pleased to tell you." The man smiled broadly. "It is I!"

Tom returned the smile. "Then you’re the one I want to talk to! You may think my idea is fantastic, sir. But here it is.

"I’d like to use my methods to drain the poison lake and open up the valley to farming, as it was before. It could also make the ruins of Shankaru available to archaeologists for study."

"This has been proposed many times," shrugged Utrong’j. "The mountainous terrain evidently makes such a large-scale pumping operation impractical, virtually impossible."

Bud put in, "
There’s
a word we don’t use around Tom Swift!"

"I understand, General. Here’s where we get to the fantastic part," declared Tom. "My plan isn’t to pump off the lake water, but to
evaporate the lake completely!
"

The man was astounded by the youth’s words! "Do you have the ability to accomplish such an incredible thing?"

"I’m sure I do—with my dynasphere machine." Tom launched into a brief description of the project. Using the
Dyna Ranger
, he would hover high above the valley of Krei’i Bu and use the dyna-field to divert the sun’s heat rays, concentrating them on the body of the lake like a giant, invisible burning lens. "By my estimation the big dynasphere could gather together the solar infra-red output for miles around. The water temperature will rise very quickly and the lake will start boiling like a super soup kettle! I don’t yet have all the topological and hydrological details I’d need, but I believe the entire process could be completed in a matter of days."

Bashalli Prandit, not one to be unduly reticent, had something to say. "It seems to me, Thomas, that you are proposing to destroy the lake in order to save it."

Tom shook his head. "As it is, the lake is poisonous to nearly all life, probably as some effect of the runaway growth of the yorb algae under the surface. If the waters are boiled away, the algae could be dredged off and brought under control. The natural spring sources that have been feeding the lake all along could then be allowed to refill it."

"Ah, but perhaps not
quite
so full this time!" chuckled the General. "His Majesty must review the matter, of course. But for now, you are authorized to proceed with your planning." Tom was startled as the surrounding doughnut of people, leaning in close to hear, burst forth with applause!

Back in their shared apartment suite, Tom and Bud discussed the young inventor’s analysis of the crossroads disaster. "Chum, this all
has
to be related—I’m sure of it," Bud insisted. "Here you have a smuggling pipeline, here in South Asia where drugs are big business, and it starts in Vishnapur. Then you have this wild ‘berserker drug’ blowing down from a poison lake—which is also next to a Yamantaka-lovin’ monastery—which throws lightning bolts at satellites!"

"Uh-huh. And don’t forget the fact that those pilots were flying out of India. They may have been carrying something in the cockpit that got out of control, and into their bodies."

"There ya go, genius boy. Just connect the dots!"

Tom grinned affectionately. "Very astute, pal—you’ve convinced me! Something’s going down at the Chogyal lamasery besides meditation and chanting!"

"Probably something of
scientific
interest, doncha think?"

"And of course General Utrong’j has asked for a scientific investigation of the area."

"Best carried out at night."

"By a team of two!"

It was after midnight when two bizarre silhouettes scruffed through the deep shadows of great Chogyal. The boys had found a route for their Roughriders that took them to an elevation some hundred yards above the Mahachogyal lamasery. As the structure was entirely gouged into the rocky mass of the slope, they knew—and hoped—the angle would make it difficult for them to be detected from below.

Climbing down from his vehicle, his breath a cloud in the thin, frigid night air of the Himalayas, Bud whispered, "Checked the air sensor lately?"

Tom took a glance at his Spektor unit, to which he had clipped a miniature air-intake analyzer. "No trace of anything that shouldn’t be there. You don’t feel inclined to tear me to pieces, do you, flyboy?"

"Not so far."

They worked their way down the steep slope, the perilous descent made feasible by another invention of Tom’s, special boots with soles that gripped the loose, yielding ground.

They had scarcely begun when Tom tugged back on Bud’s jacket sleeve. "Wait—here’s some of that black stuff I saw." He knelt down, drawing a tiny pencil-beamlamp. "It’s charring all right."

"From lightning?"

"No..." Tom’s voice bespoke puzzlement. "From some sort of high-temp fire with an accelerant. Bud, I think this was a fuel-fed fire from a crash!"

"Yeah," stated Bud. "A helicopter crash."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because I’m lookin’ right down on the helipad!"

Four tiny, intensely focused lights—evidently lasers aimed skyward—had suddenly appeared on the slope! They outlined a flat square of ground about thirty feet broad that had been cut into the side of the mountain to make a horizontal deck. "Wouldn’t be easy to see in daylight from the air
or
the ground," Tom pronounced. "And I’m sure you’re right, Bud. It’s for choppers."

"They must be expecting one soon."

They edged their way closer. Then, within yards, the guide-lights went dark. "Must’ve been a test," whispered Tom. "Let’s take a quick look at the surface of the pad. Walk softly!" They slid down onto the pad, barely disturbing a pebble.

Then, with no warning, the ground fell out from under them! The landing deck, covered with a camouflaging mat of artificial dirt and rock, was elevatoring down into the mountain at such high speed that Tom and Bud were almost whisked off their feet!

In moments they stood at the bottom of a chimneylike shaft, blinking as worklights flashed on all around them.

A metal door clanked open, admitting four things: a man, a crisp white shirt and tie, and a gun. "Hey there, Agent Martin," sighed Bud.

"Pardon me if I don’t do like they do on TV and whip out my FBI badge."

"I don’t suppose this is just some classified FBI operation?" inquired Tom dryly.

"You
wish
, huh." Martin chuckled. "Naw. You’re in the clutches of the bad guys, fellas. Saw you on the nightscope and figured we just might be able to lure you onto our helipad."

"We can be pretty dumb sometimes," Tom said.

"Easy to make mistakes. ‘Dumb today, dead tomorrow’ they say at Quantico. Like the elevator?"

"I assume you use choppers to deliver your berserker-drug packets to Mumbai and elsewhere."

"Oh, deliveries both ways, in and out. For Chullagar we just drive it down in an old sedan."

"Looks like you lost a shipment."

"Yeah. Darndest thing. Couple nice guys, too. Spilled the junk all over the place. I’m not a pilot, but
you
probably understand, Barclay—the winds get tricky up here."

Tom’s superficial politeness disappeared. "Those same winds picked up what was left of that ‘junk’ a few days later. Dozens of innocent people died in the most awful way I can think of."

Martin shrugged. "Most awful? Kid, I’ve seen worse in my job. For example..." Keeping the gun trained on Tom, he took a few steps back through the door and dragged an acetylene torch into view. "I faced down a gangbanger, real hardcase. Tracked him down to his warehouse, then got myself cornered. So he pulls out a torch like this and lights it up." Martin did so. "And he starts walkin’ my way real slow. Talk about scared!"

He brought the flame near Tom’s face.

"See what I mean? Now then, Tom, how bout you take than box thingie off your arm. Drop it down and kick it over toward the door." Tom complied, and in moments nothing remained of his Spektor but globbed plastic, glowing char, and white smoke. "Oughta finish her, hunh? Not that it’d be easy to get a loke signal out through all this mountain. But I’m not sure what you can do with that quantum radio you use."

"How did these murder boys get through to you, Martin?" sneered Bud. "Always been down in the sewer?"

"No," he replied cordially. "I was a good agent, good record. But, you know, a guy’s gotta think of his future. Money matters to us normal people out in the world, boys. Don’t let ’em tell you different. I got three kids to put through college."

"Lots of money in drug smuggling!" Tom snapped. "But someone must’ve got worried about you."

"That tattoo thing? A friendly warning, them to me. Ol’ Benni got scared and tried to blackmail the guys into lettin’ him walk away. He was sneaking a nice box of evidence over to this Rama guy, who was with him on it. Gets to the apartment, Rama’s off getting a finger-wagging, some angry guys with big heavy sticks are waiting for him. I never gave them any reason to distrust me, but, you know, you can never give too many warnings."

"And so you― "

"Excuse me," interrupted Martin. "There’s no need for a big conversation. I don’t know much more than I’ve told you. I’m just a guy, right—a guy on ‘the lam’. Wherever
that
came from. Don’t start quizzing me about the electric-shooter thing and all that. Save your questions for somebody who knows."

Tom and Bud were forced down long corridors, some lined with polished pipes. "I guess this used to be part of the lamasery," commented Martin. "But they closed off all the connecting doors. Bricked ’em over. Those monks, or lamas, or whatever—don’t want anything to do with all this. Most don’t know about it."

"But Yamantaka makes a nice insignia," Tom observed.

"Aaa, for all their science, these goons are still superstitious. They think that Yama guy brings them luck. Talk about yer
idiots
, hunh?"

The captives were led at last into a big, high-ceilinged chamber. As Martin stood aside, Tom’s eyes went like magnets to two bulky assemblages of machinery bolted down at opposite ends of a flat concrete slab. They resembled crane arms with gimbal joints and many pistons and struts. At the end of each arm was a clawlike gripper-mechanism the size of an oil drum. He recognized them as handling arms used on automated assembly lines, somewhat modified.

The rear wall showed that it belonged to the ancient lamasery. It was covered with sinuous carvings of elephants and snakes, demons and gods. And in the center, looming and ominous, was the great figure of Yamantaka, the tempter and trickster!

The chamber also turned out to be a throneroom. An elevated platform ran along its length on one side. At one end, seated on an imposing thronelike chair, was King Glaudiunda, with Queen Aju at the opposite end. Several score feet separated them.

"So what’s the protocol, sacred ones?" Bud demanded sarcastically. "Who do we bow to first? Or maybe just hit it down the middle?"

"There is little need for words," pronounced His Majesty coldly. "You are to show respect. If not for us, then for our country."

"You’re asking a lot, King Glaudiunda," Tom Swift retorted. "I take it your plan from the start was to― "

Glaudiunda cut him off. "We have no intention of satisfying your curiosity, Master Swift. We speak English as a courtesy to our guests, but it is beneath our dignity to boast and preen before you, a foreigner. We owe you outsiders nothing. You come to exploit us and change our ways. My late brother indulged you. I do not."

Bud snorted derisively. "Great. What-like-ever." He jerked a thumb toward Queen Aju. "So did you have the old lady stuffed or is she still with us?"

Her Majesty responded with a tiny smile. "You are amusing. You remind me of my son Jahan—so impudent, such clever words. It was many years before I accepted that such a personality would make a poor sovereign. Alas, the son of Glaudiunda was more to my liking."

"Easier to manage?" Tom put in.

"More reasonable. More respectful."

Glaudiunda motioned to one of the two armed men in the chamber, who wore the costumes of Mr. Phudrim’s special palace detail. The man left through a door, and in a moment led two more captives into the room—with a slight bow as they passed. Prince Jahan and Prince Vusungira were unbound but pale.