Tom Swift and His Ultrasonic Cycloplane (18 page)

"She’s down," said Billy. "Who goes first?"

"I’ll take five of you on the first run," Tom decided. "A total of six is pretty much the limit, and until I can make repairs the lift system is only stable at low power. But nobody should be envious—the first of us may have to fight!" After some thought he announced that he would take Hank, Gil Muir, Red Jones, Doc Simpson—and Bud.

"Why Bud?" demanded Sam. His tone was polite, but challenging. "I know he’s your pal, but he can’t help you in a fight out there."

Tom looked at Barker coolly. "Bud’s the worst off here, and he’s depending on us. I want to get him to a safer spot as quickly as possible—I don’t have to tell you that we could be cornered in this cavern." He sucked in his breath and added, "I’m sorry if you disagree, Sam."

Sam shook his head. "I don’t, boss. Just needed to hear you say it."

Tom pulled Bud into the cockpit, and the others clambered aboard. The viewpane and opaque ceiling panel slid shut and locked. The young inventor activated the cyclocyls, and gave a nod to the men outside.

The lift-drums whirled silently, and the
SwiftStorm
lifted off toward whatever dangers waited outside.

THE CYCLOPLANE rose through the mouth of the
faux
volcano easily, as Tom had now been able to give the cybertron detailed instructions on avoiding the rocks.

But real peril lay ahead. With the i-guns dead, they had no weapons, nor any means of protecting themselves from Strang’s stun device.
Only one thing’s on our side,
Tom said to himself.
Strang and Bartholdis may not yet realize that we’ve escaped our prison.

Doc and Red boggled at the noiseless arc of Tom’s invention through the sky. "If you plan to sell these things, chief, put me on the list!" Red exclaimed in appreciation.

"Just keep your eyes open," was Tom’s brusque reply. He glanced sideways at Bud, who returned the gaze but showed no recognition of his closest friend.

Avoiding the buffeting, roaring winds that whipped between the two peaks, Tom followed a circuitous route, skimming the treetops for miles, then finally doubling back on the other side of the low, jungle-choked mesa upon which the village had been built. The
SwiftStorm
managed to surmount a barrier ridge with difficulty, battling the forces of howling nature for every inch, but at last the cycloplane was hovering peacefully over the village of huts between the peaks.

Suddenly Hank Sterling called out a warning. The fierce-painted band of jungle warriors had appeared in a cleared area, brandishing spears and slings. At the rear of the column were two white men with weapons of their own—Bartholdis with his machine gun, and Strang with his wave-beamer.

"They haven’t seen us yet," whispered Gil. "But they’re sure to look up!"

Tom moved to give the
SwiftStorm
some altitude, but before he could touch the controls he glimpsed Strang, looking skyward with the snarl of a cat, raising and aiming his device.

And they had no defense.

Or—did they?

Thoughts tumbled through Tom Swift’s fertile mind—his shop apron catching fire, the roar of the
Drumhawk
prototype in the hangar, the screech the prototype had made when its vibrations had fallen out of synch at Rickman Dunes.

"You mean this little gadget can rev up a big enough storm to fly your new cyclone-plane?"

"An ultrasonic storm, Bud. You can’t see it or hear it, but it packs a terrific wallop!"

There was no time to warn anyone in the cockpit of what was about to happen. As if acting with a mind all its own, Tom’s hand darted forward and twisted a dial, turning the pointer into a zone marked in red.

Even inside the sealed cockpit, the sound of the suddenly out-of-synch ultrasonic generators was as wince-inducing as fingernails across a chalkboard. But below on the ground, focused and concentrated by the concave underside of the cycloplane’s fuselage, it was like the blast of a hundred sonic booms at once—and it didn’t stop.

Faces contorted in pain, Bartholdis and Strang staggered back, their weapons fumbling to the ground. They tried to flee, but stumbled and fell writhing. Even the stoic warriors were unable to withstand the sonic onslaught. They looked about in confusion and covered their ears.

Powered by sheer rage, Strang made a determined crawl to where his stun-beamer lay. He rose to his knees and seemed about to discharge the weapon. But Tom had seen his efforts. He sent the cycloplane swooping downward like a hawk, a maneuver which brought the battering ultrasonic waves closer to the enemy. Strang tumbled backward with an unheard yelp, dropping his device. Leaning over, the young inventor made hand-motions through the curving viewpane, the meaning of which was perfectly clear:
Fall back and raise your hands!

Strang and Bartholdis complied.

Tom re-tuned the generators. As they fell silent, he guided the craft in for a landing in front of the two sullen white men.

"Hank, Gil, Red—tie ’em up before they forget what they’ve just been through and decide to test us! There’s rope behind you in the locker." His eyes fixed on his enemies, Tom sat with his hand poised over the control panel—an obvious threat that the sound barrage would be resumed if the two proved less than cooperative.

"What about those tribesmen?" whispered Doc.

Tom shrugged helplessly. "If they’re still dazed, they may just stand and watch as they did before—I hope." When the two men had been securely bound, Tom warily exited the cycloplane, and he and Doc helped Bud down to the ground.

Realizing he was in Tom’s power, the sandy-haired leader glared at his captors. About fifty years of age, he had almost colorless eyes that gave him a sinister reptilian look.

"What’s the meaning of this outrage?" he hissed, as Tom recovered the electric shock weapon and began to examine it curiously. "Do you think you can get away with this highhanded—"

"We’ll ask the questions," Tom interrupted coolly with barely a glance. "I know who your partner is. Suppose you tell us your own name."

"I’m Julian Strang of Seattle, if it’s any of your business," the man retorted—though with a few more words in-between. "This man is my business partner Mr. Bartholdis, a citizen of Holland. You are illegally interfering with a very important economic development project, Swift!"

"Glad you know my name," Tom responded with a too-polite smile. "Now," he went on, "suppose you tell us skeptics just what kind of project you’re engaged in here."

"We’re engineers," Strang snarled. "Beyond that, we don’t have to account to you for anything!"

"Engineers, eh?" Doc Simpson put in dryly. "What sort of engineering involves making slaves of the tribe and hauling away all those ancient statues and art objects?"

"We wanted to assay their metal content, that’s all," Strang said. "Any crime in that?"

"That’s for the Papua New Guinea government to decide," was Tom’s reply. "Something tells me slavery, imprisonment, torture, theft, and probably murder and bribery, won’t do much to enhance your business prospectus, Mr. Strang. Then again, I’m not a businessman," he added.

"You’re raving!" Strang practically spat out the words. "Look at those villagers over there—do they look like they’re trying to get away? They’ve been cooperating voluntarily with our scientific investigation of this ancient site!"

Red Jones snorted. "As soon as they come out of that trance your machine put them in, I’m sure they’d like to express their point of view. Maybe we should leave you two alone with them in one of the caves!"

Strang paled, but Bartholdis burst out laughing. "Ah, very good! Alas, Julian, your usual bluster seems not to impress our gallant captors, eh? Let us concede that this chapter is ended. But perhaps there will be another," the Dutchman concluded cryptically.

A faint, croaking voice from behind suddenly broke the ensuing silence.
"T-Tom!"

The young inventor whirled.

George Hedron stood arrogantly poised on the slope of the mountain a few score feet distant. He held a rifle in his hand, aimed directly at Tom Swift.

Acting on impulse, Tom raised the stun-beamer in his hand, aimed at Hedron, and pulled the trigger-switch! Instantly Hedron jerked backward, his rifle twisting from his hand and clattering down the rocks, out of reach.

The zoologist straightened up, glanced down at the rifle, then at Tom. "Hey, Tom, what’s up? Did you think I was aiming at you? I just now found that rifle in—"

But Tom was already in furious motion. Legs pounding like pistons, he scrambled up the rocky slope with knotted fists as Hedron drew back.

"Okay, now, Tom—?"

The young inventor rammed an uppercut to Hedron’s chin! The zoologist thrashed backwards—then savagely returned the blow, and the fight was on! With a strange hyena-like cry, the older man bore down on the young inventor. But Tom agilely ducked his whirling fists and drove a stiff punch to the man’s midriff.

"Ooof!"
the zoologist grunted, doubling forward in agony.

As his head came down, Tom’s right hand came up in a roundhouse blow that jarred him to his heels. With a groan, Hedron went down like a collapsing skyscraper and lay panting on the rocks.

In a few minutes Hedron had joined his cronies, the fight knocked out of him. The three criminals lay propped in a row against the side of a hut, securely trussed and glaring sullenly at their captors as Doc Simpson tended to their various bruises—and none too gently.

But Tom had paid no attention to this—he had rushed to Bud’s side. "Flyboy—you spoke! You warned me—didn’t you?"

As if with a great effort, the dark-haired young pilot nodded. There were tears in his eyes—and Tom’s. "He’s coming out of it!" Tom called to the others joyously.

Bud muttered Tom’s name softly—and broke into a weak grin. Tom hugged his pal warmly, and could feel the hug returned.

A great deal then happened in a brief span of time. A key found on Strang opened the outer door to the chamber of the quarry, releasing Chow, Arv, and all the others. Tom then allowed Slim Davis to have his way with Strang’s infernal storm-making machine. In minutes the power leads to its antennas lay about the floor like dead snakes.

As Tom and Slim left the cavern, Slim pointed upward happily. "Here comes the sun!" For the first time in weeks—perhaps much longer—the deadly tempest was dissipated with the winds!

"I still want to study that machine," Tom remarked. "I suspect it uses some sort of microwave-induced ionizing effect to constantly pump new energy into an existing weather system."

In the village, Tom questioned the prisoners. Strang wouldn’t talk, and Hedron, face swollen like a balloon, couldn’t. But Bartholdis proved perfectly willing to chat.

"It seems I’m to tell my story after all, eh? Ah well. It’s quite straightforward. My dear friend Julian is a doctor with a bent for electronics, the inventor of a number of medical devices for which he remains, sadly, unacclaimed. Not content to hide his light under a bushel, he made a career move into the exciting and lucrative field of smuggling—with a specialization in antiquities. Thus, inevitably, he came into contact with me. A most productive partnership was the result.

"Here in this lovely country Julian came across a small statue of curious design, one that Mr. Longstreet over there will surely recognize. While finding its way to America, it was stolen; you know its fate thereafter, I think. It awaits Mr. Longstreet in the helicopter.

"Various clues and travelers’ tales led Julian and I to these central jungles in search of other such statues, which, I am given to understand, are composed of valuable materials. We traced the route of the statues to this locality, but our aerial survey came to a bad end. Our helicopter wrecked, the kindly people of this isolated village, who term themselves the Iwooro, cared for us. But as they say, ‘no good deed goes unpunished.’ Julian had invented his shock-emitting weapon—which reminds me, you must remove the safety catch before trying to fire it, Tom; otherwise it serves only to frighten fools like George here. Anyway: the Iwooro had no defense against it. Slings against science! In no time we had compelled them to reveal the secret quarry and the hidden temple-city of their remote ancestors.

"To remain undisturbed by the authorities in our work of pillage, we undertook various security measures, including the installation of Julian’s storm-amplifying machine—I confess I have no idea how it works."

Tom interrupted. "It must require a great deal of power. What is its source of energy?"

Strang barked out a laugh and made his only contribution. "Swift Enterprises Solar Batteries!—twelve of them."

Bartholdis smiled. "Irony, eh? Now, there is little more to tell. You know of my recovery of our little lost god. My actions led to my downfall."

Tom and his friends were disgusted at the callousness of the man. He turned to the third bound figure. "How about you, Hedron? Were you planted at that art institute for some reason?"

Hedron winced, forcing open his swollen lips. "When
will
you learn to trust
,
Tom Swift? I was there as a legitimate teacher, and became acquainted with Miss Prandit by sheer happenstance, not criminal design. Even when your lovely friend rejected my well-meant advances, I didn’t hold a grudge against you, Tom. I didn’t
hate
you, though in time I
did
come to wish you
dead.
I really did volunteer because I wanted you to find your friends; the thought of doing away with you somehow during the expedition was absolutely secondary."

"I see," said Tom dryly.

"But you know, you made it clear from the start that you didn’t trust me," Hedron sulked. "I could sense it, just as I could sense that Bashalli’s interest in you would become love for me as soon as I could free her from your spell, so to speak."

"The poor man, a victim of lovesickness, eh?" put in Bartholdis. "Strang spotted him from hiding the day he did a bit of unauthorized work on your giant airplane, your
Sky Queen
, parked in the jungle. Strang and his boys trailed you in parallel for some time as your expedition started off on foot. I’m told that on one occasion, when George had become separated from you—I believe he had evil designs of his own—Strang chatted with him at the other end of a gun, and discovered that he would be more than willing to work with us hand in glove."