Tom Swift and His Spectromarine Selector (11 page)

The young scientist-inventor kept his voice level. "It’s my consolation—Miss Gabardine."

"I sympathize—Mr. Swift." She turned and rushed from the cabin. Tom sat in his chair stunned for about two minutes, fighting down laughter and a certain amount of dizziness. Finally he scooped up the scraps of paper from the floor and glanced at them curiously.

They were blank.

"Good way to make a point, though," he murmured in disbelief.

Tom finally made his way over to the control deck. Looking out the viewport he was pleased to see that Hank Sterling had rolled the spectrosel up close to the mantacopter for Tom to work on.

Just then the aqua-rad buzzed—once, twice, three times. "Emergency alert!" Tom gulped. He checked the frequency readout. "The
Sceptre!"
Billy and Red had said their goodbyes to Tom after he had finished breakfast, and he had watched the jetmarine rise to the overhanging ceiling of the canyon and enter the channel above.

"This is Tom,
Sceptre."

"This is Red Jones, Tom. We’re about twenty-two-hundred miles due east of Bermuda, over the Atlantic Ridge. We’re under attack!"

"What!"
Tom shouted.

"Billy’s at the controls trying to get us away. Several explosions to the rear—torpedos, looks like! No damage so far, but—"

"Understood! Have you contacted Fearing?"

"Sure, but what can they do? Even jet fighters wouldn’t—"

Suddenly, in mid-sentence, the aqua-rad transmission broke off!

"RED!
Red!
C’mon,
Sceptre—
answer me!" Tom cried.

But there were some long and fearful moments before an answer came. "Jetmarine
Sceptre
to Aurum City. This is Yablonskovic."

"What happened, Billy?"

"A big blast—Red bounced off the bulkhead, but he’ll be all right, looks like."

Tom asked if there were any damage to the
Sceptre.
"None to speak of," Billy replied. "Whatever sub was attacking us broke and ran on an eastward heading. She went mighty fast—off the scope now. None of the torpedos actually connected, Tom—maybe they just wanted to send a message."

"I’d prefer a telegram!" Tom snorted, relieved but furious. "Glad you’re all right, though. Please give Rad a full report when you dock."

"Wilco, boss.
Sceptre
out."

Later in the day, having confirmed the safe arrival of the
Sceptre
on Fearing Island, Tom himself discussed the matter with Phil Radnor, then Harlan Ames in Shopton. "Tom, you’re somewhat familiar with Centas’s vessel. Could it maneuver in the way Billy described?"

Tom set aside the aqua-rad microphone for a moment as he thought the matter over. "The
Hydra-Gaea
can’t move with anything like the speed and agility of our Enterprises craft—the jetmarines, seacopters, or the mantas. But compared to conventional subs, it’s pretty advanced."

"But you’re not telling me it can launch torpedos?"

"Well—I’ve never read that it can, Harlan," Tom replied. "But who knows? I’ll talk it over with Centas. In any event, it’s clear that the Kranjovians stole her in order to be able to launch deep-water attacks."

"And not just on our sub fleet, Tom."

"I know. The Aurum City project could be in real danger."

"Not just the project. Your lives!" Ames pronounced grimly. "I’d advise you to wrap up the operation for now. You can head back when the governments have negotiated this thing away."

Tom gave a groan of skepticism. "What they’d ‘negotiate away’ is our right to explore this site independently, without officials from a dozen governments looking over our shoulders! We don’t need any more Miss Gabardines. But I’ll do it, if it’s the
only
way to protect us."

Feeling that everyone had a right to know the situation, Tom called a meeting of the entire operations team and explained the options and his tentative conclusions.

"Now lissen, Tom Swift, it’s not like us t’ jest turn tail because someb’dy wants to blow us up!" insisted Chow Winkler. "We been through a lot worse."

"Yes, I know," Tom responded coolly. "A lot of you are Swift employees and—I guess that means you’re professional risk takers, and you know it. But Professor Centas, Mordo, Miss Gabardine, Ham and George—"

George Braun rose to his feet. "Hey, cut out that kind of talk! Ham and I
live
for danger—don’t we, Ham!"

For once Ham Teller did not disagree with his friend.

"I’m compelled to point something else out," said Lieutenant Fraser. "I hate to put it this way, and it sounds pretty blunt, but—this isn’t just a private operation of Swift Enterprises. The government of the United States has a stake in it, and they themselves have to at least try to accommodate their treaty obligations—the same ones the Kranjovians object to. To close down the project and pull out would cause some real headaches at this point."

"And so, Lieutenant, I
believe
you are ordering us to remain here," observed Miss Gabardine. "Heedless of our safety."

Brian half-smiled and shook his head. "No, ma’am. Tom Swift is in charge of this gig. I’m not
ordering
anyone to do anything—just providing a little information."

After further discussion, Tom stood and announced his decision, his voice thoughtful but firm. "It seems the best thing to do right now is continue with the operation, but keep on alert for anything further. The State Department is in touch with Maurig’s government—maybe they can work something out. But for now, folks, Aurum City awaits!" Amid cheers and applause, Tom glanced at Bud. His pal, beaming with pride, grinned and saluted. "Roger!" Bud quickly added:
"Aye-aye,
I mean," as the crowd broke into laughter.

After a hearty luncheon of Chow’s griddle-cakes, Tom threw himself into the job of cleaning up Aurum City with renewed energy. He made his adjustments to the moleculetron unit and tested the result carefully, oxygen mask handy. The problem was solved!

All afternoon the cannon continued to work like a charm. As it stripped away the slime and muck, without removing any of the gold beneath, Bud slapped Tom on the back.

"Genius boy, that’s one of the most marvelous precision instruments I’ve ever seen."

Tom grinned. "It’s working pretty well so far," he admitted. "But too slow, pal. Don’t forget, I want to get beyond our little airspace and at least sample some of the other parts of the city—I promised George and Ham. I must get along faster with this job. You take over at the controls while I see what I can dream up."

The young inventor stood lost in thought for nearly ten minutes, then trudged over to his laboratory on the
Deepwing
and worked for some time on his computer. "It’ll have to be accomplished at the data processing level, not mechanically," he murmured. "Maybe if I reversed the integration sequence…"

Satisfied, he returned with a computer disk in hand and fed new instructions into the spectrosel’s brain. To his delight the cleaning process was stepped up double! Buildings and statues began to emerge in their original golden glory. By noon of the next day a whole street of Aurum City had been restored to its onetime splendor.

"Boy, this is like living in the middle of Fort Knox!" Bud joked as he lunched with the others at the outdoor table Chow had set up—complete with tablecloth and silver settings.

"Brand my prospector’s belt!" Chow called out. "I’m sure goin’ to count all them gold statues an’ columns afore we leave here!" The ex-ranch cook was hustling up and down in one of his more conservative lime-green shirts, dishing out steaming bowls of his Texas chili.

Suddenly Brian Fraser sprang up from the table bench amid a clatter of dishes, looking bug-eyed at his companions.

"Hey, Lieutenant, what’s—" began Zimby, but he was interrupted by a half-stifled scream from Fraser.

"I’m burning up!" the officer yelled.

As his messmates looked on in horror, Brian ripped off his Navy shirt and tee and began frantically rubbing his skin. His face, arms, and neck had turned flaming red! Tom and others rushed to his assistance.

"Good night, Brian!" Tom cried. "What’s wrong?"

"I… I... don’t know!" Fraser gasped, barely able to speak. "M-my skin—it’s on fire!" The rash was rapidly spreading over his chest and body. His eyes were bulging. The officer twisted and writhed in agony.

Tom shouted an order. "Quick, Bud! Com Doc Simpson! He’s in the
Supermanta.
Bring him here on the run!"

Doc arrived within moments, clutching his medical kit. "Stand clear, everyone. Brian, sit down on the tarp, if you can." He injected a painkiller and relaxant. His eyes were grim as he examined the scarlet splotches on Brian Fraser’s skin. Pulling out a bottle of antihistamine tablets, he shook out three and asked Chow for a tumbler of water. "Here! Take these!"

Brian gulped them down with difficulty. He was trying hard to control himself, but again and again the burning rash threw him into fresh spasms of agony.

"Easy now! This should help!" Doc muttered. He glanced up at Tom. "Some kind of micro-organism—probably a fungus. It may spread!" He hastily shook a bottle of cream-colored lotion and plucked a wad of cotton from the kit. Moistening the cotton, he smeared the lotion over the inflamed areas. Brian shuddered and gasped as he tried to hold still for treatment.

"Oww—it’s like ice!"

"Doing any good?" asked Mel Flagler. He and his mates had left the mess table to watch anxiously.

The answer soon became frighteningly apparent. New splotches of rash were appearing. Even worse, Brian was having difficulty in breathing.

"Brand my cactus salad, the poor maverick’s strangulatin’!" Chow cried.

DOC grabbed Brian’s wrist and felt for his pulse. It was fluctuating dangerously.

"Quick! Hold his arm!" the medic told Tom. As Tom did so, Doc scrubbed a patch of skin with alcohol and plunged in a hypodermic needle. "It’s a heart stimulant," he explained tersely.

The injection seemed to give Brian new strength. His breathing eased somewhat and his pulse became stronger. Doc stood and walked a ways away for a moment and Tom hurried after him.

"Any idea what’s causing it?" the young inventor asked fearfully.

Doc Simpson shook his head. His face was etched with lines of worry. "Frankly, Tom, I’ve never seen or heard of anything like it," he confessed. "I’m hoping to find some clue in my computer reference on skin diseases."

Before the young medic could leave for his compartment, a cry of alarm rang out.

"G-good grief!" gasped Ham Teller. "It’s starting in on me!" He pulled up his shirt. There were reddish splotches on his stomach, growing by the moment. "Better shoot me some of that stuff, Doc. It’s startin’ to…" He began to tremble violently.

"You’ve got to do something!" exclaimed Miss Gabardine to Simpson as he ran up to Ham with his med bag.

"I’m trying, ma’am! But I can’t do anything more until I’ve identified the exact cause."

Chow, his wide face chalky, came thundering across the oceanic debris to Tom and Doc. "Say, boss, I got a clue! I know what’s causin’ it—
it’s my blame chili!"

"Chow, this isn’t about your cooking!" snapped Bud.

The Texan forged ahead. "Now lissen, lissen t’ me—please, son!"

"All right, Chow," said Tom. "What is it?"

"I tell ya, it’s that Texas Chili! That there Lieutenant got t’ the table afore anybody else, an’ I served him right away. An’ then the next one was Ham Teller!"

Tom switched his gaze to Doc. "If he’s right, what are we dealing with?"

Doc Simpson looked frantic and helpless. "Some sort of toxic agent, or…" An idea seemed to dawn. "No, Tom—it’s their
perspiration!
Something in their perspiration, because of the spicy chili, must be feeding a fungus or something, turning it extremely virulent. If I’m right, it may hit everyone at the table, in the order they ate!"

A strange, quavering shout split the air.
"That’s Bud!"
Tom cried, turning pale.

Tom’s fears were realized as he and the others saw Bud clawing off his t-shirt. His face and neck were already mottled with the crimson splotches.

"Aw jetz!
Do
something, Doc!" Bud gasped. "It’s eating me alive!"

"Take it easy, pal!" Tom pleaded. "Scratching will only make it worse!"

Doc hastily gave Bud the heart stimulant, dosed him with antihistamine and began swabbing him with lotion. He was only half finished when Arv, Mel, and two other crewmen began breaking out with the same fiery rash.

"Great snakes!" spluttered Chow, horrified at what his chili had wrought. "Looks t’be worse’n a hideful o’ buckshot an’ cayenne pepper!"

Fear spread through the onlookers like a fever at sight of the terrifying symptoms. Tom rallied the crew into action before anyone could voice his panicky thoughts. "Come on! Lend a hand, you fellows!" he snapped. "Doc needs help in treating these men! Those of you who haven’t eaten yet will be OK."

The crew responded willingly. Stripping off the victims’ clothes, they took over the job of swabbing on the lotion. Doc, meanwhile, doled out antihistamine pills and gave hypodermic injections to the sufferers with cool efficiency.

The mess gear was hastily cleared away and tarps laid out, so the open area could be turned into a makeshift sickbay. Tom fought down a wave of panic and despair, but his brain was working coolly. He pondered Doc’s remark about the possibility of a reaction caused by some micro-sized irritant energized by the men’s perspiration.

Doc paused in his work, out of breath like a long-distance runner. "The rash has certain fungus characteristics—like athlete’s foot, for instance. You know how that can burn." He added in a discouraged voice, "But even so, I’m trying everything in my bag, and it’s not much help. None of the standard medications I’ve tried seem to be having much effect."

Tom gripped the medic’s arm. "Then let’s try something else, Doc," he murmured. "I have a wild idea, but maybe—
maybe!
Get Brian on his feet, over at the edge of the tarp. I’ll treat him first!" He whirled and ran off.