Tom Swift and His Ultrasonic Cycloplane (14 page)

"Let’s investigate the village," said Tom finally. "There’s nothing more to see here." Warily he led the way, with Ed following. Their eyes scanned the rocks and underbrush. Nothing stirred as they approached the nearest huts. The walls of the dwellings were made of stakes planted in a circle and joined by woven strands of reeds.

The duo peered cautiously into several huts, but found each one dark and empty. Tumbled gourds, eating implements, straw mats, and scattered items of food, such as bananas and yams, seemed to indicate a hasty exit.

In one hut Tom found a gorgeous native headdress made of orange and green bird-of-paradise feathers. Why had the owner left such a treasure?

"Looks as if he and the others cleared out fast," Ed Longstreet remarked.

Tom nodded. "The question is, why? Because we broke through their defense system?"

"Huh? You mean the storm?"

"That’s
just
what I mean!" Tom declared. "I’m convinced the storm is artificial, created by some sort of machine as a way to keep this area unseen and inaccessible. That’s why it doesn’t blow itself out and disperse."

Ed was astounded, but found the logic convincing. "Then it must be a side effect of the ‘storm maker’ that causes the instruments to go wild."

"Yes, and a pretty
convenient
side effect at that!" Tom was flushed with anger. "Anyone who decides to try breaking through the turbulence, as Bud and Slim did, gets wrecked anyway."

Yet everything indicated a crude, primitive mode of life, not in keeping with that of a scientist. The hut floors were of trampled earth, while the thoroughfares of the village were mere beaten tracks among the rows of dwellings, which numbered several dozen altogether. At the very center of the group of huts was an open stone fireplace, surrounded by a circle of boulders.

"Probably where they hold their village feasts and ceremonial dances," Ed commented. Then he asked, "What’s our next move, Tom?"

"We’ll try to get in touch with Hank and the land party," Tom decided. "Down here right next to the volcanoes we may be protected from some of the interference effects."

Returning to the cycloplane, Tom activated the radio and began beaming a signal at the frequency used by the land party’s walkie-talkies. But although the static seemed much reduced, there was no response.

Finally, brow creased with worry, he abandoned the effort. "Let’s scout around and see if we can dig up any clues to what’s going on here."

After half an hour of fruitless probing, Tom paused. Once again his eyes fell on the thatched roofs, with their amazing mixture of colors. The hues ranged through the whole spectrum—from a shimmering violet, blue, and blue-green to yellow-orange and a queer metallic red.

Standing on tiptoe, Tom plucked a handful of thatching from the nearest hut. A closer look left him wide-eyed with amazement. The stuff was even more fantastic than he had imagined! As Ed watched, Tom rolled some of it between his fingers.

"Mineral
fibers!" he muttered. But the stuff was far different from asbestos or any similar material known to modern science.

There was only one answer. It must be a combination of rare earths! "Probably in the form of silicates," Tom reflected with growing excitement. "Is that why Bud and Hank sent that radio message with the word
‘rare’
?"

"Must be!" Ed agreed.

Brushing aside the gloomy fear that his friends might not be alive, the young inventor’s thoughts went racing eagerly into the future. What research could be carried out with a new and plentiful supply of rare earths! Experiments leading to revolutionary advances in the field of atomic energy, new electronic devices; stronger and more heat-resistant metal alloys!

"It doesn’t add up though," Tom said to his cousin moodily, looking at the huts. "How could primitive stone-age natives separate those rare earths?"

With a shrug, Tom dismissed the knotty problem from his mind. Right now the main thing was to find a clue to Bud and Slim’s fate. The two resumed their search of the huts, working separately. It was several minutes later when a gleam of reflected light inside one of the dwellings caught Tom’s eye.

Tom pounced on the object which lay on a woven green and yellow mat. It was Bud Barclay’s wrist watch—the watch Tom himself had given his friend as a Christmas present! Hardly two feet away was another watch, upon which Slim Davis’s initials were inscribed!

Tom’s heart gave a leap. Both watches were still running and unmarred, their crystals unshattered. If the watches had survived the crash in good shape, more than likely his friends had, too! Both were probably alive!

Then another thought occurred to Tom. If, by any chance, his friends had left their watches here in the hope that they might be noticed by a rescue party, perhaps they had taken other steps, too. Maybe Bud and Slim had tried to leave some kind of message in the gloomy hut!

Tom whipped out his flashlight and played it around the room. At first glance nothing of interest showed up. Undaunted, he began a thorough search, poking into every nook and cranny. For the first time he noticed that this particular hut had walls interwoven with thick branches to strengthen them. He was sure it had been used as a prison.

At one spot the dirt floor had been dug up, then hastily covered over. But the corner of a sheet of white paper was still visible. Tom clawed away the dirt and pulled out the paper.
A note from Bud!
With pounding pulse, the young scientist-inventor read:

Tom—

Slim and I are alive and okay so far (the 17th), but we’re prisoners of a white man, Strang, who seems to have the natives in his power. We escaped and got off a radio message from the jet, but were recaptured—don’t know if you got it. Tomorrow morning they are taking us to a cave to keep you from finding us. They tell us we’ll never be allowed to leave. And if you find out what the white man is doing, you’ll be put to death! So long and here’s hoping you find this. But I know you’ll come for us.

Always, Bud

As he read the news, Tom was both relieved and angry. Not only would he find Bud and Slim, but he would unlock the valley’s secret!

"Today’s only the 18th," he thought jubilantly. Stuffing the paper into his pocket, Tom hurried back to the huts where he had left Ed. Just as he had finished showing the note to his cousin a loud crackling drew their attention toward the parked cycloplane. A voice was coming from the radio!

"Tom! Tom Swift! We’re under attack!"

"THAT’S Chow’s voice!" Tom cried in alarm.

He raced over to the
SwiftStorm
with Ed at his heels and clambered up into the cockpit, where he had left the receiver open.

"Chow! Do you read me? This is Tom!"

He repeated his frantic signal over and over, but static was the only response.

Tom switched off the unit with a sigh of frustration. "The
Sky Queen
must be under attack—and by something worse than slings and arrows!"

"How do you suppose his signal managed to get through the storm interference?" Ed asked.

Tom pointed off toward the far horizon. "There’s the answer—a break in the clouds. Something in the wind circulation must produce gaps in the storm now and then, by accident." But even as they watched, the gap was drawing closed.

"We had better return to the Flying Lab," declared the young inventor, pulling the sliding viewpane-hatch closed above them. Ed could tell that his cousin was distressed and reluctant to abandon the search for Bud when he was so close to success. He put a hand on Tom’s shoulder.

"I’m sure we’ll be back here soon, cuz."

Tom nodded silently and activated the ultrasonic generators and the cyclocyls. The craft responded with its usual efficiency and sprang upward into the air, swinging around to penetrate the storm clouds in the direction of the
Sky Queen
campsite.

As they rose higher, Tom’s worried frown deepened. Once again, the plane was responding sluggishly, and now even his deft piloting seemed unable to overcome the problem. As a jetstream of hurricane force slammed into the cycloplane, the craft shook violently and was driven backwards.

"Hold on!"
Tom shouted. Gritting his teeth, he attempted to guide the
SwiftStorm
into the lightning-laced clouds by brute force, gunning the forward jets. The plane made its way forward, but seemed to fight for every yard of progress, swaying and vibrating with ever-increasing violence. Finally, after a jolt that was particularly bone-jarring, Tom grunted in disgust and turned the plane about.

"We can’t get through until I figure out what’s failing in the system," he muttered. "Chow and the others will have to do the best they can."

Tom set the cycloplane down again and began to examine its inner workings. In less than a minute he gave a choking gasp of anger and straightened up.

"Sabotage!"

Ed was amazed. "But the plane was in sight all the time, ever since we landed!"

"Evidently someone snuck up on the far side and forced open the inspection panel. He probably grabbed at things at random, but he managed to disable some key circuits necessary for stable flight at higher power."

"Which means we’re being watched!" murmured Ed, glancing about nervously. "Can you repair the cycloplane?"

Tom shook his head. "No, not here. I’ll need some components stored aboard the
Sky Queen,
as well as some special tools." He managed a weak grin. "Looks like we’ll be taking the overland trail, Cousin Ed!"

Ed laughed. "Won’t be the first time."

With a sigh Tom said, "Before we try hiking out of here, there’s one thing we can do." Pulling out the two watches and Bud’s note, he said, "I’m going to look for that cave Bud mentioned. You keep working the radio, won’t you?"

"Of course," Ed replied. "And I’ll keep my i-gun ready for action, too." Ed Longstreet, an experienced marksman, had been issued one of the Swift impulse weapons and trained in its use.

As Ed glanced at the towering volcanic peaks on either side of the valley, he said softly, "Bud and Slim are alive! Thank goodness! And they’re somewhere inside those mountains."

"I have a hunch the cave is fairly close to the village," Tom mused. "I’ll try the eastern side first. But I’ll try to make it hard for that hidden spotter to see what I’m doing."

"Good luck!" said his cousin.

Tom trudged toward the rocky lava-hardened slope. He traveled in a crouch, ducking behind huts, tree trunks, and other obstructions so as not to be noticeable. When he reached a point where the ground ahead rose steeply, he began skirting along the edge, moving stealthily from boulder to boulder. The going was rough, but he soon progressed far beyond sight of the village. However, he found no trace of a cave entrance anywhere along the accessible slope.

Must be in the other volcano,
Tom told himself.

He headed back toward the cluster of huts to see if Ed had received any news of the battle. As he passed through the village, he noticed that one dwelling, set somewhat apart, was considerably larger than the others.

This could be the chief’s hut,
he decided. Poking his head in the doorway, he switched on his flashlight and played it around the interior. He caught his breath in surprise. In a corner stood a small, curious-looking statue.

Tom rushed in and grabbed it. Except for its metallic violet color, the figurine was a duplicate of the stolen "animal god," irreverently nicknamed Kangaroo Sue!

"One of Sue’s relatives!" Tom muttered to himself jubilantly. "Then it’s true—Ed’s statue did come from this part of New Guinea. It probably was stolen out of this very hut!"

But stolen by whom? Tom wondered. The smuggler Haugen Bartholdis? Or the mysterious white man named Strang who was now holding Bud and Slim prisoner?

Maybe the two of them are working together!
the young inventor speculated.

Eager to report his latest discovery, Tom headed back on the double to the cycloplane. Ed Longstreet listened in amazement to his cousin’s report. "Wish I had some exciting news in return, but the radio’s still giving out nothing but static."

"We may receive something when another storm-break occurs, though."

"I’ll keep at my post, General."

Tom returned to his hunt for the cave. This time, Tom headed toward the western edge of the valley. Again he skirted the cliff wall. The terrain was strewn with rocks and brush.

For fifteen minutes Tom tramped along without finding anything. Suddenly he was startled by a small creature which popped up almost in front of his face. He recognized it as a kangaroo rat. To his astonishment, it disappeared right before his eyes!

"What goes on here?" the young inventor muttered, stopping abruptly.

With a surge of excitement, he clawed among the brush, eager to uncover the tiny kangaroo’s secret. A whole cluster of shrubbery came away in his hand. Beyond yawned an opening.

"The cave!" Tom gasped.

Plunging into the dark interior, he snapped on his flashlight. The glow revealed several large rawhide sacks set just inside the entrance.

Tom opened one eagerly and whistled softly in amazement. The sack was full of weird treasures! Idols, statuettes, vases, and an assortment of strange objects glistened in metallic rainbow colors!

"More rare earths!" Tom exclaimed in a whisper.

He aimed his flashlight deeper into the gloom. No rear wall was apparent. Instead, a path sloped downward into yawning darkness.

Tom gasped aloud. "This must be the entrance to an underground storehouse of treasures!" For a moment the young inventor was tempted to plunge forward and find out where the underground path led. But caution held him back. He might be walking into a deadly trap!

This will take careful planning,
he decided.
Getting myself captured won’t be of any help to Bud.
Pulsing with excitement, Tom hurriedly made his way back to Ed at the plane.

After Tom had given a brief, breathless account of his discovery, Ed said, "Look, Tom, Bud and Slim may be imprisoned further along in that tunnel. We both have our guns—let’s investigate. I can follow a ways behind you, in the dark. If somebody gets the jump on you, I’ll toss ’em a little lightning!"