Tom Swift and His Ultrasonic Cycloplane (9 page)

"Huh? Wh-what’s up?" Tom mumbled sleepily, raising himself on one elbow.

"We just heard a shot, skipper!"

Instantly alert, Tom scrambled out of the sack. The jungle was shrouded in darkness.

For several minutes Tom, Red, and Chow, who was the other sentry, waited tensely. But there were no further shots. Only the distant scream of a night bird broke the eerie stillness.

"Sure you weren’t mistaken?" Tom asked.

The two sentries eyed each other uncertainly. "Well, it sounded like a shot," Red replied.

"Shore did, boss," agreed Chow. "An’ I’ve heard my share of ’em in my time."

Tom stayed awake for another half hour. When nothing else happened, he finally went back to sleep, after first urging Red and his co-watcher to rouse him at the slightest hint of trouble.

Morning dawned without further incident. After breakfast, the expedition prepared to break camp.

Suddenly a startled screech from Sam Barker brought the whole rescue party running to his side. In speechless fright, he pointed to his sleeping bag.

Out slithered a sinister golden form with glittering green eyes!

"IT’S A PYTHON!" exclaimed George Hedron. "A green tree python!"

Inch by inch, the reptile squirmed its way out of Sam’s sleeping bag.

"Looks more yaller to me than green," Chow muttered. "Not to mention all them black an’ white speckles."

"This is a young one," Hedron explained calmly. "As they get older, they turn a bright emerald green.

"Sam looks pretty green right now, himself!" someone guffawed.

Gulping hard and trembling visibly, Sam Barker looked sick indeed. "Y-y-you mean I’ve been c-c-curled up all night long with that!" he quavered. "I’ve always—had nightmares about—"

Suddenly he sank down heavily in the jungle grass. "That settles it," Barker groaned. "I’m quitting this assignment right now!"

"Oh, no, you ain’t, buckaroo!" said Chow firmly. Reaching out a gnarled but sinewy arm, Chow hauled the demoralized rescuer to his feet. "Now you listen here, Sam Barker. We got two good friends, Bud and Slim, dependin’ on us to save their hides. An’ brand my steel skillet, we ain’t goin’ to let ’em down, even if it means stickin’ our own necks in the chopper—or sleepin’ with snakes! You savvy?"

Sam flushed under the cook’s stern gaze and seemed to take a fresh grip on himself. "I—I guess you’re right, Chow," he mumbled. "None of us has any business quitting till we find Bud and Slim."

"Now you’re talkin’!" Beaming with approval, the Texan clapped him on the back. "An’ don’t you worry about bein’ afeard o’ snakes. Tell ya the truth, I ain’t got much use fer ’em neither—danged slitherin’ varmints."

Meanwhile, the python had ceased moving, even though it still hadn’t emerged completely from the sleeping bag. With unblinking beady eyes, the snake stared sluggishly at the circle of human beings.

"Looks as if it doesn’t want to leave that nice warm bed," observed Hank Sterling with a chuckle.

"Well, we’re not taking it with us, that’s for sure," Tom announced. Chopping off a long tree branch with his machete, he cautiously prodded the reptile into motion. As it slithered off through the underbrush, Hedron watched it disappear with a worried look.

"That little fellow may have some kin close by," he warned the others. "And a full-grown python is apt to be nasty. Keep a sharp lookout when we hit the trail."

Later, while the rest of the party finished stowing their gear, Tom began sending out a signal.

"Rescue party calling
Sky Queen!
... Come in, please!"

In a few moments Arv Hanson’s voice replied, "Hi, Tom! You just missed a message from Shopton."

"Anything important?" Tom inquired.

"Well, your dad’s been called to Washington on a new defense contract. But he said he thinks that they have all the kinks ironed out of your cycloplane. In fact, the ship should be ready for test flying as soon as you get back."

"Swell news, Arv! Anything else?"

"Yes, the police have been talking with your cousin, Ed Longstreet, and now they’re working on a tip from that curio dealer out in San Francisco. I didn’t catch all the details, but apparently they know who has the stolen statue, or think they do."

Tom gave a whoop of satisfaction. "Sounds as if things are really popping!" he remarked, then added dryly, "Been popping for us, too."

Briefly he related their adventures since leaving the
Sky Queen.
When he mentioned the mysterious gunshot which Red Jones and Chow had heard during the night, Arv broke in, "Hey! That must have been me, Tom!"

"You? How come?"

Arv explained that he had spotted moving lights in the jungle near the Flying Lab. "I figured it might be natives working up enough nerve to attack us, so I fired a shot in the air."

"What happened?"

"Nothing—the lights disappeared. The shot scared them off, I guess."

Tom mulled over the news thoughtfully. "Well, don’t take any chances, Arv, but let’s not start any feuds, either. If there are locals prowling around, I’d like to show them we come as friends, not enemies. The lives of Slim and Bud may depend on it!"

"You have a point there, skipper," Arv replied in a troubled voice. "From now on, I’ll be careful. Oh, by the way—"

"Yes?"

"Didn’t you say your camp was about seven miles north by northwest from here?"

"Well, the GPS unit has been a little off, but we should be close to that."

There was a moment of silence, as if Arv were hesitant to convey bad news. "Tom, according to my instruments here, your signal’s coming from almost due north of the
Queen
—and no more than three miles away!"

"What!" cried Tom in dismay.

"I’m sure of it."

After signing off, Tom hauled down his antenna and packed up the transmitter. His attitude was grim and thoroughly discouraged. The other men, standing about, had heard the entire exchange. No one said a word, but Tom could read the startled disappointment in their eyes—a look of sheer defeat.

"It looks like we’ve veered to east, somehow," Tom said simply. "I don’t know what to say."

Suddenly Sam Barker, who had been sitting cross-legged by the campfire, struggled to his feet. In an anguished voice he exclaimed, "Tom, I—I have to confess!" Tom and the others stared at Sam as he continued: "I’ve let you all down—and betrayed Bud and Slim Davis, too."

"What did you do, Sam?" Tom asked evenly.

Barker lowered his head in shame. "I couldn’t take it. I thought I could, but—after just a few hours, all I could think about was getting out of this jungle."

"What did you do?" Tom repeated.

"When we all stopped yesterday, I sneaked over and got into the GPS circuitry—tweaked it a little. Somehow I thought I could make you give up and return to the plane."

The men fell back as Tom strode over to Barker, crossing the space in three steps. He stood in front of the Enterprises employee with clenched fists, staring into his eyes.

Then he put a hand on Sam’s shoulder.

"Sam, you put all our lives in danger. You betrayed Slim Davis and—" Tom’s voice seemed to fail him for an instant. "And Bud. But you owned up to it. That’s how I know I can trust you."

Sam was trembling, red with shame. "Thanks, Tom," he said quietly. "I—I want to go forward with all of you now."

Tom nodded and turned to face the others. "Anybody else have something to confess?"

Chow Winkler raised his hand. "Wa-al, since you asked—
I confess
I could do with a nice big air conditioner—an’ mebbe one o’ them magic-finger beds. Shore would feel good on this back o’ mine!"

The men laughed, and even Tom forced a smile. "Wish I could get it for you, Chow."

The cook nodded. "I know ya do, son."

Tom repaired the GPS unit, and soon the chastened rescue party was ready to hit the trail.

Again they were forced to hack their way through the dense jungle. But the early-morning freshness made the going pleasanter than before, and the shreds of mist still drifting among the trees lent a touch of nighttime coolness.

The men plodded along cheerfully, whistling or cracking jokes as they wielded their hatchets and machetes. At times they had to proceed single file. Eventually, however, the trees and underbrush thinned out into an open area broken up by large jagged boulders.

"Hold it!" shouted Tom suddenly.

Crowding up behind him, the men gasped at the sight that met their eyes. A huge, glossy green serpent at least fourteen feet long lay stretched out on a flat-topped boulder.

"Wa-al, I’ll be a knock-kneed bronc!" Chow whispered. "Reckon this here must be that varmint’s kin we heard about!"

"That’s right," George Hedron agreed.

"I can see the family resemblance," joked Billy.

Slowly coiling its tail, the python reared its head torpidly and stared at them through piercing eyes.

"Guess we interrupted its morning sun bath," Hank remarked.

"Either that or it needs a dose of vita-minnies," Chow added. "Sure looks like a lazy critter!"

"No wonder. It’s just eaten." Hedron pointed to a telltale bulge in the python’s midsection.

"Oh, oh." Sam Barker gulped nervously as he sized up the reptile’s swallowing capacity. "Now what do you suppose it ate?"

"A baby wild pig, maybe," Hedron replied. "It’s amazing what a python can digest."

"Well, don’t look at me," Sam protested. "And don’t go giving that python any ideas, either!"

Always on the lookout for new delicacies, Chow began to mutter about "python pie," also mentioning his recipe for stewed rattlesnake. But Tom hastily quashed the idea.

"Let this python enjoy its food, and we’ll enjoy ours," the young inventor said, chuckling.

Giving the reptile a wide berth, the rescue party pressed forward. As the sun rose higher in the heavens, the heat became unbearable. Soon the men were dripping with sweat. To add to their discomfort, the stinging insects of the jungle seemed to be attracted by the glistening moisture on their skins.

"Am I just imagining things, or are these mosquitoes getting worse?" inquired Hank as he paused to slap his face and arms.

Tom brushed away several winged tormentors that were buzzing around his own head. "They sure—" With a gasp, he broke off. "Good night, guys!
Look behind us!"

Turning, the men gasped in horror. A dense cloud of mosquitoes, billowing out at least twenty yards in width, was bearing down on them through the trees!

"Sufferin’ horned toads, a whole army of ’em!" yelled Chow. "We’ll be et alive!"

"Quick! Break out your insect repellent!" Doc Simpson ordered as they scampered for safety.

Clawing into their kits, the crewmen pulled out small tubes and began spraying the salve on their faces, legs, and arms. But the vicious horde came swarming around them before the job was half done.

"It’s not working!" groaned Red.

"Nothing would help with a swarm this thick!" mumbled Hedron, flailing both arms in an effort to drive off the attackers.

Relentlessly the mosquitoes closed in on their victims like an air squadron on the attack. Every square inch of exposed skin seemed to be covered with clusters of the tiny brutes.

In desperation, the men broke into a wild run, scattering in all directions through the trees. Still the winged tormentors pursued them!

Tom found himself tearing along side by side with Chow, who displayed amazing speed for his portly size and bowlegs.

"Ain’t that water I see up ahead?" panted the Texan, pointing to a ribbon of silver sparkling among the trees.

"It’s a stream, all right," gasped Tom. Raising his voice, he yelled, "This way, all of you! We can throw off the insects by ducking under water!"

Reaching the bank of the stream, he and Chow plunged headfirst into the gleaming depths.

Though its surface glinted in the sun, the water proved to be stagnant and murky. Once submerged, Tom and Chow found themselves groping among a tangle of weeds and oozing mud. When they finally surfaced, the deadly mosquitoes were still humming and swarming in all directions.

"Keep down, except for your mouth and nose!" Tom shouted, hoping there were no crocodiles lurking about.

The cook needed no urging to obey orders. Flapping his arms and treading water desperately, he tilted his head far back and managed to stay almost completely under water.

Gradually the cloud of insects passed over.

"Okay, I guess it’s safe now," Tom announced, popping his head up. With a few swift strokes, he swam back to shore.

Spluttering, Chow followed him. Together, they clambered out onto the bank of the stream, Tom lending the cook a helping hand. Both were coated with a mixture of mud and green scum.

The stout old Texan was so exhausted that he lay heaving and panting for several minutes before he found his voice. Then he muttered weakly:

"I don’t know which is worse—drownin’ in that mud puddle, or gettin’ hacked up by them flyin’ buzzsaws!"

"I’ll take the puddle any day!" Tom chuckled. A moment later he sat up sharply. "Hey! Where are the others?"

The stream and its banks were deserted as far as the eye could see!

CHOW OPENED his eyes and peered around. "Huh! Ain’t nobody in sight. Reckon they musta ducked for cover somewheres else, when you an me jumped in the drink—if you call that stuff fit fer drinkin’!"

Worried, Tom reached in to his kit and pulled out his compact walkie-talkie, thankful for its watertight case. After hoisting the antenna, he thumbed the signal button several times and spoke into the mike:

"Tom calling all hands! ... Tom calling all hands! ... Report, please!"

He waited tensely in the silence that ensued. Then he tried again.

First one voice, then another, filtered back over the receiver. "This is Hank, Tom!" ... "Sam Barker reporting, skipper!"... "Doc here, Tom!"

In a few minutes every man was contacted. "We’ll regroup as soon as possible at the spot where we scattered," the young inventor told them.

It was a sorry-looking band of rescuers who assembled on the trail a short time later. Every man was covered with insect bites. Red Jones—the worst bitten of the group—was puffy-faced from the savage attack.