Tom Swift and His Ultrasonic Cycloplane (8 page)

On all sides, the towering forest rose about them—huge casuarina trees, oaks, palms, and pandanus. Dripping green moss festooned the branches and clung to the tree trunks.

Even the ground underfoot was soggy, covered with rotting vines and logs. "Like walkin’ on a sponge!" Chow grumbled. "Sure wish we had that there tank contraption we used in Africa."

Tom gave his friend a rueful look. "I didn’t plan for a hike, Chow. But these trees are so close-packed I don’t think even the terrasphere tank would do us much good."

"Mebbe not," the Texan conceded. "But them TV screens on board sure did get a good picture!"

Every foot of the way, they were fascinated by strange sounds and splashes of brilliant color. Gaudy parrots and cockatoos screeched at them from the treetops. Other weird-looking birds would occasionally flit into view, trailing long plumage of orange, violet, or emerald green.

"Birds of paradise," George Hedron explained. "Their feathers used to bring a fortune for decorating ladies’ hats. In fact, the natives still use them for making plumed headdresses—though it’s for the benefit of tourists these days, more often than not."

Once the trekkers sighted a comical-looking animal perched on a tree branch. It was snoozing contentedly with its head between the forepaws. At sight of Tom’s rescue party, it arced to the ground in a prodigious leap and scuttled off through the undergrowth.

"And what might that be?" Chow demanded, perspiration flooding down his nose. "Sittin’ Bull’s nephew?"

Hedron chuckled. "Just a tree kangaroo!"

But the men were in no mood to enjoy the interesting surroundings. Streaming with perspiration and pestered by insects, every step seemed to add to their torture.

Turning to speak to Doc Simpson, Tom noticed a glazed look in Hank Sterling’s eyes.

"Hank! Are you all right?" he queried.

Tottering, Hank wiped the sweat from his brow. "Sure—j-just a bit bushed, I guess," the young engineer replied.

Suddenly Doc gasped and pointed to Red Jones. Apparently the redheaded crewman had not noticed that the rest of the group had halted. With drooping head and closed eyes, he stumbled forward.

"Catch him, someone!" Tom shouted.

But it was too late. Tripping over a tree root, Red sprawled headlong on the ground, then groveled in the green foliage, too weak to rise. Doc Simpson and the others ran to his assistance. "Heat prostration," the medic announced after a quick examination.

By bathing Red’s forehead and holding smelling salts to the man’s nose, Doc soon revived him and gave him a hydrating electrolyte drink which restored his vigor. But Tom, concerned but impatient, suggested that the group rest for a while.

While the men lounged, panting, with their backs propped against tree trunks, the young inventor checked his Global Positioning System meter.

"Wow! What a snail’s pace!" he muttered in disgust. "Since we left the
Sky Queen
, we’ve covered only about a mile in actual forward motion."

The depressing news was greeted with loud groans. To cool off from the steaming jungle heat, and to keep away the flies and mosquitoes, the men fanned themselves constantly.

In half an hour, the group resumed its trek. But again progress was slow. Gradually the jungle shadows deepened as the day drew to a close.

"Might be wise to stop soon and make camp," Hedron advised. "Night comes fast in this part of the world."

Tom agreed, but pointed out the importance of first finding a good campsite. Eventually the expedition halted near a shallow jungle stream that seemed to ooze sluggishly through the darkening gloom. While Chow made a fire and started preparing the evening meal, most of the men flopped down, completely drained of energy. Tom, however, decided to use what was left of twilight to scout around for enemies—human or animal.

"I’ll go with you," Doc volunteered. "I’m always on the hunt for rare medicinal herbs."

Keeping in close touch with each other, the two began ranging around the camp in widening circles. Suddenly a shout from Doc brought the scientist-inventor on the run.

"What is it?" yelled Tom, alert for danger.

In reply, Doc held up a waxy green plant with a small pink flower which he had just plucked from the ground. "A rare herb, used in certain drug preparations!" he explained. "Here’s a whole patch of the stuff!"

Irritated, Tom almost snapped at Doc for alarming him. But he thought the better of it.
I’m as worn out and on-edge as the rest of ’em,
he said to himself. With Tom’s help, Doc began picking a supply of the flowers to take back to Shopton for his medical experiments. Engrossed in their task, neither noticed that the ground was getting softer at every step.

Suddenly Tom realized they were both ankle deep in the wet, spongy earth. Floundering for a foothold, Tom slid sideways, as if down a hidden embankment. When he stopped, he had sunk almost to the knees in oozy muck!

"Doc!" he cried. "It’s a bog! We’re getting sucked in!"

IN A FRENZY of alarm, the two explorers tried to scramble back to firmer ground. But their efforts were futile—the treacherous bog only clutched them more securely in its slimy embrace. With every wallowing step, they plunged deeper and deeper into the morass.

"Hold it, Doc!" Tom gasped finally. "We’re only making matters worse!"

Panting for breath, the two companions eyed each other in growing panic. They used their walkie-talkies to contact their friends, but there was no reply.

"Maybe if we yell, they’ll hear us," Doc suggested.

They shouted themselves hoarse, but the only response was the mocking cries of jungle birds.

Tom said at last, "Doc, did you happen to pack any fishhooks in your jungle kit?"

The doctor stared in amazement. "No, but I have some large safety pins you could bend into hooks. Why?"

"Just an idea—which may not work. Give me some pins and a reel of surgical thread, will you?" By this time, both victims had sunk to their hips in the bubbling ooze. But Doc managed to get out the thread and pins and hand them to Tom. Working fast, the young scientist looped the thread through the ring on his jackknife to weight the line. Then he tied several of the bent pins to one end of the thread; the other end he tied to his belt.

Twirling the line around and around, he heaved it toward a clump of trees at the edge of the bog. After several misses, Tom finally succeeded in hooking a long trailing creeper which dangled from the tree branches, the only one in range.

Doc held his breath as Tom began gently reeling in the line. Both feared that under the strain, either the thread might break, or the pins be dislodged. Their last chance for survival would be lost! But finally the vine was close enough for Tom to reach out gingerly and grasp hold.

"You did it!" Doc exulted as Tom’s hand finally reached out and grabbed the vine.

"Don’t cheer until we make sure this is strong enough to support our weight," Tom warned him. He began to pull it toward him gently. The vine pulled taut—and suddenly fell limp. It had broken apart!

"No!" gasped Doc.

"Got another idea," Tom muttered. He disengaged the pins from the vine, then tossed the weighted line upwards. In a few tries he had managed to hook the overhanging branch of a tree.

"That branch won’t support a man’s weight, Tom," warned Doc Simpson.

"Doesn’t have to," was the reply. Tom pulled the long, supple branch down within reach, then grabbed it. As Tom yanked on it repeatedly, the tree to which it was attached swayed and bowed. Suddenly a large bough ripped loose and tumbled down on top of the bog, its broad yellow-green leaves splaying in all directions. Tom slowly dragged himself up on top of the ragged mat, which began to sink down a ways into the bog. But before the bough had been forced down deeply, Tom had hauled himself to safety, and was able to rescue Doc Simpson in turn.

"I owe you my life, Tom," Doc murmured gratefully.

Tom shook his head, managing a faint, tired grin. "Without your surgical thread and those safety pins, we’d both have been out of luck."

After resting for a while, they began to trudge back to camp. Step by step, the two young men groped their way by flashlight through the tangled jungle growth. But even with the yellow beams of their penetrating, high-intensity lights to guide them, the going was slow and tedious. Ten minutes later Tom stopped abruptly.

"What’s the matter?" Doc inquired.

"We’re going in circles!"

A sweep of his flashlight revealed the same patch of pink-flowered herbs which had lured them into the bog.

"Whew!" Doc shuddered and mopped his brow. "A few more steps and we might have walked right into that bog again!"

Checking the GPS readout, the two trekkers resumed their slow plodding through the jungle. Minutes went by. Still no flickering campfire greeted them through the trees.

Once again Tom stopped. "Let’s face it, Doc," he said grimly, "we’re lost. Something—maybe the electrical storm—is fouling up the GPS."

"Let’s try shouting some more," the physician suggested. "At least we may be within earshot by now."

"Okay—both barrels," Tom agreed. "And if there’s no response, we’ll try the walkie-talkie again."

Filling their lungs with air, the two companions let out a long-drawn bellow for help. A moment later the startled pair were cowering under a deadly hail of small, sharp-pointed stones!

"Take cover!" Tom yelled.

Shielding their faces, he and Doc plunged into the underbrush. For several minutes the stinging missiles continued to rain down all around them. Then, like a passing storm, the attack halted as abruptly as it had begun.

Crouching in the darkness, the two awaited another onslaught. But none came. Only the eerie night sounds of the jungle broke the silence.

"What do you make of that?" Doc whispered. "Unfriendly natives?"

"Must be."

Venturing out of their hiding place, they scouted around cautiously. None of their attackers was in sight.

Tom played his flashlight over the ground and kicked up several small polished stones the size of marbles. "Take a look at this ammunition, Doc. Those natives must have used slingshots."

Doc picked up one of the stones and examined it. "They weren’t playing with peashooters, that’s for sure! These things look innocent enough, but if one of these should hit a vital spot, it could kill a man!"

In spite of himself, Tom felt a chill of fear. "We’d better get back to camp pronto!" he advised, taking a sweeping look at the black shadows that had closed in around them. Only the scattering of the tiny missiles disclosed the presence of humanity somewhere amid the trees and underbrush!

Despite painful cuts and bruises, they pushed on through the jungle, trying not to expose themselves too openly. At long last, half an hour later, they sighted Chow’s campfire through the trees. A chorus of gasps and exclamations greeted them as they stumbled into the circle of firelight.

"Good lord! What have you two been up to?" demanded one of the expeditioners, Billy Yablonskovic.

"You name it, we’ve had it," Tom said wearily as he sank to the ground.

Bruised, bloodstained, and covered with muck, he and Doc presented a startling appearance. As they washed in the nearby stream, they related the whole story. Then Doc sprayed their wounds with a penetrating antiseptic.

"Now that you two mavericks are here," said Chow, "we sure ought to get at our grub. I’ll dish out some stew." He turned away.

"Tom," said Red Jones, "what did the natives look like? I mean those guys who blasted you with stones."

Tom shrugged. "We didn’t even catch a glimpse of them. They took us completely by surprise."

"Must be very primitive, though," Doc Simpson added. "Those missiles indicate a stone-age culture. Let’s hope they’re not cannibals to boot!"

"Cannibals!" Red Jones turned pale at the thought. "Excuse me, but I think I’ve just lost my appetite!"

"Let’s hope," said Hank Sterling, "that they have, too." He caught Tom’s eye and winked.

With good-natured hoots and chuckles, the exhausted men gathered around the campfire and held out their plates to Chow. But underneath all the joking ran a feeling of grim apprehension. Even though no one put it into words, the same thought was in every mind:
Had Bud and Slim fallen victim by now to a tribe of savage headhunters?

Tom was especially worried. After finishing a meager supper, he drew George Hedron aside and spoke softly. "George, just how dangerous are the locals here?"

Hedron returned a wry smile. "Many New Guinea tribesmen were reported friendly, despite an appearance that seems fierce to outsiders. At least, they were friendly enough on their first contact with Europeans. I’m afraid we taught them to be unfriendly. But this is an especially dangerous region, Tom. The central government has little real authority here; in fact, much of the area has only been tentatively mapped, from the air or by space-satellite." Hedron then recounted a story he had been told during his last visit to New Guinea, concerning a tribe that had first been contacted by explorers only fifty years before. "They knew nothing of the modern world, or the strange ways of white men. They had never seen an electric light, or an airplane, or even a book."

"Were they cannibalistic?" Tom asked.

"No. But they did preserve and worship the skulls of their ancestors. Anyway, after a few years, the whole tribe abandoned their traditional village and up and disappeared into the unexplored wilderness—this jungle around us. Never seen again. It just might be that the Iwooro, as they call themselves, had something to do with the attack on you and Dr. Simpson."

As Tom returned to the campfire, his head was full of dark thoughts. Did tonight’s attack mean that these local natives had already suffered at the hands of hostile whites? If so, the rescue party could expect plenty of trouble!

To play safe, Tom assigned sentries to take turns standing watch throughout the night. He and Billy Yablonskovic took the first trick, then tumbled into their sleeping bags, stiff with exhaustion. Some time later Tom awoke to find Red Jones, who was on guard, shaking him urgently.