Tom Swift in the Caves of Nuclear Fire (8 page)

Soon the East Coast was left far behind, with the green water changing to blue. The craft hummed along at twelve hundred miles an hour while the boys enjoyed their ham and eggs.

"Tell us something about the language of tropical Africa," Bud asked Mandy. "Is it hard to learn?"

The geographer smiled. "It’s hard to believe but there are thirty-eight basic native languages in this general area," she said. "There are many common words and expressions, but also many distinctive dialects. The principal Maba dialect—there are three, you know—is related to Bantu."

"Say there," asked Chow, "is this one o’ them there languages where you hafta make all those noises, like clicks and whistles and such?"

"Fortunately no," laughed Mandy. "That is further to the south. Basic Maba is not hard to learn, if you have a good ear."

Craig commented, "I picked it up pretty easily. It helped that some of the tribe spoke French, which I also know."

"Me too," said Doc Simpson. "I can get along in any country that speaks third-year French!"

Tom had been listening to the conversation with a smile as he monitored the instruments. Then suddenly he frowned and leapt forward in his seat.

"What’s wrong?" Craig asked.

"We’re losing power on all engines!" Tom said, and worked the throttles frantically.

Approaching the copilot instrument panel, Bud noticed that the fuel-pump RPM indicator showed an alarming decrease.

Tom commanded, "Cut in the fuel-pump boosters, Bud!"

His friend threw the switch. No change!

Tom scanned the instruments again. "Altitude’s going—fast!" he declared. "If we don’t get power back in a couple of minutes, we’ll have to ditch!"

"Y-you mean in the ocean?" cried Ry Cully fearfully. The slender, gray-haired geophysicist was the eldest member of the crew. Despite his enthusiasm for the overall project, he had confessed a manageable fear of flying.

Hank Sterling made some suggestions as to what might be going wrong. Tom tried various adjustments to the controls, but nothing worked.

"The aeolivanes are still operating, thank goodness," Tom muttered. "But without jet lifters or the forward jets, we’re just a great big glider. We won’t be able to stay aloft."

"And—we don’t have either of those little planes on the hangar deck, either," said Craig.

"We’ll have to ride her down for a water landing," Bud said.

Arvid Hanson had entered the control cabin behind them. He quickly grasped the situation. "Tom, should you radio our position—while the radio still works?"

Tom stared at him grimly. The Flying Lab was beginning to shudder—a sign of insufficient airspeed.

Frantically, the young inventor scrutinized his instruments for some sign of the cause of the mechanical failure. Nothing new showed up. The
Sky Queen
continued to sink seaward like a wounded gull.

"We’re down to fifteen thousand feet!" Bud called out, trying to keep his voice steady. "Tom?"

Tom did not reply. He worked the throttles again, but the rate of forward thrust was decreasing more and more rapidly. Suddenly Bud, glancing out the forward viewpane, cried out:

"Tom, look up there! It looks as if we’ve picked up ice in our engine air inlets!"

The pilot peered at the gaping orifices above and ahead of the control cabin, clustered beneath the craft’s snub-nosed prow. "You’re right!" Tom exclaimed. "Ice is choking off the air to our engines! The pumps slow automatically without a sufficient airflow." The
Queen
’s futuristic engines made use of a special hydrogen-based fuel which required a constant influx of atmospheric oxygen to maintain combustion.

"Ice!" Craig repeated in surprise. "The sky is clear! Where did all that moisture come from?"

Tom clapped a hand to his forehead. "I must have been daydreaming!" he said. "A little while ago I pulled the
Sky Queen
up through a layer of cirro-stratus clouds. But the thought of moisture freezing on the inlets never entered my mind!"

"I’ll switch on the inlet de-icers!" Bud offered. He dashed to the flight engineer’s control panel, situated just to the rear of Craig’s seat, and threw a series of switches. Nothing happened!

"Jetz! The ice is so thick," Bud yelled, "it won’t break off!"

"We’re down to ten thousand feet!" declared Craig, as he caught a glimpse of the altimeter.

Setting his jaw, Tom cut off the sputtering jet lifters completely and shoved the control wheel forward. The
Sky Queen
pitched into a steep dive. His companions stared out the front viewpane as the deck tilted sharply and they approached the ocean at an alarming rate.

"Good gravy!" Ry Cully gasped. "Are you planning to drown us?"

"Tom knows what he’s doing!" retorted Bud.

Tom held the craft in its diving position. Then, when a crash seemed inevitable, he hauled back carefully on the control wheel, pulling the nose of the plane up. The fast recovery from the dive caused the occupants to feel as if they weighed tons. A veil of gray gauze seemed to drop over their eyes.

Can’t black out now!
Tom told himself. A slight forward motion on the wheel decreased the angle of ascent and relieved the threat of unconsciousness.

Craig, gripping his seat, was amazed to discover that they were flying only a few feet above the surface of the ocean! Bud and Craig, though they had guessed the reason for Tom’s maneuver, were uneasy.

A slight shudder passed through the stratoship. "Our tail is dipping into the water," said Hank Sterling quietly. The waves hurtled past beneath the viewpane at bullet speed; it was impossible to watch without becoming dizzy. Tom eased the Flying Lab down, down—until a plume of spray shot up against the plexi-quartz window. The very front of the bottom deck had clipped a swell!

That was the signal Tom had been waiting for. He fed full power to the pumps and gunned the lifters and the forward jets simultaneously. This time they responded! The
Queen
catapulted skyward with dizzying power, and in less than a minute they had regained the stratosphere.

The intercom crackled to life. "Brand my—my bouncin’ belly! What th’ Sam Hill’s goin’ on?"

The tension broken, laughter rippled through the command deck. Over the ship’s speakers, Tom explained to Chow that he had just dealt with what he termed a
transitory technical problem.
"The pilot and crew regret any inconvenience," Tom joked.

"You made me proud to have been your teacher, Sci-Fi," said Craig.

"I’m glad it’s over," responded Tom, wiping perspiration from his forehead.

"But what did you do, actually?" asked Ry breathlessly, nervously cleaning his eyeglasses.

Tom explained his unusual action to the passengers. "Hope I didn’t scare you out of ten years’ growth," he added. "But I was pretty sure we’d be able to shake off the ice that way. At this time of year," he explained, "water is comparatively warmer than the air over it. Therefore, by conduction, air within about fifty feet of the water is heated. I figured it would help the de-icers flake off the ice. The shock of bouncing on the water helped, too."

The rest of the trip above the clouds progressed smoothly. Soon the Flying Lab was streaking over the green jungles and sparkling rivers of equatorial Africa. Six hours after take-off—it was now five o’clock in the afternoon, local time—Tom started downward. With their immediate destination, the city of Kinshasa, only minutes away, the occupants of the
Sky Queen
became excited.

"I see the city up ahead!" Bud exclaimed.

"That is Brazzaville," said Mandy. "Kinshasa lies a bit further east, just over the Zaire border. Both are very populous cities."

Reaching Kinshasa airspace at last, everyone gazed in surprise at the sprawling city below them. The modern-looking capital of the former Belgian Congo, called Leopoldville in colonial days, jutted out of the green jungle like a point of light in a dark sky.

Tom banked his huge craft and headed east of the city toward the modern airport. Receiving clearance from the control tower, he guided the Flying Lab down to a skillful landing.

"Good thing you corrected that heat problem with the lifters," Bud commented to his friend. "Otherwise you’d have to carry your own landing pad with you!"

Several small automobiles came out to greet the Americans. After officials of the local government had welcomed the well-known youthful inventor and his group, they invited them to go into town. All accepted but Hank and Arv, who volunteered to stay aboard the
Sky Queen
and keep an eye on things—including the terrasphere equipment.

During the drive to the center of Kinshasa, the explorers admired the attractive city. Fine houses and schools had been built along the outlying streets, and the center of the city was filled with modern buildings that speared skyward. The vehicles soon reached the Boulevard Albert Ier. Luxurious, modern cars rolled along the wide ribbon of road that cut through the African metropolis. Well-dressed men and women strolled the streets.

"It’s funny," Chow remarked to Mandy, "but I figgered this lil’ ole Congo country was jest a lot o’ mud huts an’ people wearin’ only a few duds—no offense, ma’am."

"Who could be offended by such charming naiveté?" responded the geographer. "But I am much afraid not all parts of this city are bright and modern. It is the same in my native Kenya. But there is progress, however slow in coming."

"Africa is changing, all right." Craig smiled. "But it still has its wild regions, Chow. Only a fifteen-minute ride from the center of this city will still take you into a dense jungle."

When the travelers arrived at their hotel, courteous porters showed Tom and his companions to neat, modern rooms. The escorting officials made certain everything was satisfactory, then left.

Ten minutes later there was a knock on the door of the room Tom was sharing with Bud. "Come in!" he called.

A tall, elegant man in a white uniform entered.

"Mr. Tom Swift?" he inquired.

"That’s correct," responded Tom, and then introduced Bud.

"My name is Frederick Shopfer Nkata," the caller announced with great dignity and a slight accent. "I am from the local police headquarters."

"How do you do, sir," Tom answered.

"I received a cablegram from one of your security men," the officer stated. "A Mr. Ames, I believe."

"Oh, yes." The young inventor smiled. "I told Harlan that I wanted to make contact with the local authorities."

"My facilities are at your disposal," declared the caller.

"Thank you," replied Tom. "I must say you were very prompt."

"Indeed so. It is my practice to be prompt. But alas, I am not here because of Mr. Ames. I must inform you of a rather embarrassing matter, of a somewhat delicate nature. Please understand, I am only carrying out my sworn duty."

Bud glanced at Tom in alarm, then at Nkata. "What’s up? A problem?"

"Rather a large one, yes," the man replied. "I do apologize, but I must ask you two to accompany me to police headquarters."

Tom gaped at the officer in bewilderment. "Can you tell us what is the matter, sir?"

"Yes, of course. I am afraid we have reason to believe that your party is engaged in smuggling."

Tom was aghast.
"Smuggling?
Smuggling what?"

"Elephant ivory—a serious crime."

"YOU’RE TALKING to Tom Swift!" Bud exploded. "The accusation is just—"

Tom placed a hand on his pal’s arm and said to Nkata, "We’ll accompany you as you wish. But can you tell us anything about this charge?" He told the officer of his suspicions concerning Hoplin and Cameron, and produced the sketches Craig had drawn. "One of our party, Mr. Benson, was previously a victim of spurious accusations, probably by one of these men or their accomplices."

"My men will be alert to any sign of them," the officer stated. "We do not wish any undesirable characters in this country." He stood pondering a few moments, then said, "I do not know if there is any significance to this, but an unidentified plane was spotted flying high over a nearby town this morning. It was thought to be of American manufacture and heading northwest across the jungle, in which direction lies the disputed province of Borukundi." After hesitating, he continued, "Though it is somewhat irregular, I will tell you that the source of the accusation is anonymous. It was transmitted by a third party to the editor of our newspaper, who regarded its provenance as credible."

"Well, you can ask anyone in the U.S.A.—they don’t come any more honest than Tom Swift and his father!" Bud declared hotly.

"You are no doubt quite right," said Nkata stiffly. "Still, it is for my superiors to determine. Let us go."

Tom and Bud were driven to a large building, central police headquarters, where Tom was asked many questions about the purpose of his expedition, which he answered forthrightly.

"I am satisfied," pronounced their questioner at last, who identified himself as Deputy Chief of Police Ikabo. "In my opinion, the secret accusation was intended only to raise suspicion and detain your party."

"Then I assume we are free to continue on to Borukundi," Tom said.

"There is one more step to be taken," Ikabo responded. "I am responsible to my government, you see, and I must demonstrate the thoroughness of my investigation. Have you any objection to our officials inspecting your aircraft?"

"No," replied Tom, "provided that I or one of my employees is allowed to accompany whomever does the inspecting. You see, the
Sky Queen
is full of delicate scientific instruments, and—"

"I do understand," said Ikabo with a crisp nod. "Will eight o’clock be convenient?"

Tom checked his watch. "But, sir, it’s after eight now."

"I mean eight tomorrow morning, of course."

Tom groaned inwardly. He had hoped to have departed by that time. But he had no choice but to agree.

The morning inspection of the Flying Lab began on time, but stretched on and on. Crates and lockers were opened, their contents sifted through with great care. Even the terrasphere descent cabin was poked through. It was nearly two in the afternoon when Ikabo pronounced himself satisfied and signed the papers allowing the Flying Lab to go on its way.