Tom Swift and His Ultrasonic Cycloplane (12 page)

Chow scratched his bristly chin. "Wa-al, it’d sure take too long to walk around, so I reckon that means we gotta climb all the way down an’ then up t’other side, jest like I said in th’ first place."

"Oh, brother!" groaned Red Jones. "Just working our way through that mess on the bottom will take hours in itself. Another day, maybe two, lost!"

"Listen, maybe the
Sky Queen
could hover on its lifters over the ravine," suggested Billy. "Then it could sort of ferry us across."

"No," said Tom brusquely. "Look at all this vegetation. It runs right up to the edge. If the lifter exhaust started a fire, it’d burn out of control in minutes." He paused, his brow creased. "Look, guys," he said, "Bud’s and Slim’s lives may depend on us reaching them as soon as possible. Hank, could you take over if I left?"

"Sure."

"There’s a good chance that I can make the descent between the volcanoes in the cycloplane."

"But that’s way back in Shopton," Sam Barker interrupted.

"I know," Tom said, "but now that we’ve cleared a trail, I should be able to get back to the
Sky Queen
pretty fast. I could fly home to the plant in ten hours in the
Kub,
test the cycloplane, and be back here in New Guinea in two or three days." He smiled enthusiastically. "The way things look now, I might be able to reach the scene of the crash sooner than you fellows."

The men looked at one another, then agreed that the young inventor was probably right.

Chow offered the only protest. "Brand my coyote steak, you ain’t makin’ that trip through the jungle alone, son—not with all them stone-slingin’ stone-agers around. I’m goin’ back with you!"

Tom agreed to let him go along, but not for the reason stated—he had come to be concerned that his older, heavyset friend would suffer physically from the rigors of the difficult trek remaining.

Tom attempted to radio the Flying Lab, but even using his powerful long-range unit the growling static from the nearby lightning storm foiled his efforts. Nevertheless, he and Chow departed immediately.

"You boys’ll hafta eat out of your food kits fer a few days," Chow called as he waved farewell. "But it’s fer a good cause."

All through the afternoon the two backtracked at a fast pace. At dusk they halted for a cold snack, then continued their trek. Night came on, cloaking the jungle in inky darkness. Tom and Chow pulled out flashlights.

"We’d better keep the beams close to the ground," Tom advised, "so we won’t attract attention." The yellow cones of light scooped a path forward over the matted vegetation.

Finally Tom called a halt. "I guess we’d better stay here and try to get some rest between now and daylight."

Easing off their heavy kits, they propped themselves up against the bole of a giant casuarina tree. Tom decided to try again contacting the
Sky Queen
to notify Arv Hanson of his plans. "We should be far enough from the storm here," he told his companion.

As he tuned the radio, it buzzed, hummed, and crackled. Finally Tom was forced to give up the attempt. "Chow, we have no time to lose! I don’t know what’s going on with that freakish storm, but the sooner we get back with the cycloplane, the happier I’ll be!"

"Me too!" declared Chow. "I say, a little food and an hour o’ rest, then on we go!" Tom nodded. But for Chow the hour of rest stretched into deep slumber, which Tom allowed to continue until daybreak.

At the first streak of daylight, Tom and Chow again set off. Without bothering to eat, they shouldered their kits and plunged forward at a steady jog trot. In two hours, muscles knotted and aching, they reached the forest clearing where the great silver-skinned skyship stood waiting.

"Thank goodness it’s still here in one piece," Tom reflected.

Arv Hanson and his two crewmen came crowding to the open hatch to greet Tom and Chow.

"Something wrong? Why didn’t you radio you were returning?" demanded Arv, fearful of bad news. After Tom reported the events of the past twenty-four hours, Hanson said, "We’ve had a rough go of it ourselves."

"Another attack?"

"Last night. This time they came right up to the ship and let go with a hail of stones from hiding. No damage, of course."

While Tom explained his plans, Chow trudged dutifully to the ship’s galley and prepared a hasty breakfast. "Sure feels good to be back in my lil ole flyin’ chuck wagon!" he told the others as he served porridge, bacon, waffles, and cocoa.

"Well, don’t think we’re not glad to have you back!" Bill Bennings, one of the flight crewmen, chuckled as he finished his third waffle.

Breakfast over, Arv Hanson remarked to the cook, "If Tom can spare you on his trip home, how’d you like to stay behind here with me? It might be safer to have another pair of eyes to keep watch. Besides, you can be in on my plan."

The Texan asked in surprise, "What plan?" Arv explained a plan which had been taking shape in his mind. Chow and Tom agreed enthusiastically.

"It’s a good idea," said the young inventor. "The more we know about our enemies, the better our chances of finding Bud and Slim."

After radioing Shopton, Arv took off in the
Sky Queen
and hovered steadily at 1000 feet while the hangar deck opened up. In a flash of flame and smoke the
Kangaroo Kub
came streaking out of its secure metal pouch and headed for the clouds, veering northeast.

Alone in the cockpit, Tom spurred the compact jet to terrific speed. Not designed for transoceanic or intercontinental flight, the
Kub
required refueling, which Tom accomplished at the Swift Enterprises installation at Loonaui Island in the mid-Pacific, and at the Swift nuclear research facility in New Mexico, the Citadel.

Day and night were telescoped as the jet crossed the successive time zones. Finally, bone tired, Tom circled in for a landing above the Enterprises airstrip at eight o’clock in the morning.

Tom had radioed ahead to George Dilling in the plant communications center. As a result, Tom’s whole family and Bashalli Prandit were on hand to greet him. There was an exchange of kisses and handshakes, then a quick briefing on the rescue party’s efforts to find Bud and Slim.

"N-no sign of them?" Sandy bit her lip to keep back the tears.

"I’m
sure
they’re alive," Tom said, putting an arm around her. "I
feel
it. And now, a few hours of sleep at the house, then I must test the cycloplane."

Sleep, a relaxing shower, clean clothes, and a hot home-cooked breakfast gave Tom new energy. Hopping into his sports car, he drove back to Swift Enterprises. Here he spent several hours personally going over his cycloplane.

"I’ll have to give the cybertron a real run-through," he remarked to construction engineer Art Wiltessa. "It’s mighty complex, but vital."

"The avionics team had charge of that one, Tom," Art replied. "What is it, anyway? The autopilot?"

"That and more." Tom explained that the cybertron, designed especially for the cycloplane, was a lightning-speed navigational and control computer that combined satellite mapping data with real-time radar input to produce a detailed internal representation of the part of the earth’s surface the craft was flying over. "It’s a real ‘virtual reality’ emulation, even simulating weather effects in 3-D. It’ll safely steer the
SwiftStorm,
keep her stable, and make continuous fine-tuning adjustments to the two ultrasonic generators, and to the cyclocyls." He added that the cybertron had a built-in positional calculator similar to the system he had invented for space vehicles, nicknamed the Spacelane Brain.

"Does everything but cook, eh?" joked Art.

"Chow nixed
that
idea!" Tom held up a small unit the size of a cellphone. "The plane has a dual control setup, too. If the main board should fail, or if it’s out of reach because the pilot has had to eject, this little remote allows the pilot to access the cybertron from a distance of several thousand feet." Art whistled his appreciation.

After checking the cybertron, the ultrasonic generator, and the new engine mounts, Tom felt sure that the ship was completely ready for its shakedown flight.

"Ready for finals, Dad," he said to his father. "You did an amazing job getting the
SwiftStorm
finished. And by the way, will you call Ed Longstreet and ask him if he’d be willing to fly back to New Guinea with me? I may need help in talking to the natives if I can’t connect up with Hedron right away."

"I’ll phone him right away, son. Best of luck!"

Tom donned his flying suit and climbed into the cockpit of the cycloplane. At the touch of a button the curving viewdome swung down and slid forward, becoming flush with the sleek fuselage of the
SwiftStorm.
Bob Jeffers, the crew chief, gave him thumbs up.

Signaling back, Tom switched on the power. As the spinning drums hummed into action, the plane soared skyward to twenty thousand feet with such rapidity that Tom was left lightheaded.

"So far so good," the young pilot muttered to himself. He half-laughed. "I’ll have to take it slower—the human ‘wetware’ can’t keep pace with the hardware!"

With a steady hand, he opened the jet throttle. Keeping his eyes glued to the air-speed indicator, he watched the needle creep around the dial. 350 knots . . . 400 . . . 450 . . . 500!

Tom gave a whoop of joy—the ship had passed the crucial speed range without a tremor!

But I still haven’t taken her through the sound barrier,
he reflected cautiously.

He zoomed upward in a steep climb, then leveled off at fifty thousand feet. A voice from the tower cut in, "We’re tracking,
SwiftStorm.
How does she handle, skipper?"

"Terrific so far," Tom replied. "Tell you more in a minute or so. I’m going to dive."

"Okay. I’ll listen for the boom."

"You won’t hear it, Mac. I’ll shoot the works over Lake Carlopa, so as not to disturb anybody."

A moment later Tom went into a 60-degree dive—the nose-over floating him slightly off his seat as he outraced the pull of gravity. Below, the broad blue patch of lake water settled squarely into his line of sight. Then, suddenly, he was boring down at dizzy, screaming speed. In less than sixty seconds he could be plunging into the lake!

Calmly Tom watched the air-speed indicator wind up. A white needle was creeping clockwise, as a red-and-yellow striped one moved counter-clockwise.

Suddenly the needles crossed Mach 1!
He was through the sound barrier!

The cycloplane was roaring downward at almost 900 knots when Tom finally pulled out of the dive. For a moment the G-force glued him to his seat. Then his body relaxed as he leveled off. Grinning happily, Tom put the ship through a punishing series of aerobatics—rolls, steep turns, and loops. Not once did the cycloplane show the faintest sign of bucking or loss of control!

"Well, are you still with us?" came the voice of Mac Maxwell from the tower.

Tom’s voice was radiant with sheer pleasure. "Mac, she’s smooth as silk—really out of this world! And the cybertron makes me feel like a co-pilot!"

A splotch on his radar screen indicated a storm somewhere off to the east, far out over the ocean.
Must be Hurricane Edna,
he thought. Eager to test his new craft still further, Tom sped toward the disturbance. The skies darkened and the sea below foamed and crested into huge, mountainous waves.

"Wow! Looks like a real blow!" he observed with satisfaction. On impulse he switched off the cybertron and took manual control. "A perfect test for what we’ll be facing in New Guinea!"

Soon he was streaking into the thick of the storm. A vivid flash of lightning split the sky, followed by a boom of thunder. Winds of fearsome velocity battered against the viewdome. But through it all the cycloplane soared and swooped smoothly. Tom felt like a lord of the skies!

Switching the cybertron back on, Tom relaxed in his seat. Without a tremor, the automatic brain took over control of the ship. The gyrosensors controlling the rotation of the cylinders kept the plane on an even keel.

"Talk about floating on a cloud!" Tom chuckled.

Suddenly a warning beep from the cybertron drew his attention to the radarscope.
Some unknown object was plummeting down directly above him!
The cybertron eased the ship neatly out of the way.

To Tom’s amazement, the object proved to be a parachuting pilot!

TAKING OVER the controls, Tom banked and circled in a tight turn. Then he slowed the cyclocyls, causing the
SwiftStorm
to drop steeply. Down elevator!

Maneuvering under the parachutist, Tom slid open the viewdome. Raging wind and stinging rain lashed his face as he stood up, using the remote control unit in his hand to minutely guide the hovering plane. A moment later the flier was cutting his shroud lines and easing himself safely inside the rescue craft.

"Th-thanks a million!" gasped the young man, clad in military garb. He looked around, eyes wide. "But what in the name of Jupiter
is
this plane—a flying saucer?"

Tom laughed. "I call it a cycloplane."

"I call it magic! But what holds it up?"

Tom explained briefly, adding, "Like to try it, Lieutenant?"

The stranger took over the controls. "Why, it’s the steadiest thing I’ve ever flown!" he exclaimed. "Man, you can just about
wish
it from one heading to another!" When Tom acknowledged the sentiment with a grin, the stranger went on, "By the way, I’m Lieutenant Deever, Naval Reserve—storm spotter. My jet lost a wing when I pulled out of a dive. I’d have wound up in the drink if it hadn’t been for you!"

"Glad I happened along," said the young inventor, sticking out his hand. "I’m Tom Swift."

The lieutenant grinned. "I figured
that
out
mighty
quick!"

After landing the Navy pilot at the reserve base, where his cycloplane caused a sensation, Tom returned to Swift Enterprises. The successful flight had left him giddy and more than ready to roar back to New Guinea.

To Tom’s delight, Ed Longstreet had just arrived and was waiting for him at the hangar, accompanied by Tom’s father.