Tom Swift and His Ultrasonic Cycloplane (13 page)

"Ed was already en route to Shopton when he received my call," said Mr. Swift. "He’s agreed to the idea."

"Wouldn’t mind a chance to get another of those little statues," Ed declared. "Maybe the authorities will be in a mood to make a gift of it."

"We leave tomorrow," Tom said to his cousin, expressing his gratitude.

Damon Swift inquired, "Well, son, is this super-plane up to expectations?"

"Even better, Dad—and I even picked up a hitchhiker! I’ll tell you all about it."

As they drove to the Swifts’ office in a nanocar, Tom asked Ed if he knew the details of the police theories concerning the mastermind of the statue theft. "Not too much to know so far. Some clues in San Francisco led the authorities to Seattle and a warehouse rented by a man who gave the name of John Aider. But he’s disappeared, and it’s thought the name is an alias for Haugen Bartholdis."

"The Singapore smuggling suspect?"

"That’s the one," Ed confirmed. "The description is a good match for the man Feeney met. He’s Dutch. Your man Ames said valuable artifacts have a habit of going AWOL when Bartholdis is anywhere around, according to Interpol reports." With a frown, Cousin Ed added that Bartholdis was wanted for questioning in Indonesia as well.

"Questioning about what?"

"Murder! Frankly, I’d just as soon this guy stay missing."

Toward the end of the day Tom asked a dozen of Enterprises’ best jet pilots to assemble near the administration building.

"I’m looking for a volunteer to return with me to New Guinea in the cycloplane." Quickly Tom explained his predicament to them. "Though the cybertron can guide the plane, it can’t look for the missing men by itself. There’ll be times when I’ll have to rest, whether I want to or not, and it’s vital that the air search go on without a break. Who’ll volunteer to come with me?"

The men shuffled their feet and looked around awkwardly, but no one stepped forward.

Both Tom and Mr. Swift were shocked. The elder scientist spoke to the group. "Are none of you willing to accompany Tom on a mission as important as this?"

Again there was silence!

Then a weather-beaten, sandy-haired mechanic named Wade spoke up. "Some of us have overheard what Chow Winkler and those other guys have been reporting on the radio from the
Sky Queen.
From what we hear, that New Guinea jungle’s a deathtrap."

Tom’s eyes flashed angrily. "I look fairly healthy, don’t I? And your friends Bennings and Shawk on the
Queen
are in good shape, too. Sure, a jungle rescue mission is no picnic, but it needn’t be too dangerous if we use our common sense. The point is, Bud Barclay and Slim Davis are depending on us to save their lives. When a friend’s in that kind of trouble, you don’t count the cost!"

The men glanced at one another, and a few heads nodded slightly.

Tom continued: "I’ll ask again: who’ll come with me?"

Tom’s words seemed to strike home. Many of the men flushed and visibly straightened up. This time, more than half the crowd stepped forward.

The young inventor gave them a quiet smile. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, fellows. I’d like to take all of you—but the plane can only accommodate two men to accompany me and Ed Longstreet." After selecting two veteran pilots in their early twenties who had no immediate family, Tom dismissed the others.

Early the next morning the crewmen and Ed climbed aboard the
SwiftStorm
and Tom took his place at the controls. He gunned the cycloplane after receiving final clearance from the tower and lifted off in a rush of power, the craft’s trajectory smoothly shifting from vertical to horizontal as he headed south of west. As they sped along high above all commercial air traffic, Tom taught his three passengers the ins and outs of controlling the plane, allowing each a turn at the controls.

"I have to say, Tom—this whirling-dervish flyer is the most fantastic aircraft in the sky!" enthused one of the crewmen, John Yarborough. "And the maneuverability!—man oh man, you could set it down on a dime and—"

"I know—
and get back nine cents change."
Tom’s voice caught in his throat. The expression was a favorite of Bud’s.

The
SwiftStorm
cruised at top speed beyond the sound barrier, and again managed to outrun the sun. Its advanced design allowing extended flight without refueling, it was still morning, by the local clock, when the cycloplane reached the vicinity of the twin extinct volcanoes and the camp of the
Sky Queen.

The great thunderstorm still raged unabated. Switching on the radio, Tom beamed out a signal, first attempting to reach Sterling’s trekkers. As before, static made the attempt futile. Putting distance between the cycloplane and the storm, he then contacted the Flying Lab. Almost immediately he was answered by Arvid Hanson.

"We saw you coming, skipper!" Arv exclaimed. In the background Tom could hear the joyful comments of the other nearby members of the rescue party, Chow’s characteristic voice booming through. "We’re plenty glad you’re back."

"How goes it down there?" Tom asked.

"Well, we’re still in one piece," Arv reported wryly. "Two more attacks from the stone throwers. since you left. I’ll have more to report when you land." Tom grinned, realizing Hanson was referring to his secret plan, which he didn’t want to discuss over the air.

After signing off, Tom swooped down over the treetops to the
Sky Queen
’s previous landing spot. Hardly had the
SwiftStorm
touched ground next to the great skyship when Chow and Arv came bursting out of the hatch to greet them.

"Brand my goggles, you’re a sight fer sore eyes, boy!" the cook exclaimed.

Tom introduced his cousin Ed and the other two crewmen, John and Gil, to the men. As the six walked toward the
Sky Queen
, Tom asked Arv about the outcome of his plan.

The modelmaker chuckled. "They fell for it, all right! The other night Chow and I pretended to go for a stroll near the ship, and set down one of the walkie-talkies on top of a rock in clear view—then walked away as if we’d forgotten it. Sure enough, one of the attacks came later that night, and the next morning the unit was gone."

Ed Longstreet looked puzzled. "How does that help you?"

Chow grunted. "Them connivin’ stone-age varmints don’t know that th’ thing is rigged up so she’s
on
all th’ time—and we kin home-in on her signal, too!"

Tom asked what they had heard so far.

"At first, mostly words we couldn’t make out—the local dialect, I suppose," explained Arv. "But about an hour ago we started hearing bits of conversation in English."

"Could it have been Bud or Slim?"

Chow shook his head. "Naw, Boss. Some feller with an accent. Me, I thought it was French, but Arv here says it’s German or mebbe Dutch."

"Dutch!" exclaimed Ed. He gave Tom a meaningful look.

"Did anyone mention a name?" Tom asked.

"Yes," was Hanson’s reply. "At one point the man with the accent asked one of the others to hand him a canteen, and you could hear someone answer, ‘Sure, Mister Hoken’—something like that."

"Haugen," declared the young inventor.
"Haugen Bartholdis!
So the smuggler is connected to these attacks on our rescue expedition!"

"Good grief, my innocent little statue has a lot to answer for!" said Ed ruefully. "And if anything has happened to your friends, Tom, I—"

"If anything happens, it’ll be because I wasted time on foot, instead of returning to Shopton immediately for the cycloplane," Tom stated. "But let’s forget blame. We have to move fast now. It seems Bartholdis and his cronies are getting bolder—they may feel they’re closing in on us."

Arv set his jaw. "With you back, Tom, I’d say we’re closing in on them!"

After radioing news of his arrival, Tom and the others ate and allowed themselves a brief rest period. Then the systematic search from the air began. Tom, with one other to assist, went up in the
SwiftStorm
time and time again, methodically scouting further and further into the periphery of the storm. Unhindered at long last by the terrible winds and unpredictable buffeting, they were able to survey a wide area of lightning-lit jungle, an area centered on the twin volcano peaks.

"Still no sign of wreckage—or anything," remarked Gil Muir to Tom at the end of one sortie.

"Which means whatever clues are there to be found must be right at the foot of the peaks, or even between them," responded the young inventor. "I’ll finish out this pattern and head back to camp for now."

"Isn’t it time for you to eat and get some rest, Tom?"

The young inventor waved off the suggestion impatiently. "One more trip, then I’ll turn it over to you and John for the rest of the daylight period. But I
couldn’t
rest without taking a preliminary look at that central area."

At the camp Tom let off Gil and picked up Ed Longstreet. As they rose to cruising altitude, Ed asked if Tom had seen any sign of Hank Sterling’s team from the air. "No," was the response. "But I’m not overly concerned. The storm is drowning out the radio, and it’s so dark on the ground that I wouldn’t expect to see them very easily in the middle of all that jungle growth. We’ll be lucky to see traces of the crashed jet!"

The cycloplane plunged into the swirling maelstrom of storm. But now Tom approached the area confidently. The sleek little craft responded perfectly as he came down through the overcast. Again and again, bursts of rain lashed his canopy, while gale winds howled on all sides. This time Tom was piloting a ship which defied the elements!

Slowly and smoothly the
SwiftStorm
descended between the twin volcanoes. Tom was lower now than ever before. As if touched by an unconscious memory of the perilous descent in the Flying Lab, the scientist-inventor found himself almost holding his breath. His cousin nudged him, and Tom flashed a grin at Ed.

Peering down through the semidarkness, the two could make out a cluster of huts.

"A native village," Ed murmured. "And look at those roofs! They’re every color of the rainbow!"

Suddenly Tom interrupted his mental observations as he realized the cycloplane was becoming sluggish. A glance at the flight dials sent a chill of fear through him. The needles were flickering crazily. The instruments had gone haywire!

"Tom—!"
Ed grabbed at Tom’s forearm in panic. The roaring winds were starting to force the weakened cycloplane sideways against the rocks!

FRANTICALLY Tom increased the output of the ultrasonic generators, seeking to produce an airflow powerful enough to overcome the effects of the storm winds. The rotating cylinders responded by increasing speed.

Bit by bit, the cycloplane rose higher, as if straining against an invisible cable. At last it soared free above the overcast. With a gasp of relief Tom gunned the jet engines and the plane shot forward out of danger.

"Whew!"
Tom’s heart pounded. "Another minute and we’d have crashed just as Bud and Slim did!"

"Now we have a pretty good idea of what they encountered," said Ed, his face pale. "But if even your cycloplane can’t handle it—"

Tom set his jaw resolutely. "She
can
handle it! Now that I know what to expect, I’ll run the controls manually and take us all the way through." He paused for a moment. "Or—shall I fly you back to the camp first?"

Ed sighed. "Nope. I have a reputation to maintain—for foolhardiness! Go for it!"

At top speed Tom took the cycloplane back into the gap between the peaks, the controls on a new, riskier setting. The
SwiftStorm
seemed to drop with breathtaking speed. But this time it remained stable despite the freakish reaction of the instruments.

In less than a minute they were through the worst of it and hovering placidly above the village of huts.

"It’s not so bad down here," Ed remarked in surprise. "In fact, look over there—those tree boughs are barely moving. What in the world happened to all the wind?"

"The wind isn’t
needed
down here," Tom replied cryptically. Before his cousin could ask what he meant, the young inventor suddenly gasped and pointed. "Ed!
There’s part of Bud’s wrecked plane!"

A silvery metal cylinder, a band of bright red encircling one end, lay crumpled between the trees below, barely visible!

"It’s one of the rear engine nacelles from the jet," declared Tom. He up-throttled the engines and the cycloplane roared forward, making a loop to approach the village at a different angle. The change brought a grim sight into view.

"The jet!" breathed Ed Longstreet.

He pointed to the starboard slope of one volcano. At the very foot of the cliff, between a number of outlying huts and half-hidden among the rocks and underbrush, lay a crumpled silver mass. In grim silence, the two searchers eyed the smashed plane as their own craft settled downward to the valley floor. One wing of the jet had been almost completely sheared by the impact and lay uselessly among the ruins of a hut that had been demolished by the impact.

Neither one dared voice the thought that shot through minds. Had the jet carried Bud and Slim to their doom after all?

The instant the cycloplane’s wheels touched ground, Tom killed the switch. As the tense searchers started to jump out, he took a quick look around. There was no sign of life, and no sound except the reverberating thunder and distant, howling wind from high above.

Hopping out, Tom hurried toward the wreckage, waving Ed to follow him. Anxiously they poked among the wreckage, but found no trace of any bodies. Tom straightened up with a thoughtful frown. The two seats were still in place; Bud and Slim had not ejected. Apparently their two missing friends had been carried off from the wreck, either dead or alive. But where? And what had happened to the native villagers?

"It’s like a ghost town," said Ed.

Tom nodded. Except for the ever-present rattle of high thunder, the whole valley lay wrapped in a foreboding stillness that in its way seemed even louder than the tumult above. Tom and his companion were more conscious of the air of mystery that hung over the valley than they cared to admit.