Tom Swift and His Polar-Ray Dynasphere (2 page)

"That’s right," Chow stated with bobbing chins. "Like tryin’ t’push a barrel o’ molasses up a hill without th’ barrel."

Trying to hold himself together and not allow his alarm to surge into the open, Tom’s frown raked the others like a searchlight. "Look, I don’t understand. Why won’t the police cooperate? Don’t they believe you?"

Ulnash Prandit lowered his voice. "I will help you understand, Tom,
srimam
. It is the way here, the way of Pakistan, of the cities, of ‘the way the roads go’—we say that. There are factions and sects, people opposed to others, matters of who is to rule, of religion and tradition."

"Yes," nodded Tom. "I know about all that."

"So, we give our family name, where we are from, where we live now—the very street, even—and it tells about us, who we are. That is, you see—where we
belong
. And for these police here, in this part of town..."

"The Prandits
don’t
belong," finished Sandy bitterly. "The stupidest thing. So the police would just as soon ignore them."

"And also, pal, they don’t much care for Americans," Bud added. "Or even people who hang around with Americans. Or
speak
American."

"I am so frightened, I do not know how to think," murmured Mrs. Prandit. "If they know she lives in America, perhaps they will hold her for ransom!"

Tom noticed a uniformed officer eyeing them with cold disapproval. "Come on," he said quietly. "The hotel’s nearby. We can talk there."

"I tried to tell
mimroh
Prandit—that’s how Bashi says ‘momma’—that everything will work out all right," Sandy said to her brother as they walked. She essayed a slight smile. "I told her we all get kidnapped over and over and it always works out."

"Weren’t s’much comfort," snorted Chow grimly. "Th’ blame problem is, here in this here country they
also
get kidnapped time’n agin, but it gen’rally
don’t
work out. They send ya back a little bit at a time." The blunt westerner regretted his words instantly as stricken faces surrounded him.

In the hotel lobby they all sat palely facing one another as Tom attempted to get further details. "Mr. Prandit, you said she disappeared around a corner..."

"So it seemed."

"Did it lead into another room in the store?"

The man shook his head, and Bud stated: "It was an alcove in front of an elevator. She may have taken it to another floor."

"Or the basement?"

"It went only to the upper two floors, above us," said Mrs. Prandit. "And we looked all over everywhere, of course."

Tom mulled the matter over. "This may sound a little ‘off’—it’s always hard to know what to do in a situation like that—but—did anyone happen to actually look
inside
the elevator?"

"Oh, of course we did!" huffed Sandy. "We went to the upper floors in the elevator! That is... well, didn’t we?"

But Chow was scratching his bald head. "Er—wait now—I don’t think I reckerlect that."

"We did
not
use the elevator," said Mr. Prandit. "No! We took the
escalator
, and this one, Bud, ran up the stairs first of all."

Bud looked down at his shoes. "I guess nobody looked inside the elevator car for a while. We—we didn’t handle ourselves so well."

The young inventor nodded in an understanding way. "But other shoppers must’ve used the elevator."

"That is so!" said Mr. Prandit, his face brightening. "A body inside would have been― "

"
Ulnash
!" reproved Mrs. Prandit harshly.

"There’s no reason to think Bash has been harmed," Tom cautioned. "Or even that she’s been kidnapped. We only know that we can’t find her."

"No, Tom, it is more than that," disagreed Bashalli’s mother, whose name was Dhavhaz. "No one will say it, but I know it is true. The police do not help because they are
ordered
not to, by others. You are important Americans, Tom, and my Bashalli is your friend. Many officials in this part of Karachi belong to tribes and groups that would be anxious for her to be punished—taken away and punished for being friends with America!" She began to weep.

Tom stood and whipped out his cellphone. "We tried that first thing, genius boy," said Bud quietly. "We managed to think of
that
, at least. No answer."

"And now we’re trying again!" Tom snapped. "And then I’m calling Shopton."

The bleating cry of Bashalli’s cellphone seemed muffled by the darkness in which she lay, but its grotesquely happy tune roused her.
This
time she stayed awake. She felt the blanket below her that was her only cushion, and sensed that the hard surface beneath it was bare, cold concrete. Opening her eyes, she studied the brace-beams of a ceiling, mostly shadow, mostly cobweb.

The phone, somewhere far beyond reach, stopped ringing. "Maybe they will try again," she murmured in her thoughts. "Perhaps they will leave a nice message on voicemail."
My name is
... She allowed the answer to float to the surface in its own time.
Yes—Bashalli, still. In Karachi. Or am I? But alive—so I presume. How presumptuous of me!

Her inner bravado was a lie. Limp with fear, she was able to sit upright, finding that she was not bound in any way. Her head pounded, but she could feel no bump or bruise. There was a stinging feeling in her nostrils, however.
Ah ha!
she thought.
Chloroform—or whatever is the style nowadays.

She was in a room that was very broad and square, but its ceiling was low.
Bud would hit his head!
she reflected.
Indeed, the ceiling is just a floor—planks. I am in a basement crawl space. How romantic.
Across the room, high near the top of the wall of dirty brick, were some slitted windows, perhaps just above ground level. They were covered with ancient newspapers, but traces of ivoried light seeped through. It seemed to be daylight.
But is this today or tomorrow or a week from Wednesday?
she wondered groggily.

There was a metallic clank, a sound of chains rattling, a square of light in the ceiling not far away. Legs slid down onto a wooden stepladder, and a dim figure stood near Bash. "Can you eat now?" asked a woman’s voice in the language of Pakistan. "I have meat cakes, some water for you, some honey candies."

"Thank you," said Bashalli, surprised by the croak of her weak reply. "Who are you?"

The woman came and crouched down, her sad face barely visible. "You ask me each time. I am Harsa. They told me to care for you. And now you will ask who ‘they’ are, and again I will say I don’t know. Men, Pakistanis and some foreigners. My husband works with them, but he says he knows little of their affairs. We are paid to hold people here for a time, now and then."

"But why?"

"Who knows? A few days, then they are taken away in cars. It will happen to you too." The woman passed the food and cup to her. "Are you afraid, my miss?"

"Fear!—what good is it? Very much."

Bashalli ate for a time while the motherly woman sat cross-legged on the concrete nearby. "I’m surprised you don’t have a gun pointed at me," Bash remarked.

"I won’t touch such things. But up above, two men with big guns, those very loud ones." Harsa was silent for a long moment. "May I ask, my miss—do you remember what happened to you?"

"Rather well. I was at the big department store― "

"In Karachi?"

"Are we not in Karachi?"

"No."

"A man called out to me from in front of an elevator, a young man. He smiled very nicely, but I could not make out what he was saying. I stepped closer to him. And then I think the elevator door opened and two others jumped forward."

"I heard them planning, for I do not matter to them," said Harsa matter-of-factly. "A cloth to put over your face with something from a little can that makes you sleep. Then, inside the elevator, they lift you up through the ceiling of the car. They bring the car to the top, into a workers’ space in the shaft, and take you out onto the roof. At last they take you here. It was only hours ago."

"And you don’t know what they want?"

The woman took Bashalli’s cup and stood. "Perhaps they themselves do not know."

In Karachi, in the hotel, Tom Swift first spoke to Swift Enterprises’ head of security, Harlan Ames, then to his father. Both men were shocked and deeply troubled. "We’ll use every law enforcement contact and political route available to us, son," promised Damon Swift. "Our congressman can help us with the State Department. But I know you understand the situation in Pakistan. If the civil authorities will not cooperate― "

"Time is against us," Tom interrupted. "By the time the different factions get all the protocols and jurisdictions sorted out, by the time everyone’s
ego
gets out of the way, it could be too late. I’ve got to figure out a way to find her
now
!—on my own."

After breaking the connection, Tom returned to his group, brain tumbling in furious thought. As he crossed the lobby the way was blocked suddenly by a large man in an ornate uniform—accessorized by a nicely polished revolver. He spoke first in Urdu, then in English. "American? Ah? With the others? Yes. Please wait here, sir. A moment only."

"What’s going on? Is something wrong?"

"No sir, no wrong. Just safety for the royal guest."

The young inventor’s eyebrows rose. A small knot of well-dressed people were crossing the lobby. Amid them, best-dressed of all, was a handsome young man wearing a turban of saffron hue and a white sash. "Who is he?" Tom asked.

"You do not know? He is Prince Jahan, sir. Of Vishnapur."

Though Tom had heard the names in the news somewhere, they meant little to him. Vishnapur—one of
those
countries. But the Prince’s air of authority and the deferential attitude of his entourage gave rise to a sudden impulse. This was a visitor with power and authority, whose voice could command action! As the royal security man glanced away, Tom ducked past him. "Sir, stop!
Mol! Mol gipa!
"

Jahan had halted in surprise, staring warily at the blond crewcutted youth charging up to him. "Your Highness! Forgive me, but—I’m Tom Swift from America. I—I need― "

The Prince smiled. "Well! Tom Swift!" He extended a hand, which Tom shook vigorously. "Had I known you were here, I would surely have approached you."

"Thank you. I have to ask you—for assistance."

"You wish my assistance?"

"My friend, a Pakistani named Bashalli—she’s disappeared here in the city just this morning. She may have been kidnapped! The local authorities, the police..."

"I see. Yes, they are reluctant to intervene. They must first find out whether it is a
good
kidnapping or a
bad
one."

"Your Highness, as an honored guest here, I thought you might― "

The young man smiled a brilliant gleam. "Swing some weight on your behalf?" Tom nodded, grateful that he had been understood. "It is I who am honored, to be asked to assist the great young inventor. And perhaps I can do rather better than you have in mind," continued Jahan. "I am here with a retinue of loyal men who are expert in the field of—protection. Let us sit down together. Tell me all you know."

In the dimness of the cellar, a captive hour passed. Bashalli had experienced many strange, exciting things since she had come to America and met the Swifts. But now it was her own country, her own people, that made her weak with fear. She knew that the plight of captives rarely had a good ending.
And I am a most valuable captive
, she thought.

Harsa again came down the ladder, very hesitantly with many a look back. She approached Bashalli and bent down to whisper in her ear. "My miss... I can not be part of this any longer. You are innocent. You have those who love you. This is not for you."

Bash’s heart thudded—hope, yet fresh fear as well. Perhaps a dangerous escape would be worse than captivity! "You will help me, Harsa?"

The woman nodded. "I will go outside on an excuse and unlock one of the windows. They will think—oh, I don’t care what they will think! I will flee these people, even my husband.
Ghul
upon all of them! He will pursue me, but I am told there are organizations in Kabulistan who will help me, as a refugee."

Bash’s eyes filled with tears. "You’re so brave! What shall I do when I leave the cellar? Where do I go?"

"This is Gonss Abr, an hour from Karachi by motor. Go north, Bashalli, but stay out of sight until you are far away.
Do not seek the authorities
. When you are nearer the city, then telephone your people."

"If you brought me my phone― "

"I cannot while they watch. Now be ready. May angels make short your path."

In three minutes Bashalli had squirmed up and out into a paved alley separating two dilapidated houses. She worked her way back from the street the houses faced, ducking beneath windows, stifling her breath. Beyond was a weedy field with oil derricks and bobbing pumps. She glanced down at her shadow, then turned north.

"Okay, you angels," she whispered. "Up to you now."

In the hotel, the sun had begun to dip across the windows when Tom’s cellphone bleeped. "This is Jahan," said the familiar voice. "I have good news for you, my friend!"

Tom could barely speak. "You—you found her?"

"We have her. One of my teams came across her near the southward highway. She ran away but my men ran faster."

Tom laughed in giddy relief. "I’m just glad she didn’t bean your guys with rocks! How is she, Your Highness?"

"They say she is well. She will be at the hotel in minutes." He added with a chuckle: "Assuming she survives a drive down the highways of Pakistan at a breakneck speed, eh?"

Bashalli was welcomed with many tears, and when the Prince came down to greet her, she was all but speechless with gratitude.

"All neat, nice, and wonderful," said Bud. But then he turned to Tom and said more quietly: "Except for the fact that it happened at all. Who did it? And why? Is it over now, or will they make another try?"

Tom nodded. "And one more question, flyboy. Who is the
real
target?"