Tom Swift and the Visitor From Planet X (14 page)

The arc ended with the
Challenger,
topside up, hovering five miles above the Pacific, the bright tan coast threading along the horizon to the east. "I never realized California was so flat," commented MacColter.

"It is in this area," Bud said. "A big wave would run on for miles with just a few low hills in the way here and there. Kind of an extreme way to deal with urban sprawl, huh?"

"It could easily flood the entire Los Angeles basin," Tom pointed out as he studied a topographic schema on his computer monitor.

"Not to pour cold water on any of this, so to speak," began Hank, "but how will we detect the tsunami in the first place, before it hits? I know we have to hover fairly high-up. I don’t know if we’d be able to see a broad rise in the ocean level, even if we’re right above it."

Tom indicated the control board with a sweeping gesture. "I’m analyzing the telespectrometer data from the repelatrons for overall changes in the water level. Also, we can tune in on transmissions from an automated seismograph station on one of the Channel Islands, which ought to be near the epicenter."

"How long do we have, Tom?" asked MacColter.

"It doesn’t matter. We’re ready."

Fourteen minutes eleven seconds later, Hank Sterling sang out,
"Here we go!
Data jumping on the seismograph monitor!"

"Powerful?" asked Tom.

"Very! But concentrated, just as you anticipated. I’ll calculate the epicenter—but start moving northwards, Neil."

Bud could do nothing to help. He knew he had been brought along to stand at the side of his best friend, which he did without complaint, watching keenly with a pounding heart as Tom manipulated the controls. "The quake waves are overlapping," declared the young inventor. "Sea level rising and on the move." He called out numbers to Neil MacColter, and the
Challenger
streaked into position.

I can see it after all,
thought Bud as he gazed down at the ocean.
It’s outlined in the changing reflections.

Everything happened in a matter of seconds. The colored lines and patches on the repelatron control screen formed a complex pattern as the various radiator antennas slid into position along their rail-rings. Placing the ship at some risk, Tom reduced to a minimum the repelatrons devoted to maintaining the craft’s altitude and steadying it against the strong counter-thrust to come. He tuned the remaining repelatrons to the local seawater composition—and stabbed the master button.

The great spaceship lurched and wavered as the invisible force rays found their marks! The men in the cabin could barely keep from scattering across the deck. Tom adjusted the onboard supergyros and the
Challenger
held its position, slightly canted over at an angle.

"Any effect?" hissed Hank.

"I can’t tell, not yet." Tom glanced at a readout dial. "We’re really putting a demand on the batteries." They all knew the import of Tom’s words. Inside Earth’s envelope of air, the cosmic energy converters that normally fed the hungry repelatrons could not be used. When the limited battery power was drained, the defensive effort would end—and the ship would crash into the ocean!

"WHAT’S happening down there?" Neil MacColter asked Tom.

"Nothing I can detect," was the reply. "But it takes a while. Keep backing us toward the coast. We need to keep slightly in front of the wave."

"It looks to me like something’s going on, Tom," said Bud.

Tom studied the instruments. "Yes! The wave height has begun to drop!" The cabin rang with the cheers of Tom’s friends!

After a moment, Sterling spoke softly. "Tom—the battery reserve."

Tom glanced at the dial. Down sixty percent!

"I’d say we have a shade over two minutes left to go," added the engineer. "Whatever’s going to happen will have to happen within that time frame."

"Can’t fall," the young inventor whispered. "If we do, it’s all over. The reserve just
has
to last a few minutes more! Neil, shut down as much of the onboard equipment as you can."

The astronaut gave his young employer a fearful look. "The only major equipment still active is the gyro system! If we start to tumble, we won’t have time to recover!"

"I know," was Tom’s simple response. MacColter did as requested.

They watched and waited as the repelatrons pulsed out their tremendous power. "Ninety seconds more," Hank reported. "We’re already on overtime."

"We can’t give up now. The wave is almost quashed," Tom declared.
"Almost!
Neil, prepare to get us out of here—straight up, ballistic, maximum acceleration. Strap in, everybody. We might gray out. On my signal, Neil." A handful of seconds later the youth exclaimed, "The wave’s hitting the beach—we’ve done all we can. Neil
—take us up!"

Even limited by the constraints of air-friction and the frailties of structural engineering, the
Challenger
’s maximum acceleration was awesome. The four were smashed down into their contour seats as if victims of an invisible tsunami from above!

Ten seconds, twenty, thirty. The pressure on the crewmen was agonizing. They felt as if their eyes were receding into their sockets, their scalps crawling down the backs of their skulls! And then a warning buzzer sounded. And faltered. The cabin lights dimmed out. The weight of upward acceleration lifted abruptly.

"Battery failure," Hank Sterling gasped out. "That’s it. We’re done."

"But it’s night out there, guys!"
cried Bud. "Look at those stars! We must be high enough for—"

The lights flickered back to life! "The energy converters are on line," Tom pronounced, panting. "We can start the recharging process."

"You don’t sound very happy about it, genius boy," Bud observed.

"We
made it. But what about the coast? The beach was crowded. I saw plenty of cars on the highway."

"I’ll tune in to the broadcast news," MacColter offered, reaching for the auxiliary communications console.

"—from initial reports at the scene," came the newscaster’s voice. "The tsunami wave hit the beach area, surging over the sand all the way up to the Coast Highway."

"Oh
no,"
Tom murmured in bleak despair.

"Just listen!" Bud urged.

The news bulletin continued: "To repeat, another of the anomalous temblors appears to have struck the Channel Islands area only minutes ago. Early reports indicate that the resultant tsunami effect was narrowly concentrated. The swift-moving wave was only a few feet deep when it reached the coast, and damage appears slight. There seem to have been no fatalities, though we’re being told that the lifeguards have had to jump into action up and down the public beach. Leon?" As the crewmen exchanged relieved glances, a man’s voice now came on to the speaker. "As weatherman I’m no quake expert, Carrie, but I can tell you this—that tsunami could have been a good deal more deadly than it was. We’ve had reports that the Tom Swift Enterprises moonship, the
Challenger,
was sighted hovering above the calculated epicenter. I’m guessing we have a lot to thank them for!"

Tom rubbed his face wearily, as if he were scrubbing away the tense fears that had gripped him. "Thank goodness!" he whispered as Bud put a hand on his slumping shoulder.

Cruising back to Shopton in a relaxed and elegant orbit, Tom spoke to his father, and then to Harlan Ames. "Here’s something amusing, Tom," said the security chief. "The wave front was centered on a potato-chip factory! They call themselves the Bona Fide Chip-Snack Company."

"Must be where some outpost of the government—of Collections—has set up shop in secret," remarked Tom. "At least it
was
a secret."

"Uh-huh. And guess what their public motto is.
Crispy chips, made with a wave!"

Bud and the others joined in Tom’s raucus laughter.

After a light but welcome lunch at Enterprises, Tom tried to place a call to Eldrich Oldmother. "I’m sorry, Mr. Swift," said the telephone receptionist at the Fort Shopton church complex. "Prophet Exemplar Oldmother left more than an hour ago. I imagine he’s on his way back home."

"Where’s home?"

"Oh, none of us know that, Mr. Swift. Only the Highmost High."

"You mean the Prime Movers?"

"We no longer use that terminology, sir," said the girl with sharp primness.

Tom and Bud caught a moving ridewalk to the high-security lab that was now home to the space visitor. "Now that I’ve protected California surfing for future generations," Tom joked, "I’ve got to get Exman’s senses up and running."

"Right," agreed Bud. Then he added nervously, "Make hay before the lab starts shaking."

As Tom deactivated the alarm system and pulled the reinforced door open, the boys were rudely startled by a loud crash of glass and a heavy thud.

"Something’s happening to Exman!" Tom cried.

With Bud at his heels, the young inventor dashed into the laboratory. A strange sight greeted Tom’s and Bud’s eyes. In the rays of midday sunlight, the space-energy robot was moving back and forth about the laboratory in wild zigzag darts and lunges.

As he rolled toward a bench or other object, the brain energy seemed to send out invisible waves that knocked things over! Already the floor was strewn with toppled lab stools, books, and broken test tubes. The heavy thud had been caused by a toppling file cabinet.

"Stop him!" Bud yelped.

Exman was heading straight for a high, wide window of Tomaquartz! Reaching from floor to ceiling, the plate formed one entire wall of the laboratory.

"Oh, no!" Tom tensed, realizing that it was hopeless to try to stop Exman in time. For all he knew the unknown radiating force might prove powerful enough to shatter even the ultra-strong window pane!

But an instant later, the rolling robot stopped of its own accord, as if registering the fact that its energy waves were now striking a resonant surface. The thick pane of glass vibrated in its frame.

"Good grief!" Tom wiped his brow. "Let’s corral Ole Think Box before he wrecks the whole lab—or punches his way out onto the airfield!"

Exman was already rolling off on a new tack. The two boys managed to grab him before more harm was done. The brain energy in its container seemed to calm under their touch.

"Exman’s sure full of surprises!" Tom remarked ruefully. "Apparently he can generate some sort of energy-force directly, right through the body sheathing. Maybe it’s some kind of automatic self-defense feature that he can tap at will."

"What in the name of space science triggered him off?" Bud wondered out loud. "Somebody slip him more chewing gum?"

"Time. He must have reacted to the passage of time," Tom conjectured. "He was bored. I suppose he just decided to explore this place." He added a bit nervously, "The sooner we can communicate with this energy, the better!"

"But how?" Bud asked. "Weren’t you going to try the radio setup today?"

Tom’s brow furrowed. He described how the visitor had evidenced an ability to detect human thought and its representation as writing. "Say, I wonder if Exman might understand a direct order!"

Tom backed a few paces away from the space robot, then said in a loud, clear voice, "Come here!"

Exman remained fixed to its spot.

"Move right!" No response. "Move left!" Still no response.

"Stubborn like a mule! Guess you’re not getting through, skipper," Bud commented with a grin.

"No," Tom agreed. "He may only pick up our thoughts in a confused, sporadic way. I think Oldmother was hinting as much. I’ll continue communicating with him via the electronic brain, in the space symbol language."

"At least till you can clean the electronic wax out of his electronic ears!"

The boys cleaned up the wreckage caused by Exman in his wild venturings, and Tom proceeded to spend some time working on the alien visitor’s sensory instruments and motor hookups. Then Bud watched as he sat down at the transmitting-receiving decoder with its short-range antenna.

"Speak, O Master!" Bud said, imitating a flat mechanical-sounding robot voice familiar from an old TV series. "Sound off loud and clear!"

Tom grinned and tapped out a command on the keyboard:
This is Tom Swift. I am testing your capabilities. Move backward.

Exman rolled backward! Bud gave a whoop of delight.

Tom signaled:
Move forward.
Obediently Exman rolled toward him.
Stop.
Exman stopped.

"Hey, how about that?" Bud exclaimed happily. "It really savvies those electronic brain impulses!"

"And minds them—which is equally important," Tom added. "I’m glad he has a mind of his own, but he could be mighty dangerous if he decided he could get along without us."

"Danger! Danger!"
joked Bud.

A moment later the brain energy seemed to become impatient. It spurted off in its mobile container toward a laboratory workbench.

Crash! A rack of test tubes went sailing to the floor with an explosion of tinkling glass.

Stop!
Tom signaled frantically. Again Exman obeyed the order.

"He’s like a mischievous kid," Bud said.

Almost as if in defiance, Exman scooted off in another direction! Then he stopped abruptly and swiveled around, one of the rod-arms knocking a Bunsen burner to the floor as he did so.

Come here!
Tom signaled. As the culprit approached slowly—even sheepishly!—Tom added, fingers clomping the keys sternly,
Stop where you are. And stay there until you receive further orders.

This time Exman stood patiently, awaiting the next signal, not a trace of resentment on his innocent five-pointed face. Bud got a brush and dustpan, and the boys cleaned up the broken test tubes and replaced the burner on its shelf.

Then Tom began feeding more complicated instructions to Exman through the electronic brain. He guided him through a number of dancelike movements and other drills, and got him to send out a wave of heat which the boys could instantly feel. Tom was even able to make the robot aim its wave energy so as to short-circuit a switch on an electrical control panel.

Tom was both pleased and excited. "Bud," he exclaimed, "the brain reacts as quickly as that of a highly intelligent being! Just imagine—without any sort of processing equipment, it can pick up and ‘understand’ the electrical modulation patterns of the radio signals I beam out to him! What we need now," Tom went on, "is to make it so he can utilize those modulations to have the experience of seeing and hearing. The receptor units are ready. It’s just a question of what he’ll make of the inputs."