Tom Swift and the Visitor From Planet X

THE TOM SWIFT INVENTION ADVENTURES

TOM SWIFT

AND THE VISITOR

FROM PLANET X

BY VICTOR APPLETON II

This unauthorized tribute is based upon the original TOM SWIFT JR. characters.

As of this printing, copyright to The New TOM SWIFT Jr. Adventures is owned by SIMON & SCHUSTER

This edition privately printed by RUNABOUT © 2011
www.tomswiftlives.com

"TOM, if anyone can solve the problem we’re having with the new gyrostabilizer, we figure it’s you," said Mark Faber, gray-haired president of the Faber Electronics division of Wickliffe Laboratories.

"Now that’s a mighty easy bet," said Hank Sterling. The young chief engineer from Swift Enterprises suavely raised an eyebrow. "This kid’s been to the
moon
and back, you know."

Tom Swift gave a becomingly modest smile, his face reddening slightly beneath the ragged line of his spiky blond crewcut. "You have to understand, Mr. Faber—Hank is moonlighting as my personal image maker!"

Faber gave a sharp nod. "The informal, easy-going relations between management and workforce over at TSE is well known throughout the industry. My own people envy it. Just between us, so do I. The Old M—er, that is, Dr. Wickliffe—can be rather stiff-necked at times."

"He’s very focused on his work, that I know," responded Tom noncommittally.

Tom and his father had long ago realized that Munson Wickliffe, the brilliant head of Wickliffe Laboratories of Thessaly, New York, regarded himself as something of a rival to the famous Swift invention factory in Shopton. The relationship was cordial enough and thoroughly professional, yet tinged with a degree of personal tension. Wickliffe had adopted ethically questionable tactics in competing with Tom Swift Enterprises while Tom had been engaged in searching the floor of the Atlantic for a lost space capsule. Though forgiven, the incident had colored his subsequent dealings with the two Swifts, who presumed he was embarrassed—which he had ample reason to be.

Hoping to smooth over relations with Faber’s employer, Tom had been anxious to come to the aid of Faber’s division. Faber Electronics, which specialized in aerospace technology, had contacted Tom in hopes that the young scientist-inventor and his chief engineer could analyze and fix a performance shortfall affecting their new gyro system. Tom knew the greater challenge would be to provide the requested assistance without appearing to be flaunting Enterprises’ prowess.

Mr. Faber led Tom and Hank through his high-ceilinged assembly building. Rocket nose-cones and jetcraft fuselages hung from chains or rested in cradling lift-derricks all around and above them, gleaming in the hazy columns of sun from a line of skylights at the peak of the curved ceiling. "The people from Deeming Intercoast are on my neck," commented Faber. "But until the GS is up to snuff, their ‘penetrator’ aerospace-plane can’t even be—"

He broke off with a gasp of astonishment as the whole building suddenly shook. A low rumble thudded through the concrete floor—once, twice.

"Holy Moe!" Hank muttered. "This isn’t part of your testing routine, is it?"

"Definitely not," replied Mark Faber, troubled and slightly alarmed. He leaned back, looking upward, and Tom and Hank followed his gaze. The hanging equipment was swaying ominously, the chains clinking.

Scattered workmen stood about nervously. One took a step toward Faber. "What
was
that, anyway? Sonic boom?"

His question was drowned out by cries of alarm and the sound of cracking glass. The rumbling and shaking returned with a vengeance. This time it didn’t stop! The walls and roof were shuddering and creaking, and the concrete floor was heaving under their feet.

"Look out! The test stand’s breaking loose!" Tom warned.

Mr. Faber and two of his men tried frantically to brace the heavy test stand which held the malfunctioning gyrostabilizer device. Another engineer rushed toward the door to see what was happening outside. Before he reached it, a new and more powerful shock knocked all of them off their feet.

The concrete floor erupted with jagged cracks. Electronic apparatus cascaded from the wall shelves, and a heavy-duty chain hoist came loose from its overhead track, plunging to the floor with a terrifying crash.

"An earthquake!" Tom gasped. A shrill cry alerted him and he flung himself backwards as a dangling nose-cone the size of a sofa swung down like a pendulum at one end of a chain and shattered against a missile fuselage.

Hank, meanwhile, clawed a handhold on a wire screen enclosing an air compressor and pulled himself to his feet. But the next moment yet another, more violent tremor rocked the building, knocking him over.
"The roof! It’s caving in!"
he heard someone scream.

As his eyes flashed upward in panic, Hank caught a brief glimpse of the ponderous test stand with the priceless gyro tilting to one side. An instant later it crashed over, pinning Mark Faber beneath it!

Hank threw up his arms to protect himself and turned away, but too late! A fragment of metal shielding from the device came whirling through the air and caught him on the back of the head. Knocked flat, the young engineer blacked out.

The tremor ebbed. For minutes, no one stirred amidst the wreckage. Then Tom, who had been stunned by some falling debris, raised himself to a sitting position.

"Good night!" Tom’s eyes focused in horror on the wreckage enveloped by still-billowing dust.

The sky was visible through several gaping holes in the roof, which was sagging dangerously on its supporting trusses. The twisted skylight frames were empty and useless. Only two thirds of the walls were still standing. Faint moans of pain and fear rose from every side.

Suddenly Tom stiffened. "Hank!" The young inventor had just noticed his friend lying pinned nearby beneath a heavy air circulation duct that had toppled over from a wall.
Was he still breathing?

Disregarding his own injuries, Tom hastily freed himself from the debris and groped his way to Hank’s side. With a desperate heave, he shoved the duct away, then cradled Hank’s head in his arm. His friend’s eyelids flickered.

"Are you all right?" Tom asked fearfully.

The answer came in a groan. "Guess that depends, boss. Oo-oh! Wow! What hit me?"

"You got conked pretty bad. Or grazed, at least," Tom added thankfully. "If that metal ductwork had landed square on your noggin, even a rockhead like you couldn’t have survived!"

Hank managed to grin. "We grow ’em tough out where I come from!" he joked. But his voice was woozy and faint, and the back of his head was streaked with red.

Somewhat shakily, Hank got to his feet with Tom’s assistance. Both were heartsick as they surveyed the damaged work building, wondering where to begin rescue operations.

"It was a quake all right," Hank stated grimly. "Ma Nature in action."

Just then Tom glimpsed a body protruding from under the wreckage of the gyrostabilizer stand.

"Mr. Faber!" he gasped.

The scientist responded to Tom’s cry with a slight tremble of his hand, but uttered no sound, eyes shut. The two from Shopton scrambled through the clutter of debris toward the spot where the test stand had been erected. Hank seized a slender I-beam of lightweight magtritanium and managed to pry up the wreckage while Tom carefully extricated Mr. Faber. He knew it was dangerous to move the injured man, but he also knew that leaving him beneath an unstable pile of wreckage would be even a greater risk.

The scientist seemed to be badly injured. "We’d better not try to move him any further," Tom decided. "We’ll get an ambulance."

"I’m making the call," said Hank, holding up his cellphone. Then he grimaced in frustration. "But the lines are jammed, naturally. Or maybe some of the cell towers are down."

Of the other company engineers and technicians, two were now on their feet, but innumerably more were only partly conscious. Some showed no signs of life at all. Tom and Hank found a first-aid cabinet and gave what help they could to the injured, and recruited the least affected among them to stabilize some of the equipment. Then Tom insisted on wrapping a bandage over Hank’s scalp wound. "I need you, Engineer Sterling."

"Yeah. Guess I need Engineer Sterling as much as you do."

"Let’s hotfoot back to the airfield," Tom urged. "We can use the radio in the Pigeon Special to summon help."

"Right!" Hank responded. "If nothing else, we can route the call through the Enterprises switchboard." But his mind added a dismaying thought.
What if Swift Enterprises, many miles distant across the county line, had also been knocked out by the earthquake?

They picked their way through the wreckage and emerged from the ruined building onto a scene of frightful destruction. The main administration building of Wickliffe Laboratories had been partially demolished by the quake. Every window seemed to have shattered—and one entire side of the modern structure was nothing
but
windows! Power lines were down, light poles toppled, and an outlying storage hangar was ablaze. Dazed and panic-stricken survivors were wandering around aimlessly or rushing about to assist the injured.

"Good thing the main shift of workers knocked off before this happened," Hank observed with a shudder, checking his wristwatch. "There would’ve been a lot more casualties."

"Look at the airstrip!" Tom pointed to a long, uneven crevice in the rumpled tarmac and concrete. "Right in front of the plane!" They exchanged rueful glances as they realized that the craft which had brought them to Faber Electronics—one of the unique commuter mini-planes produced by Enterprises’ affiliate, the Swift Construction Company—had almost been swallowed up in the gaping chasm. As it was, one wheel was over the edge. The plane listed dangerously, leaning on the starboard wing as on an elbow.

"No use fussing about it now," Tom pronounced. "Come on, Hank! Let’s see if we can climb aboard."

As they swung up onto the slanted deck the Special rocked precariously, but seemed otherwise undamaged. In moments Tom had contacted the operator on duty at the Enterprises communications center.

"Is everything all right there at the plant, Jilly?" Tom asked. "Did the quake do any damage?"

"What do you mean, Mr. Swift?" she came back in surprise. "Was there a quake?"

"You mean you didn’t feel it there?"

"No, but—there’s Mr. Dilling. Just a moment." The operator spoke to George Dilling, the plant’s chief communications officer, for a moment, then returned to the line. "Mr. Dilling says news reports are just coming in right now, on TV. They say the earthquake only affected a small area near Thessaly."

"A
very
small area, apparently," muttered Hank.

Nodding, Tom said, "Jilly, we’re okay, but Hank will have to see Doc Simpson when we get back—please let him know. Ask Mr. Dilling to send a chopper to pick us up. The airfield’s too broken up for us to take off in the plane. George can use his own judgment about alerting the local medical and emergency authorities. I guess they’re already aware of the quake, but they may not realize how serious the injuries are here at Wickliffe."

Despite the chaotic confusion, the two managed to locate the plant superintendent—a harried, middle-aged man named Simkins—who was doing his best to restore order. Simkins, who had not been injured, informed them that electricians were rigging an emergency cellphone relay unit to get through to the nearby town. "But the radio says ambulances are on the way," he noted.

"Mr. Faber is badly injured," Tom said. "Why not send a car to the hospital? The town’s only a few miles away, isn’t it?"

"I’ll send the plant nurse to him," Simkins said. "As for going to town, take a look at the parking lot." He pointed with a jerk of his thumb. The cars on the lot had been smashed into junk by cinderblocks from a collapsing wall of one of the tall buildings. "And our truck fleet is either out on the road or in the plant garage getting burned down to fireplace andirons," the superintendent added bitterly.

"Tough break," Tom sympathized. "Anyhow, we want to help. Got a job for us? Maybe Dr. Wickliffe would like us to—"

"Dr. Wickliffe is in critical condition," interrupted Simkins with a deep frown creasing his face. "We think he had a heart attack during the incident. He’s being treated in the infirmary, but frankly I’m not sure he’ll last long enough to get to the hospital."

"Here’s a hopeful sign, anyhow," said Hank, pointing. To the wavering blare of sirens, several ambulances were now approaching by the main road, dodging cracks and fallen trees.

Simkins was only too glad to put Tom’s quick mind and keen technical knowhow to use. Within minutes, Tom was in charge of clearing away rubble and extricating anyone who might be trapped inside the buildings. Hank organized a fire-fighting crew to keep the several blazes from spreading. A steady stream of rescue vehicles began arriving from Thessaly and another nearby town, Harkness—fire trucks, police vehicles, three more ambulances, and private cars driven by volunteers or frantic family members.