Tom Swift and His Ultrasonic Cycloplane (11 page)

Hedron came up to Tom. "I think I’ll go out and scout around for some wallaby tracks," he said. "Like to capture and photograph one if I can." Tom stared at him, but before he could gather his thoughts to make a retort, the zoologist wandered off, whistling.

Soon the appetizing aroma of bacon and corn meal filled the air. A few minutes later Chow sounded the breakfast gong by banging on his stew kettle. "Okay, buckaroos! Eat hearty!" he urged. "Goin’ to need all your strength to beat through this jungle an’ find Bud an’—"

His words ended in a yelp of pain as a hail of sharp-pointed stones suddenly spattered the camp.

"It’s another attack!" Tom shouted. "Run for cover, everybody!"

Openmouthed with dismay, the men wavered a moment in confusion as another volley of missiles shot out of the jungle. Tom’s group started for the shallow cave opening but changed their minds. The bats might try another assault!

"This way!" Tom cried. Hugging the mountainside, he scrambled upward among the rocks and boulders to where he had glimpsed a deep gash in the face of the cliff.

The men bumped into one another in their haste to follow. Once inside the cave, they huddled together in the darkness, panting.

"Wow!" gasped Billy. "Tom, it looks as if your prehistoric pals haven’t forgotten us."

"They’ve been keeping tabs on us right along," the young inventor muttered. "That skull proves it." Tensely he waited, wondering if the attackers might close in for a fight to the finish. But apparently they were being cagey, either out of fear or caution. Ten minutes ticked by without any further sign of the enemy.

"Stay here," Tom ordered the others. "I’ll take a peek outside."

He disappeared but returned in a few moments with news that no one had bothered him. "I’m pretty sure that our attackers have gone," he added. Then Tom frowned. "I’m worried about Hedron. No sign of him."

"Hedron again!" grumped Red. "That guy’s more trouble than he’s worth."

Emerging from the cave, the men descended the hill and fanned out cautiously around the camp. But they found no trace of their attackers or of the zoologist-artist either. As Doc Simpson started to attend the men who had received cuts from the missiles, a cheery voice asked: "Hey, what’s going on?"

The group swung around to see George Hedron sauntering casually toward them among the trees.

"A range war, that’s what!" growled Chow. "Lucky you didn’t get yer scalp lifted out there, son!"

He explained what had happened. Hedron was amazed. "And to think," he remarked ruefully, "while you guys were having all that excitement, I couldn’t even scare up a field mouse, much less a wallaby!"

Tom looked at Hedron sharply, but said nothing.

Though Tom was desperate to push on in his search for Bud and Slim, he delayed long enough for a newly cooked breakfast to be prepared. Meanwhile, he examined some of the stone missiles.

"Find something, skipper?" Doc Simpson inquired, noticing the other’s excited look.

"I sure have!" Tom said in quiet awe. "These stones are made of holmium, like the stolen statue!"

The news aroused a flurry of interest. The men clustered around, agog at Tom’s discovery.

"You’re sure?" Hedron demanded.

"As sure as I can be without a spectrographic analysis." Pointing to the shimmering yellow-orange pellets, Tom explained how their color, texture, weight, hardness, and general "feel" were exactly like that of the animal figurine, "Kangaroo Sue."

Put in Doc, "But that means there must be a supply of rare earths around here, somewhere close—the mine you were looking for, Tom!"

"Right! And that’s not all," Tom went on, his weariness forgotten. "Remember that message Sam picked up that we assume was from Bud or Slim?
‘Rare ... like what you—’
Well, the whole phrase might have been
‘rare earths, like what you found in the statue!’"

As the men burst into excited comments, Tom’s mind whirled with interesting possibilities. Could it be that his lost friends had discovered the secret of how the missiles were made? One statue might have been fashioned from a single rock, but surely these quantities of ore had not been mined and processed by stone-age tribesmen!

But how old were the missiles? Did they date back to prehistoric times?
Or had they been fashioned by living enemies!

"Well, what do we do now, skipper?" asked Red Jones, breaking in on Tom’s thoughts.

"You guys eat your breakfast," the young inventor replied. "Hank, Doc, how about you two coming with me? An idea just occurred to me. If we can track those natives who attacked us, they might lead us to Bud and Slim."

"By George, you’re right, Tom!" Doc Simpson was enthusiastic. "Let’s go!’

Circling back and forth around the camp, the trio studied the damp soil and thick green underbrush for signs of human footprints. Unfortunately, Tom’s own men had trampled much of the ground just a few minutes before, while searching for their unseen enemies.

"We’ll have to go farther," said Hank.

But even beyond the fringes of camp in the direction from which the missiles had come, they could detect no footprints or tracks of any kind.

"Looks as if we’re out of luck." Doc sighed as he paused to mop his brow.

Tom nodded, scowling with disappointment. "Jungle dwellers are past masters at covering their tracks. I guess we’re out of our league when we try to solve—"

Tom broke off. Reaching into the tall grass, he scooped up a long strip of untanned leather. It was tapered at both ends, and broadened at the middle into a sort of pouch.

"What is it?" Hank demanded, with a puzzled expression.

"A thong slingshot—the same kind David used on Goliath. And probably what they used on us just now, too."

"No doubt about it," Doc agreed. "At least we’re on the right track!"

With renewed energy the trio continued their search. None of them, however, could find any other clues or trail signs. After an hour they finally gave up and returned to camp.

Chow cooked a fresh batch of food for them. While they ate, the other men examined the thong slingshot and discussed the mysterious unseen natives.

"Reckon we’d better keep our eyes peeled right sharp from now on," the Texas cook commented. "Jest like pioneers passin’ through Injun country. If we don’t, we’re apt to wind up missin’ our hair, or even our heads!"

"There’s no reason to think these locals are headhunters. But you’re right, Chow." Tom nodded. "From now on, it’ll be every man’s job to keep a lookout while we’re on the move. And no stragglers!" he added, with a cool glance at George Hedron.

The zoologist made no comment, but when the rescue party hit the trail, he was ready. Again the route led upward through the highlands, with towering purple mountain ranges soaring into the dark, swirling clouds in the distance. There was now a steady wind against them, and the constant rumble of thunder and flicker of lightning added to the oppressive atmosphere.

Then the ground seemed to flatten out into a plateau. But the terrain was as rugged as ever, and the tangled vegetation even thicker and more impassable as they pushed on. Dirty, footsore, bathed in sweat, the men groaned and grunted with the effort as they hacked their way forward with axe and machete.

"I sure wish I was back on the open range," Chow burst out. "Out there a hombre can see where he’s headin’."

"And never is heard a discouraging word," put in Red Jones with humorous sarcasm.

Tom’s heart sank as he thought of the distance that still remained between where they were and the likely crash site between the volcanoes.

During a rest period, he confided in Hank. "Maybe I’d be wiser to go back to Shopton, bring the cycloplane here, and try taking it down through the storm area between the volcanoes," he said in a low voice, "instead of continuing this trek."

"We could continue here in your absence," the engineer said in reply. "It may be the smartest thing, Tom."

Again and again, Tom turned the problem over in his mind as he trudged on, leading his group almost automatically. But suddenly a cry from Billy shocked Tom out of his reverie.

"Sam!
Your legs!"
Glancing toward Barker, the young inventor gasped to find the man’s pantlegs oozing with dark blood.

"Land leeches!" exclaimed Hedron.

"Good night!" cried Tom. "We’ve all got them!"

The others examined their own limbs. Then, dropping their knives and axes in a near panic, they began clawing at their legs, plucking off the stubborn blood-suckers as fast as their fingers would permit.

Doc Simpson brought out his first-aid gear and smeared a soothing salve over everyone’s legs. "That’ll help to stop the bleeding," he explained. "Now take some of this gauze, wind it around your legs and ankles, and tape it on. That’ll discourage the leeches. They look disgusting, but they’re really harmless."

In a few minutes the group was ready to continue. As they pushed on, Sam Barker sang out:
"Come to beautiful New Guinea! Vacation spot of the world! This island paradise—"

"—is a right good place to go loco!" Chow finished sourly.

The others laughed and began hacking their way again. Just before noon, the sky now dark with stormclouds, they reached a deep chasm extending off in both directions as far as they eye could see.

"No," murmured Tom dejectedly. "Oh
no!"
He felt like breaking into tears.

"End of the line," said George Hedron matter of factly. "No way to go on."

"Aw, c’mon!" Chow protested. "It’s jest a big crack in the ground—we kin climb down, and up t’other side."

"Impossible!" retorted Hedron.

"To get down that incline, we’d need Tom’s terrasphere," said Doc Simpson. "Look down!" The ravine, sheering downward a hundred feet or more, seemed deep enough to hold a tall building. Below lay a tangled mass of trees and vegetation so thickly matted and intertwined that it seemed to form a continuous green carpet across the floor of the gulch.

Suddenly Red called out, "Look!"

A half-mile further along, the ravine was spanned by what appeared to be a rickety bridge made of vines wrapped around long wooden branches from trees, apparently woven together by the natives. The crude structure swayed back and forth, whipped by the growing winds from the storm front.

The expeditioners made their way to the bridge with hopes high. But their hopes faded when they arrived.

"This thing must be fifty years old," declared George Hedron. "It’ll never support the weight of a man—not in its present condition."

"You’re a real ray of sunshine, aren’t you, Hedron," said Red Jones angrily.

"Sorry, but I’m here to give advice."

"It’s the only way to get across," Tom commented. "I’ll go first and test it."

There was an instant outcry. "No, don’t do that, skipper!" Red exclaimed. "That thing’s not safe."

Chow put in, "If anyone goes, it’d better be ole Chow here. Reckon if that bridge’ll hold me, it’ll hold anyone!"

But Tom brushed aside their protests. "I got you fellows to come on this expedition," he pointed out quietly, "and I don’t expect any of you to take a risk I wouldn’t take. Besides, these natives are clever at vine weaving—their own lives depend on it. Here goes!"

Advancing step by step, he proceeded cautiously onto the narrow span. The men held their breaths. The bridge bounced and swayed dizzily over the yawning gulf.

"I don’t like this here business," Chow said worriedly.

"Nor I," added Sam Barker.

Tom was almost at the halfway point, when Doc Simpson, who was watching his progress through field glasses, gave a yell of alarm. "The anchor ropes on the far side are giving way!" he screamed.

The vines were now held by only a few strands!

Tom had halted at the doctor’s cry and looked back. His frantic friends were signaling with their arms for him to return. A chorus of voices broke into agonized shouts:

"Come back! Come back!"

Uncertain, Tom hesitated for an instant. Then, looking ahead, he saw what was happening and turned to dash back to safety.

He was too late. With a creaking screech, the far end of the vine-ropes pulled loose completely from their tree-stump moorings and the bridge gave way. Tom plunged toward the bottom of the chasm!

TOM’S companions watched in horror as the broken bridge arced down across the chasm. The sickening plunge had caught Tom unawares, but he had miraculously managed to grab the braided strands of the vine-ropes and hook his arms and legs through them.

As the dangling bridge hit the near wall of the rocky ravine, the smashing impact knocked the breath out of Tom. While he swung perilously, everything swimming before his eyes, his friends swarmed into action.

"Grab those vines!" shouted Hank, taking charge. "Hoist! But gently!"

Hauling on the upper end of the bridge, the men raised Tom inch by inch. Despite the men’s careful hoisting, he was bumped and scraped against the cliff face. When he finally was eased over the edge, he was only half-conscious. Quickly the others freed him from the tangled strands and laid him on soft grass. Doc went to work with smelling salts, but it was several moments before Tom could speak. Then he grinned up wanly at the circle of faces. "Didn’t know I was a trapeze artist, did you?"

"Brand my stabilizer, I thought you was a
ex
trapeze artist fer a while there!" gulped Chow. "Now stay put, son!" he added hastily, as the young scientist-inventor tried to get up.

Tom obeyed orders meekly, while Doc sprayed his cuts and abrasions with antiseptic.

A moment later Hank came rushing up, an alarmed and angry look on his face. "That was no accident, skipper! Those bridge ropes were cut almost clean through!"

There was a moment of uneasy silence, then Doc asked, "Who do you suppose did it? Those same tribesmen who gave us the stone treatment?"

Tom scowled worriedly. "It seems as if someone is determined to keep us from reaching Bud and Slim."

"And maybe this time they succeeded," put in Hedron. He gestured across the chasm. "What do we do now—fly over?"