Tom Swift and the Visitor From Planet X (4 page)

"Very funny," retorted Tom. "But thanks."

The dark young Pakistani leaned close. "Speaking of our visitor, do tell me—what sort of body will you give it? Perhaps a beautiful, superintelligent space girl for you to moon over?" As Tom chuckled at the notion, she added, "But nothing doing! I insist on a terribly handsome young man who’d have time to take a nice earth girl out on a date! For after all, I do have a great deal of data to share with him."

"Ouch!" Tom pretended to wince. "Guess I left myself wide open for that one! Bud and I really neglect you girls, don’t we."

"Oh, Tom, it’s not so
very
bad. But you ought to realize," she continued mischievously, "in my country we practice our own form of voodoo. If you wish no further earthquakes, you must start to behave!"

Tom was still smiling at Bashalli’s repartee as he swung out of the alley next to The Glass Cat, where he had parked, and headed homeward in his low-slung sports car.

Think I’ll listen to the news,
Tom thought as he drove at a relaxed pace through the streets of Shopton. He switched on his dashboard radio.

A moment later the announcer’s voice came crisply through the car’s set of highest-tech surround-speakers. "Casualties from yesterday’s disastrous earthquake now total thirty-one with serious injuries," the announcer reported. "Most of these are employees of Wickliffe Laboratories of Thessaly and four, including CEO Munson Wickliffe, remain in critical condition. There is one note of cheer, however. At last report, Mark Faber, the president of the company electronics division, is now expected to recover." Tom gave a thankful sigh of relief.

He was mulling over the matter as he drove along, when a sound reached his ears—a thumping metallic sound. Engine trouble? But the rhythmic noise seemed to be coming from the rear of the car, somewhere behind the seatback. He took a side street and parked next to the grassy recreation area that paralleled the shore of Lake Carlopa.
If it’s a brake problem, I’ll have to call home and let ’em know I’ll be late,
he murmured to himself.
Maybe it’s just something rolling around in the trunk.

He popped the trunk open—then drew back in shocked surprise as a concealed figure lurched up from within and leaned toward Tom!

He held a long knife in his hand!

THE STRANGER held the knife, long and narrow as a knitting needle, with its tip at Tom’s throat. "Don’t move. Keep quiet and act natural. We’re not going to attract any attention, are we?" The question seemed to be rhetorical.

"I recognize you," Tom muttered quietly and calmly. "You were in The Glass Cat." The man had left unnoticed while he and Bashalli had been talking—evidently to seal himself in Tom’s trunk!

"Shut up!" the stranger snarled. "This knife has been dipped in a paralyzing nerve agent. Four inches and it’s inside your throat!" Keeping the knifepoint close, the man cautiously slid himself out of the trunk and onto his feet. "Slam the trunk and get into the car from the passenger side. I’m right behind you."

In a minute Tom was driving slowly in the direction of Swift Enterprises. "You think you know everything, don’t you, Swift. But you can’t even begin to know what’s really goin’ down. You’re going to learn a lot more about the real world in just a little while."

"Learning is a wonderful thing," Tom’s bravado spoke up. "How did you know I’d be in the coffeehouse?"

"Let’s just say your radio stereo system knows how to send as well as receive," the man replied. "I been tracking your movements for a week now, waiting for you to park someplace where I could climb in without bein’ seen. Can’t work it at your plant or your house, not with all those security sensors. Hard enough t’ kill the electronics in the trunk lid."

Tom nodded. "Very clever. I’ve had a lot of trouble in this car—now I know why they say most accidents happen within ten miles of home! So what is it you want, mister?"

"Take me inside the grounds of Swift Enterprises," he commanded in a voice low and unforgiving. "And no tricks or they’ll find a dead man at the wheel!"

Tom, astonished, stared sidelong at the stranger. "Who
are
you?" the young inventor demanded.

"Never mind who I am. Just do as I say!" By this time Tom had recovered from his surprise and coolly sized up his enemy. The man was about thirty years old, with close-cropped black hair. Steely eyes glinted in a lean, hard-jawed face.

Tom wondered,
Should I risk a fight?

As if in answer, the stranger growled, "I gave you an order, Mr. Blue Eyes. Don’t press your luck! Get going!"

The young inventor drove on, but proceeded slowly. He wanted time to think. Presently Swift Enterprises, enclosed by a high wall, came into view alongside the country highway.

Tom’s brain was working fast. At last he decided on a ruse. He would head for the main gate and use his electronic beeper-key to gain entrance without waiting for the guard to admit him. This violation of established procedures would prompt the gate guard to press a button to alert the Swift security force.

But the stranger seemed to read his thoughts. As Tom started to turn off toward the main gate, his passenger snapped, "Go to the private gate which you and your father use!"

"And if I refuse?"

The knife tip poked against his collar. "Simple. I shove your limp body aside and guide the car to a stop. I will then let myself in with your key!"

Tight-lipped, Tom drove on another half mile, then turned onto the narrow drive leading to the private gate. The sturdy gate slid aside in response to the car’s transponder, then closed again automatically after the car passed through.

Tom parked in his usual spot. The stranger kept the weapon angled at Tom, still covering Tom while glancing around cautiously. As they got out, the man slid the knife up his forearm inside the end of his shirtsleeve. "I can twist it out in half a second. So stay close, move slow, and let’s take a walk toward the—"

Suddenly the stranger stiffened. A paunchy, bowlegged figure, topped by a white Texas ten-galloner, was coming straight toward them. Tom’s heart gave a leap of hope.

"Hi, boss!" Chow bellowed in his foghorn voice. "Saw you drive in. Fergit somethin’, didja?"

Tom nodded. "Sure did, pardner. Good to see you. Been a while, hmm?"

This comment puzzled Chow and creased his brow. He turned his attention to the man next to Tom. "S’ who’s this new buckaroo?" the cook asked, squinting at the stranger with open, friendly curiosity.

"Why actually I don’t know his name yet, but he’s looking for a job," Tom replied. Turning to the stranger, he added, "What
is
your name, mister?"

The stranger glared from Tom to Chow, as if not certain what to answer.

Chow’s eyes narrowed. He had detected something strange in the way Tom addressed the fellow, and had also noticed how the man kept one arm hidden behind him. Looking to Tom for a lead, Chow suddenly noticed the young inventor waggle an eyebrow.

"My name? Al." The man’s voice fell to a mumble, obscuring the syllables. "Frankly I’m not yet sure I want a job here, but being an engineer, I thought perhaps—"

The man’s gaze switched back to Tom, and in that instant Chow jumped the intruder. With surprising agility for his ample bulk, the cook bore down on him and let fly a gnarled ham-fist at the stranger’s jaw. Tom followed up like lightning, grabbing the man’s wrist and shaking the deadly knife from his sleeve. He let it fall to the asphalt.

Chow quickly pinned his other arm in the small of his back, and the man yelped. "Jest keep yerself quiet now, you varmint, or you may git roughed up a bit," Chow warned. Then he added, "I’m a Texan! Who is he, Tom?"

"Search me. Sure knows how to talk big, though." The young inventor quickly explained what had happened. "Boy, was I ever glad to see
you,
old-timer!"

Tom searched the stranger while Chow continued holding him helpless, though the fight seemed to have gone out of him. Tom opened up the man’s wallet. "What do you know, his name really
is
Al—Alfred Wullgrath. Am I pronouncing it right?" He searched the man’s pockets further, and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. "
‘Free character analysis now offered Sunday mornings at Fort Shopton. Family fun! Isn’t it time you learned the truth about Informatics?’
"

"Can’t make much o’ that," Chow commented. "Never heard of Fort Shopton."

"Our meeting hall in this town," muttered the man sullenly. "In each town we call it Fort Something—it’s a fortress of truth against fear. See?"

"Brand my tumbleweed salad," Chow grumbled in disgust, "this here poke’s crazy as a cactus!" The man mumbled something angrily under his breath. Chow merely yanked harder on his arm. "What’ll we do with him, boss?"

"I think you can let up on old Al, Chow," Tom said. "Security should be here any second."

"How come?"

"Our friend doesn’t have one of our electronic amulets on him," Tom pointed out. "He’s been making blips all over the security ground radar since we drove through the gate!" He couldn’t resist giving Wullgrath a smug look.

Even as he spoke, Tom glimpsed a pair of electric nanocars speeding toward them in the distance. A security squad was coming to investigate the patrolscope "bogey."

As Chow released the man, he stretched his arm with a grimace. Then, without warning, he suddenly slammed the cook square in the stomach with his fist. With a gasp Chow was knocked sprawling!

Before Tom could counter the surprise attack, the man’s fist cracked against his cheekbone. Tom, though stunned, lashed out. More punches flew back and forth. Tom landed a stinging blow to his opponent’s midriff, then took a punishing one himself.

As he staggered back Tom felt the stranger’s hand clawing at his pocket for the electronic key to the main gate. With all his wiry strength, Tom locked his arms around the man and wrestled him to the ground.

The stranger fought like a tiger—until Chow sat down on him. Then he fought more like a flopping fish. A second later the nanocars screeched to a stop. Three security guards, led by stocky Phil Radnor, leapt toward the helpless intruder. Within moments they had the man cuffed and subdued.

Tom quickly briefed the security men on what had happened.

"All right, mister, start talking!" snapped Radnor, Harlan Ames’s assistant, who often worked the evening shift at Enterprises.

The man’s only reply was a scowl of rage. "Okay, take Mr. Wullgrath away till he cools off," Tom ordered. "He can wait for Shopton PD in our pleasant, informal plant jailhouse. It’s our own onsite
fortress,
Al."

Disheveled and still panting, the man was bundled onto one of the cars and driven off to the security operations building. "I’ll call Harl and Captain Rock," said Radnor.

"Thanks, Rad. As for me, I’m heading home." Tom thanked Chow warmly, then returned to his car.

Late at night, as Tom undressed for bed in his room, he emptied his pockets onto the top of his nightstand. Pulling out a folded sheet of paper, he opened it curiously and read it in the light from his bedside lamp.

"...the truth about Informatics..."

"Oh, gosh," he muttered to himself. "I forgot to give this to Phil Radnor." He knew it might constitute important evidence as to Wullgrath’s foiled intentions on the grounds of the plant.

Like nearly everyone, Tom had heard of Informatics. And like nearly everyone, what he had heard was constructed more of rumor and innuendo than solid fact. He knew it was an organization organized as a religious association. Some called it a church; most called it a cult—or even a swindle. More than one tabloid celebrity proclaimed membership. It was rumored that some had been paid to do so.

Tom switched on his desk computer and accessed the Net. In moments he was scrutinizing the group’s website—impressive, colorful, animated, and in its way, seductive.

Welcome to your friendly new home!
THE WORLD CHURCH OF
INFORMATICS SOUL SCIENCE
worship services
seminars
workshops
world-pain abatement
enlightenment training
franchise opportunities available!

"I get the picture," Tom said to himself in disgust. "Fleecing the public in the name of faith."

The next morning, at the suggestion of Harlan Ames, Tom called Captain Rock of the Shopton Police Department, a family friend for many years. "Wullgrath is facing quite an array of charges, Tom—kidnapping, attempted grand theft auto, lying in concealment to commit a felony, trespassing, assault upon a cowboy—unfortunately we’ve lost any charges related to his weapon."

"Yes," Tom said. "Harlan told me that his knife turned out to be a harmless prop."

"Tinfoil over foamcore, darn it. But the news right now is, he made bail. And the amount was pretty substantial."

"Paid it himself?"

"No," Rock replied. "Paid in cash by this organization he belongs to, the—"

Tom interrupted. "I can guess. The World Church of Informatics Soul Science."

"Exactly, my friend, ex-actly." The officer snorted telephonically. "We’ve been keeping an eye on them since they set up shop—they call their church a ‘fort’—in the old Regalia Theater at Grantwood Beach. Man! I saw movies there when I was your age."

The young inventor chuckled, then asked Captain Rock if the church had caused any problems in Shopton. "No, I guess I can’t
say
they have..." His voice trailed off, inviting a further question.

Tom asked if there were more to the story, and Rock continued. "Tom, I’ve been a peace officer for near forty years now, and I know when I smell something not quite right. The church pastor, Speaker Scott Anderman, came to see me even before they purchased the building. He wanted to answer questions and reassure me, kind of keep things smooth. Nice of him, eh? But over the last ten years or so, these Informatics people have had trouble with the law here and there. Suspected embezzlement, tax violations, making threats against dissenting members, lots o’ things. And believe me, they have a team of good lawyers and know the ins and outs of the legal system—say a discouraging word about ’em in public and they sue the pants off you!"