Tom Swift in the Race to the Moon (14 page)

But the young inventor shook his head. "I have to do this alone."

Then Dr. Wohl said, "Well, Tom, my little friend here is acting like he really wants to go with you—and he has a working spacesuit. Why not take him along on your shoulder? Seriously, if that corona has any harmful properties Nicky might show an early reaction to it. You can use him like they used canaries in mines to check the air, in the old days."

Tom nodded reluctantly. "I don’t like putting
anyone
in danger, not even Nicky. But I suppose it makes sense."

In minutes, Nicky perched contentedly on his shoulder and grasping Tom’s helmet antenna, the scientist-inventor was gliding toward the alien vessel on one of the Donkeys. As he approached and attempted to photograph it with a digital videocam, he received a startling shock—the screen showed the lunar background, but not a sign of the disk!

"Guys," Tom radioed, "the space ark is
invisible!"

"But Tom, we all see it!" was Bud’s puzzled reply. "Even Nicky seemed to be seeing it!"

"Don’t ask me to explain it."

Man and monkey cruised about the eerie craft in the dazzling sunlight. After circling it completely, Tom descended to inspect the hull more closely.

Suddenly a staticky blast came over Tom’s suit transiphone. "Tom!" exclaimed the communications engineer, "the Brungarian rocket’s coming!"

The
Dyaune-1,
exhaust glowing, was arrowing in just over the horizon. It drew a bead and swooped down toward Tom and the space ark, then backed off a half-mile and slowed, turning its rounded prow in Tom’s direction and hovering on a bank of small thrusters. The next moment, fire spurted from its forward ports as their enemy loosed another volley of their small missiles.

Tom maneuvered his platform with practiced skill to avoid being struck or caught in the blasts—doubly difficult for Tom, who had to steer with one hand and cling to Nicky, chattering frantically, with the other. But, as the missiles continued whizzing past the Repelatron Donkey, Tom decided that the onslaught was intended chiefly to frighten him.
Otherwise, they could’ve hit us long before this,
he thought.

"Challenger
calling Tom!" The operator’s voice came over his suit radio, choking with anger. "The Brungarians just flashed us a message. It said:
‘This attack is only to show you that we will not stand for any interference. Return to earth at once or face a real battle here!’
Bud Barclay suggests that you—"

"I can imagine, Dinah." Heart pounding, Tom thought fast, trying not to let his own rage get the better of him. "Send me the frequency," he radioed back. "I’ll try talking to them myself."

"You will not need our frequency,"
came a cool voice in Tom’s earphone,
"for we already have yours, Tom Swift."

"Am I speaking to Nattan Volj?"

"That is my name—Professor Volj will do. I take it my reputation has reached American shores, eh?"

"Yes, Professor, it has," Tom confirmed, trying to keep the quaver from his voice. "And we know you are in command of the
Dyaune—
and acting in defiance of your government."

Volj responded angrily. "You will not repeat this lying propaganda! We of
i-Szentimentalya
form the true government of our beloved Brungaria, the government of patriots, not craven collaborators and traitors who have sold us out to the West." The man paused, calming himself. "But I think we have more to discuss than these political matters, young Mr. Swift. You have received our warning. Accept our offer and leave for Earth in your marvelous ship of rings and dishes—and you will not be harmed."

"Please listen, Professor—all of you over there." Tom spoke slowly and carefully, knowing that his words were probably being translated. "The space beings have learned to trust us. Though you were allowed to exchange messages with them, they now understand that your motives are—questionable. If you attempt to approach their craft, or enter it, or
steal
it, they may decide that it’s in their best interest to destroy you!"

"Improbable," said Volj. "Such highly ethical beings, life-lovers?—they would not act so." There was contempt in his voice.

"Their planet is at stake," Tom pointed out. "In any event, there is also the problem of the animal plague. It may not be containable in Earth’s atmosphere. It could kill you—and then hundreds of millions!—if you try to take the container back to Earth."

There was a long silence. Tom could well imagine the vigorous debate going on in the Brungarian ship! "What do you propose to us, then?" was Volj’s eventual response.

"Let us examine the space ark, as we call it, together, you and I—just the two of us." Tom was playing for time, hoping a solution would come to him.

"The two of us, eh? With your pet, it is three!" Volj chuckled without humor. "No matter, as we shall not be putting anything to a vote. Perhaps your proposal has a speck of merit to it." After another pause, Volj radioed his acceptance.

The
Challenger
crew had monitored the entire exchange. "Tom, do you mean that?" Bud exclaimed unbelievingly. "Can’t we—"

Tom cut him short. "Stand down,
Challenger!"
he ordered. "If the
Dyaune
approaches too close, or starts firing on us—go to Plan Nine!"

Tom could imagine Bud smiling at the bluff. "Roger, Captain!"

Tom again approached the ark, moving cautiously. The craft loomed larger; and in a strange way the changes of perspective as he neared the ship seemed abnormal, as if Tom were somehow entering a different kind of space set sideways to our own. There was no reaction as the Repelatron Donkey crossed through the hazy aura of light, nor when Tom landed on the flat hull. The disk seemed to be about 100 feet across, and Tom had set down near its edge.

At the same time, a spacesuited figure had emerged through a portal on the
Dyaune,
riding a sort of framework rocket-scooter. The figure drew nearer and landed neatly ten feet from Tom.

"I am Professor Nattan Volj," said the grim-faced man behind the suit visor. "You need not pretend to be pleased to met me, Mr. Swift. I have at my side a small weapon. If you have not come similarly armed, I pity your trusting stupidity."

"You won’t need the weapon," Tom said. "And I’d advise you to keep it holstered. Might not be smart to make our space friends nervous."

Opening the safety railing, Tom stepped down onto the hull, then knelt down to feel it was his gloved fingers. He could feel its resistant pressure, yet nothing of texture. Even close up there was no sign of any opening or means of access in the mirrorlike smooth surface.

Volj had unstrapped his conveyance and set it aside. "An assumed part of our bargain is our ability to inspect the interior. Have you been given some means to breach the hull?"

Tom gave the white metal a baffled glance through his transparent helmet-bubble. He frowned thoughtfully. "Nothing. But I’ve brought some portable test equipment with me," he stated. "It may show up something we can’t see with the naked eye."

"Then you will proceed immediately!"

The young inventor selected a compact flashlamp-like device and began to play it across large areas of the surface, studying the dials that analyzed the reflected response. "Nothing in the high infrared range," he said at last. "Now I’ll try ultraviolet." He began checking every square inch of the hull with ultraviolet rays, knowing that they make certain materials fluoresce.

Suddenly Professor Volj hissed out over the radio, "Stop there! Something is showing up!"

Tom nodded, watching intently. Under the continued bombardment of the ultraviolet, a series of symbols gradually became visible along the hull of the ship. They glowed weirdly with an orange radiance standing out against the whitish metal.

"Those symbols again!" muttered Volj. "Can you read what they mean?"

"I think so," Tom replied. "Most of them are familiar." He translated slowly. "
‘Concentrate electromagnetic waves upon this point.’
And then it gives frequency and amplitude information."

Tom radioed the
Challenger
and Bud answered. "What should we do, skipper?" he asked.

"Have Hank aim the long-range antenna at the spot indicated. I’ll read the tuning numbers to you." Tom grinned. "Better write ’em down, flyboy," he added. "One digit off and the saucer may take off for Andromeda!"

"Roger… Wilco," the young pilot replied.

From the
Challenger
’s control deck the assembled astronauts watched in great suspense as Hank Sterling programmed the transmitter setup. They saw that Tom and Volj had stepped back, waiting while the radio impulses were beamed toward the ark. Moments later the
Challenger
crew gasped as one. Bud choked out a single shocked word.

"Tom!"

Professor Volj stood alone on the hull of the space ark. Tom Swift had vanished without a trace!

The watchers aboard the American ship were stunned, but not moreso than Professor Volj. "What trickery is this?" he radioed in fury. "I
demand
that you honor the bargain and allow me equal access to the interior of the animal container!"

"We would if we could," Bud radioed back. "But we don’t know what’s going on any more than you do. We’ve repeated the signal several times now."

"Do you take me for a fool?"

"Frankly, Volj, I don’t take you at all!" Bud growled back. "For all we know this is something you Brungarians are doing!"

Volj did not reply, but hastily strapped on his rocket-conveyor and lifted off in the direction of the
Dyaune
. In moments he had disappeared behind the closing port-hatch.

Bud turned to Hank Sterling. "Something tells me we’re about to be graced with another missile barrage!"

Tom, meanwhile, knew nothing of all this. He had been startled but not alarmed when his view of the bright moonscape and hovering
Challenger
had been replaced, in an instant, with utter blackness. There had been no feeling of motion, but he was sure that he had somehow been transferred into the interior of the space ark. He could feel a flat surface beneath his boots, and his outstretched hand brushed against a smoothly curving wall.

After a moment he switched on one of the small lamps built into his spacesuit. The scene that leapt into view was intriguing yet strangely disappointing. He was standing next to a featureless bulkhead—obviously the inner wall of the craft’s hull at the periphery. The deck below his boots was as free of detail or texture as the wall. Turning slowly, he found that he was in a curving passageway. He guessed that it wrapped all the way around the disk.

And that was all. There was nothing to see—no equipment, no air vents, no control apparatus. Nothing!

They sure run an efficient operation!
Tom joked to himself. He was not concerned with what had transpired—for the space symbols, for which he had purposely given only a partial translation, had indicated that the access mechanism was not a conventional hatch or panel, but something inexplicable by earthly science.

He was surprised, though, that he alone had been let down into the ship. Somehow the space beings, or perhaps their vessel itself, knew friend from foe! Then a knocking on the back of his helmet reminded him that he
wasn’t
alone. Nicky had come too, and seemed none the worse for it.

Checking his suit instruments Tom had another surprise. The corridor contained an oxygen-nitrogen mix identical to that of the earth at sea level!
Bet it’s the exact same as the air on Runway 3 at Enterprises!
he speculated.
But keep your helmet on, pal—for now!

He began to walk along the corridor, hoping to come across a doorway or control mechanism that would afford him entrance into the central part of the ark. But he walked and walked, for a long time, before finally concluding that he had passed his starting point at least once. He set a tool from his suit pack down on the deck and tried again; in less the a minute of slow ambling he had returned to it.

In the interim he had been trying to contact the
Challenger
. The result was bizarrely puzzling! After several attempts his helmet headset crackled with an incoming message—but it was his own voice, his outgoing message simply replayed to him! The effect was disorienting, and he gave up for the moment.

Meanwhile Bud and Hank had allowed the
Challenger
to drop down gently to the lunar surface, its multiple repelatrons steadying it against the proximity-interference effect.

"You’re trying to evade them, are you?" asked Dr. Faber.

"Nope!" Bud insisted fiercely. Grins broke out on the crew’s faces as they realized the bold young pilot and expert engineer had a plan in mind.

"What cooks, buddy boy?" asked Chow. "We gonna let those sidewinders have it?"

"We’ll try a new type of defense—repulsion wave," the dark-haired youth explained. "Seems like just the other day that I was talking about it with Tom."

"I’ve scanned-in the material of the
Dyaune
’s hull," Hank reported from the repelatron master control. "Also fragments of their missiles, which they provided so thoughtfully."

The Swift spaceship braced itself, anchor-screws protruding from its four circular landing-pads drilling into the crumbly surface of the moon.

"We’re ready for ’em!" Bud announced.

Inside the silent ark from space, Tom Swift had begun to feel concerned by his being so utterly cut off from his friends. Did the space beings intend not to let him go until and unless the animals were cured? What if such a cure proved impossible?

He pried along the wall with his armored space gauntlets, seeking to locate the edge of a hatch or sliding panel. But once again he noted that the whole surface seemed smooth as glass! Tom was seized by a growing pang of alarm.

"Relax, boy, relax," he told himself. "If this rocket opened once, it’ll open again."

He again considered the air in the corridor. Another mystery! Had his space friends been investigating the phantom satellite, Nestria, and learned how to create this atmosphere just for Tom and his companions to work in?