Tom Swift and the Visitor From Planet X (18 page)

"He must have provided the basic principles, at least," muttered Tom. "So it was our space friends, the Mars-station scientists, who were creating the crop-circle inscriptions! They made it a complex cryptogram to keep their superiors from understanding the message if they intercepted it." As a disturbing thought struck him, he addressed himself to Ole Think Box. "Were you aware of this other energy-brain, Exman? Why didn’t you tell us?"

"You are displeased, Tom, and I am displeased," was the mechanical reply. "It seems there are not only things that I know without knowing
how
I know them, but also things that I know without knowing
that
I know them. I am now certain that I have detected the other matrix from the time of my arrival. But until now the knowledge did not present itself to my awareness, to the ‘I’ that now speaks to you."

"Unconscious, or subconscious, extrasensory awareness, emerging gradually in fragments," Hank Sterling pronounced. "He must have some sort of phobia or mental block about the other space visitor. Sort of a repressed memory."

Bud exclaimed, "Bet that’s what
anti-X
means! He was
trying
to tell us—at least his subconscious was."

"Thank you, Bud, my friend," Exman said. "I believe your explanation is valid."

"Do you know where ‘Anti-X’ is?" Tom asked Exman.

"No, Tom. Or if I do, I do not know that I do. I only know that he is still present on Earth, and that he is not allowed to live and experience as I do. He is not permitted to grow. His containing unit has no access to sense phenomena."

Tom snapped his fingers in sudden realization. "Of course! He’s like a ‘former man’—a dead man!—locked up in a coffin!
Oldmother’s psychic messages were telling us about Anti-X, and maybe how to find him!"

"WELL, BOSS, you’re a better young scientist-inventor than I am if you can milk anything out of those random words you showed me," stated Hank Sterling skeptically.

"But now we have something more," Tom declared, "namely the words Oldmother found on his nightstand pad. He must have scribbled them in a trance." Tom consulted the notes he had jotted down during the telephone conversation. "Now that we think the message is about a location,
caspian
is almost certainly the Caspian Sea, and
Balala
may be a city or town." Consulting his computer, Tom quickly yelped out a laugh of triumph. "It’s an island! Practically part of the coast of Turkmenistan, but owned by, who else, Brungaria!"

"Good place to start looking," said Bud. "But the Narko and Volj crowd isn’t likely to let us in to nose around."

"No," Tom agreed. "On the other hand, Balala may be in the hands of the Loyalists, not the Sentimentalists. It’s half a continent distant from the border of Brungaria proper. Hmm! Let’s give my keyboard a little more of a workout." He accessed his journal and typed in:
"Quake device may be on Balala Island in the Caspian Sea. Do you know who presently controls the island?"
Would the Taxman break his high-security silence to risk a response?

OCCUPIED BY NARKO FACTION
LOYALIST ATTACK IMMANENT
CONTACT MIROV
YOU MUST BE THERE TO
DESTROY IT BEFORE
EITHER GROUP SEIZES IT
YOUR EXPERTISE MAY BE VITAL
TO ITS DESTRUCTION

"That’s a real consideration," Tom murmured, "one I didn’t think of. Even the good guys are Brungarian patriots and will want to hold on to the ‘quakelizor’ for the benefit of their country."

"Which could be bad news for the rest of the world if things get nasty again," groaned Bud. "But it sounds like the only way to get in on the action is to contact your old pal Stref, skipper."

Once an adversary, if an honorable one, Col. Streffan Mirov had become something of a friend to Tom. A loyalist patriot who had no use for the rebel faction led by President Narko and Nattan Volj, news reports had noted that he had been recalled to active duty and was deeply involved in military resistance to the Sentimentalist party.

Harlan Ames pulled a few strings and called in a few favors. By evening Tom was in touch with Col. Mirov over an encrypted link.

"It’s good to speak with you, Tom," Mirov said heartily. "You have been in my thoughts."

"I was very glad to learn that you hadn’t been caught up in the overthrow," was Tom’s reply.

"Pfah! Samson Narko is a little man in many ways, a terrible strategist. Today we have launched a major offensive on several fronts throughout Brungaria. Already we have retaken much of the north, and our tanks are active within the capital. I anticipate the surrender of Volkonis within a matter of hours. My fellow leaders do well indeed—perhaps I came out of restful retirement only to find much less to do than I expected, eh?" Mirov chuckled at his joke. "But now, Tom—you speak of some serious matter?"

Tom cleared his throat. His mouth was suddenly dry. Serious indeed! "Col. Mirov, what are conditions on Balala Island? It’s absolutely imperative that I reach there as soon as possible, even before your day is over."

There was a startled pause. "Balala? We are fighting for it now, launching air attacks from our encampment in Turkmenistan. But what is your need, Tom?"

"I apologize, but I’ll have to put it a little cautiously, Colonel. There is a prisoner on the island who is very important to science—international science, for
all
nations. I may be the only one with the ability to find and rescue him."

"But Balala is soon to be liberated."

"You will not be able to locate him—I don’t know where he is myself, just yet."

"Ah, Thomas Swift," said Mirov musingly. "I do not completely trust you, nor can you completely trust me. Sometimes things must be concealed, and I do believe you are doing this now. And perhaps so would I, for I am a patriot and you are as well."

"Yes I am," Tom stated. "And like you, sir, I am not just a patriot toward my country, but toward my world—mankind. You were willing to assist me when those diseased space animals threatened the whole world. Will you believe me if I say that the threat this time, if this person is not quickly released, is equally grave?"

"I will speak frankly of what I think, Tom," the Brungarian said after a tense and long moment. "I think that you are one among mankind to believe in. If you are not, my friend, then I think perhaps even such a good thing as love of country doesn’t matter. Do you say to me that this rescue effort will not produce some eventual threat against my Brungaria?"

"That’s my promise, Colonel."

"Then I shall do as you ask. I will put you onto Balala as soon as we loyalists have taken control—hours away. It should be relatively safe for you. I will give you the location in Turkmenistan where we shall rendezvous. Then I will fly you to the island myself, by helicopter."

"Colonel, you’re a man of few words, and I know you’ll understand when I say that I can’t thank you enough." Tom eyed Exman, standing nearby, and a phrase suddenly forced itself upon his mind.
Behold I am with you always.
"And please, make sure the chopper is a fairly large one, won’t you? I’ll need to bring along with me—well, sort of a detection device. We call it Ole Think Box!"

The Sentimentalists were surrendering on Balala Island, and across Brungaria, even as the mighty
Sky Queen
jetted southeast across the Atlantic and the Mediterranean. It was reported that Samson Narko was in custody and that his chief adviser Nattan Volj had fled the country. Everyone aboard—Tom and Bud, Mr. Swift, and a small support crew—followed the news reports with intense excitement. Tom even made sure to make a television set available to Exman, who had the run of the big hangar-hold during the hours-long supersonic flight.

"It is well you have done so," commented the space being to Tom. "I gather that most of what is to be learned of your world comes by this means."

Landing at the temporary base in Turkmenistan, Tom and Bud rolled Ole Think Box onto Streffan Mirov’s chopper-transport. The young inventor had instructed Exman to remain silent and inert in front of Col. Mirov, lest delicate questions be raised.

"This large machine is your detector, then?" asked the Brungarian. "The captive must be well hidden indeed!"

"Yes, probably behind special shielding," was Tom’s cautious reply. "The prisoner—pardon me if I call him by his alias Anti-X, Colonel—has some unusual characteristics that my invention will be able to zero in on."

As Mirov lifted off smoothly, he gave his young friend a shrewd look. "Your quarry is not a man, is he. A weapon, perhaps?"

Tom looked away. "Colonel Mirov... if I could tell you—"

"No, you need not say it. I will ask no more, and shall avert my eyes at the proper time."

Tom had arranged for Exman to communicate with him over a miniature hand-held screen. It was hoped that the energy-brain would be able to sense the whereabouts of his counterpart as he came nearer to the island. As the helicopter approached and circled the tiny ocean speck before setting down, Exman messaged:

YES TOM, I SEEM TO KNOW MORE AND MORE AS WE DRAW NEAR. ANTI-X IS NEAR THE CENTER OF THE CIRCULAR PATH OF THE TRANSPORT DEVICE WE ARE IN.

Tom directed Mirov to fly across the center of Balala. As they passed over a narrow flat space between a pair of low hillocks, Exman suddenly signaled:

HE IS BENEATH US.

"No structures are visible,"
Tom messaged back.

I SENSE THAT HE IS FURTHER DOWN, BENEATH THE SURFACE, HUNDREDS OF FEET.

"Colonel," Tom said, "the device is detecting Anti-X down below us, quite a ways underground."

"Down there?" The Brungarian was silent for a time, brow creased. Finally he said: "Ha! Now I see it. The thing is in the Rozkhuld missile silo."

"Rozkhuld!" Bud exclaimed. "Tom, isn’t that one of the words—I mean, what does that mean, Colonel? A place?"

"No," he responded.
"Rozkhuld
is Russian slang for
Rascal,
as you would say. The Soviets based their intercontinental missiles in deep silos along the periphery of their empire, including their subject nation of Brungaria. After the fall of the USSR, their removal and destruction was accomplished by treaty. The silo was supposed to be filled-in, but I believe it was only covered over by soil and rock. Bureaucrats, you know." He flicked a switch. "Let us see if our ground-penetrating radar can tell us where the entrance is. No doubt it was recently re-excavated."

Two well-like shafts, gently slanting and corkscrewing downward, were located almost immediately at opposite ends of a hundred-foot flat area. Landing near one of them, they examined the camouflaged cover-hatch. "This is newly installed," pronounced Mirov. "Very strong. Yet I think I have a technique whereby to open it."

Mirov’s technique turned out to be an explosive device of numbing violence! "You may take these with you, boys," said Mirov calmly as they gazed through floating dust into the dark, smoking access shaft. He held out two of his small "grenades." "Perhaps you will find them useful down below, eh?"

Tom grinned. "Perhaps so. But I hope to be able to release Anti-X by, er,
quieter
means. It may just take pulling a plug!"

"There’ve
got
to be people down below with rifles," Bud said nervously. "It’s a perfect hideout—aren’t the walls of a missile silo hardened? You could have a whole platoon burrowed down there waiting for us!"

Mirov gave an ironic smile. "You say that, Bud-my-Bud, because you do not know these people. The Sentimentalists are especially sentimental about their own skins. Look over there."

A score of armed men, choking and stumbling, had begun to pour out of the opening atop the other shaft! They seemed to barely notice the three watchers, scrambling off in all directions. "Rats," pronounced the Colonel with obvious contempt. "Poor boys, so frightened of my tender little explosion that they can hardly see straight. No one will remain below. Let them run—the troops will stop them. And now," he continued, turning to Tom and Bud, "down you go. I will stay above to guard the entrances. Have your electric weapons ready to repel any die-hards. For who knows, perhaps I am too cynical about my countrymen!"

The youths walked along on either side of Ole Think Box. As they descended down the zigzagging rampway, the smoke and the acrid smell of Mirov’s explosion dissipated in the upward breeze of pumped air.

Exman was now permitted to speak aloud. "Anti-X knows nothing of what has happened, though he senses my presence."

"Does he know who and what you are?" Tom asked.

"We cannot communicate in such detail," answered the space brain. "Whatever he is contained in is not equipped to receive the symbol language by radio signal, as I am, but only through a direct connection. The Brungarians have explained to him that fact."

The young inventor said, "We’ll use whatever connection they’ve set up to tell Anti-X to disable the quake machine. I’ve written down the Brungarian phrases we’ll need." He added grimly: "I just hope he’s in a mood to cooperate. Otherwise we’ll have to use the ‘Streffan Mirov technique’ to get rid of the danger."

The down-sloping corridor led to a sliding metal door which rested immovably in its frame. The youths tried to force it aside, but finally admitted defeat. Then Tom said: "Exman, you were able to produce a short-circuit effect when we were testing you. Can you do it to the door-lock circuitry?"

"I’ll certainly try, Tom." A flash of sparks, and the door jerked sideways, sliding freely! Beyond the door, in cones of light from many worklights, lay a great round space surrounded by air ducts, pipes, and the girdered remains of the missile gantry. The silo went high up into shadows. There was no sign of motion or life in the silo. But it was not empty.

"Look at that!" Bud whispered.
"Jetz!
It must be the quake-maker!"

Tom nodded, too awed at the sight to speak, and Exman said, "Yes, Bud, that is my assessment."

The round floor of the silo was nearly filled by a huge object. Two stories high and shaped like a pyramid with a square base, the quake-maker loomed over their heads in the middle of several strong-looking circular rails that evidently allowed its apex point to be aimed in any direction. The rails were shiny like polished metal, but the sides of the pyramid were flat and dull as granite, dark gray and featureless.