Tom Swift in the Race to the Moon (6 page)

The voice at the other end gave a verbal shrug. "S’pose not. Playing detective, are you?"

Tom chuckled but did not answer, and Rock set down the phone. After a minute he had returned. "They acted a little funny about it, Tom," he reported. "Jack Dellingmoor’s knuckles are a little scraped up. I didn’t ask, but he volunteered that he scraped ’em on a tree trunk when he tried to chase after the prisoner. That’s the first time he’s mentioned that."

"What do you think, Captain?" Tom asked. "Did it look to you like a tree trunk ‘dunnit’?"

"Not really," the man responded. "I would’ve expected parallel scratches—striations. This looks more like the guy got into a fistfight."

"And I think that’s exactly what happened," said the young inventor with smoldering anger. "Dellingmoor was plenty angry and wanted to take it out on the prisoner. My guess is that he decided to pull the car off the road on his own, so it’d be out of sight. Then he forced the prisoner out of the car—to give him room to swing his arm—re-shackled the guy to the side handle by his handcuffs, then went off on him with his fists. But the prisoner was able to pull the handle half-off and work the cuffs free. That’s when he started running."

"Good gravy," muttered Captain Rock, half in awe of Tom’s logic, half in disgust at the actions of the men. "You’ve given us reason to charge them both. But what about the escapee?"

"Nothing much to do," was Tom’s rueful reply. "The FBI will probably take over the search. It seems pretty likely that the prisoner was in the employ of a foreign power. National security is involved."

"Usually is, where Swift Enterprises is concerned," noted Rock. "I’ll keep you, and Ames, posted."

After hanging up, Tom told his father of the new developments—and headed for bed.
I didn’t get to sleep in the middle of the day like everyone else did,
he thought wryly.

Tom spent the following day hard at work in the Barn, as it was called, the big assembly building on the Swift Enterprises grounds. With the assistance of Hank Sterling, Enterprises’ young chief engineer, Tom was preparing a special small test vehicle for the latest version of his super-repelatron. Later that afternoon, after Sterling and the other workers had left, Chow Winkler came into the building, bringing a cup of hot chocolate. "Somethin’ to perk you up, pardner," he announced.

"Thanks." Tom grinned. He took a few sips. "Really hits the spot, Chow!" He gave the cook a quizzical smile. "What brought this about?" he needled.

"Oh, jest got t’ thinkin’—about the moon and them sick space critters and suchlike. You know, up there a person wouldn’t be moonstruck—he’d be
earthstruck!
Makes ya stop an’ think." The old cowpoke did not change expression. He waited until he felt his young boss was in the proper mood, then he announced the purpose of his visit. "Real reason I came around, Tom, is to ask you a favor."

"Probably granted," said Tom. "But let’s hear it."

"Wa-aal, boss, all this time you’ve been talkin’ about that Gyro-Jumper o’ yours goin’ up to the moon, and you never once mentioned my name. You figger you’ve got enough cooks an’ friends, or what?"

Tom looked at the stout, balding cook. The westerner was no longer a young man—yet he was years younger than Dr. Faber and Dr. Glennon. In spite of his paunch and bow-legs, Chow had proven tough and useful on previous expeditions—not only in outer space, but also in the frozen Antarctic, tropic jungles, and the depths of the ocean. The young inventor liked having Chow along. Yet he was concerned about the stress and strain of this voyage, and the two-world crisis looming in the background.

"Pard, there’s nobody I’d rather have at my side than you and Bud. But—"

"Aw, now, you hadta go an’ say that there
‘but,’
dintcha." Chow’s broad face fell like a curtain. "Guess you don’t expect I kin keep up no more."

Tom stood and rested a reassuring hand on his friend’s arm. "It’s not that. It’s just that this is a dangerous mission with a lot of unknown factors. I guess I’ve been feeling uncertain—that’s my honest answer."

The big ex-Texan nodded sadly. "Okay, then. I shor don’t mean to bother you none."

"I’m not saying no, Chow, I’m just—"

"Aaa, let’s jest talk about somethin’ else," interrupted the cook. Chow paused as his eye fell on the new device Tom had spent the day assembling. "Say, what’s this do-jigger yuh’re workin on now? Somethin’ new? Brand my sweet p’taters, you don’t have to allus tell Bud about your inventions afore anybody else, Tom. Mebbe I’d have somethin’ to say now and then."

The young inventor nodded with an affectionate smile on his face. "Good point. Well, this is a test-vehicle to see if my new repelatron circuitry is up to snuff. If it works, we’ll use things like this on the moon to get around as we search for the animal capsule. I’ve decided to call it a ‘flying carpet’—or maybe a ‘repelatron donkey’."

Chow squinted at Tom suspiciously. "Brand my buffalo stew, if I didn’t know the things you cook up sometimes, I’d think you was pullin’ my leg. How can you ride on this contraption? Don’t have no wheels that I kin see."

The "donkey" consisted of a flat, disk-shaped platform about five feet across, standing upon four curving struts, or legs, each one tipped with a small circular pad. The parabolic antenna dish of Tom’s new repelatron was attached to the underside of the platform, pointing straight downward toward the ground. A thin conventional antenna wire extended up from a small metal housing bolted to the platform.

Tom smiled at the skeptical look on Chow’s face. "I wouldn’t kid you, old-timer. That’s really what it is—a sort of flying carpet. As I said, it’s for use on the moon, to transport persons or supplies. You see, in some places the terrain’s pretty rugged up there, with lots of clefts and craters, so ground travel may be difficult. We don’t know exactly where we’ll find the capsule. Flying platforms like this will allow our searchers to spread out."

"How’s this thing work?"

"The body of the platform contains the repelatron circuitry and a solar-battery power source. Here underneath is a force-radiator to direct the repulsion beam downward so as to hold the disk suspended above the ground. It’s swivel-mounted; by tilting the antenna slightly you can steer the platform in any direction while staying aloft."

"How about that li’l ole box on the end of the wire?"

"That’s the remote-control ‘brain-box’ for testing the platform here on Earth," Tom explained. "I’ll be running it from the ground like one of those remote-control model planes." He added that a metal column with steering controls on top would be installed in the lunar models, replacing the box.

Chow scratched his bald head. "Sounds pretty neat, boss. Only ain’t that metal kind o’ thin for haulin’ heavy loads?"

"Not on the moon, Chow. Up there, the pull of gravity is six times weaker than on earth. So objects will only weigh one-sixth as much."

"Hot ziggety!" The cook snapped his fingers. "Why, up there I’ll be a reg'lar gazelle. Even with this bay window I tote around with me, I’ll run like a ole deer. That is—" he suddenly added, interrupting himself, "if’n you jest
happen
to decide to—you know." Chow forced himself to recover his spirits. "When you goin’ to try ‘er out, boss?’

"Hank and I already did some testing in here. As soon as he comes back, we plan to really put her through her paces—you can watch if you like. As a matter of fact," Tom added, "I’ll take it outside right now, to get it ready."

Tom switched on the power and picked up the handheld controller, which had a joystick and miniature steering wheel. Chow’s eyes widened as the Donkey rose smoothly and silently off the concrete floor. With the faint hum of a motor, the antenna dish swung very slightly to an angle off the vertical, and the disk seemed to slide sideways through the air toward the big open doorway. In a moment Tom had landed the platform in the middle of a clear area of hard-packed dirt outside the building.

A group of curious workers gathered to watch. Tom warned them to stay off the platform until he had given it a thorough tryout. "Might be an accident if it doesn’t work right," he explained. "No need to take chances."

Chow, meanwhile, was looking on with intense interest. He had carefully watched his young boss’s manipulation of the control unit. "So ole Chow Winkler is jest a tuckered-out old-timer! Brand my sagebrush ’n saddles," he muttered to himself, "Mebbe I’ll jest get me a ride on that there flyin’ carpet!"

Setting down the hand unit, Tom stepped away from the test platform, walking over to greet Bud, who was approaching with Hank Sterling. "Your figures checked out to the tenth digit, skipper," said Hank. "I couldn’t believe it, but my engineering computer doesn’t lie."

"We saw you fly the platform out of the Barn. Nice going, pal!" Bud cheered. Then he shifted his gaze past his friend, and the cheering stopped. "Good grief, should he be doing that?"

Tom swiveled and his face drained of color.
"Chow!"

The rotund cowpoke had stepped onto the disk and picked up the control unit. Now the Repelatron Donkey was beginning a slow rise into the air!

Chow was grinning with excitement. He whipped his customary ten-gallon cowboy hat from his shiny head and waved it wildly in the air. "Yippee!" he shouted, like an airborne rodeo rider. "Let ‘er rip!"

Bud was aghast. "Chow, are you nuts?" he yelled. "Get down off there!"

The watching workers added their pleas. But Chow was unperturbed. "You think an ole cowpoke like me can’t stick to this li’l ole donkey?" he snorted. "Well, I’ll show you how a real Texas bronco-buster does it. Yahoo!
Ride ’em, cowboy!"

At first all was well, and the watching crowd fell silent. Chow’s jaunty enthusiasm faded as Tom’s flying carpet continued to rise. Soon he was at second-floor height. Then the device began to slide sideways through the air, spiralling out in broad lazy circles, and picking up speed. The westerner looked down; the twenty feet to the hard ground suddenly seemed like a very
long
twenty feet!

And then the disk began to waver and buck! The onlookers stared in horror as Chow teetered and wobbled frantically, trying to maintain his balance on the railless platform. His face was rapidly assuming a greenish tinge that almost matched his shirt. "H-howlin’ prairie winds!" Chow gasped.

Bud grabbed Tom’s arm and cried out, "This is awful! We have to do something before Chow breaks his neck!"

Dashing over to the nearest outlet of the plant’s public-address system, Tom switched on the microphone and punched in his personal access code.
"Chow!"
Tom’s voice boomed, echoing off the buildings.
"Push the slider switch forward—slowly!"

But the cook was mightily distracted at that moment. The flat disk seemed bound and determined to pitch him off into space! Skimming high above the crowd of watchers, he had begun flapping his arms like an hysterical eaglet.

Meanwhile Bud pulled Hank to a position under the platform. They ran along with their arms outstretched.

"At least we can break his fall," said Hank.

"If we don’t get a few more people to help us," Bud muttered, "the fall’s gonna break
us!"

The growing crowd seemed to have decided that this was all a performance. Chow’s antics left them convulsed with laughter. But Tom was very much afraid that his friend might lose his balance and fall. He repeated his instructions over and over into the microphone, and finally Chow seemed to understand. He managed to maneuver the platform gently back to the ground—almost: for at the last moment the Donkey seemed to get skittish and whooshed sideways, finally skidding to a sudden stop that put Chow into a stumble that ended with him sitting on the ground and rubbing his backside.

His audience gave forth a burst of laughter, followed by loud sustained applause. Face brightening, Chow struggled to his feet and acknowledged them with a bob of the head and a wave of his hat.

Bud, Hank, and Tom converged on the cook, and Chow cringed back. But Tom held up a hand, blocking any discouraging words. "Your first solo aboard the Donkey, Chow!" he said, slapping him on the back. "You’ve earned your wings!"

"You can keep ’em, boss," Chow replied ruefully. "I’ll stick to broncs!" But then Tom’s words hit him. "Tom Swift, are you meanin’ to say—"

"I sure am, pard," Tom declared. "From here on you’re an official member of the Swift Enterprises Moon Expedition!"

Beaming, Chow strutted away as if feeling lighter than air.

"But Tom," said Hank Sterling softly, "I thought you told me this morning that you’d already decided to bring Chow along!" But Tom put a warning finger to his lips, eyes twinkling, and Bud burst out laughing.

That evening Tom had supper at home with his family, recounting Chow’s adventure in a way that brought gales of laughter. Then, the meal over, Tom and his father returned to Enterprises. An important task awaited them.

"Thanks for letting me make the decision, Dad," Tom said as they rode the elevator up to their shared office.

"It’s what I promised," replied Mr. Swift after a slight pause. "Which way are you leaning, son? I know we’ve received thousands of those cards."

"I’m just glad naming the spaceship isn’t decided by majority vote. I refuse to call it the
Enterprise!
If for no other reason, I won’t have people thinking we’re trying to promote Swift Enterprises."

As they exited the elevator, Tom suddenly came to a startled stop. "Dad!—what in the world—"

"It’s all right, son," Damon Swift responded with a smile. "Come on. There are some people you need to meet."

THE COMMON area in front of the Swifts’ office, where their secretary Trent was usually stationed, was crowded with people. There were men and women, elderly and young, some who looked like white-haired grandparents, some who appeared no more than a few years of age. Their expressions were sober, and as the elevator doors opened they stopped their quiet conversations and turned in silence to look at Tom and his father.

"This came to my attention at the last minute, Tom," murmured Mr. Swift softly. "I apologize for springing it on you. I wanted you to hear what they have to say the same way I did, without any preconceptions. Then it’s your decision."