Tom Swift on the Phantom Satellite (4 page)

Helm and several others at the table exchanged half-amused glances. Then Helm nodded at Admiral Krevitt, who slid a thick binder across the table to the two guests. "Take a look!"

Mr. Swift opened the binder and gasped softly, turning it so Tom could see.

"The nuclear rocket!" said Tom, startled. "But—"

"Yes, for security reasons we led you to believe it was still on the drawing board," Admiral Krevitt remarked. "Though it was mostly a Swift Enterprises design."

"Are you saying it’s been constructed?" demanded Tom’s father.

"Indeed so, in secret," Krevitt confirmed. "All ready to gas and go. We had planned a test flight for late next month, but now—"

"I take it you agree that this vehicle, the
Titan,
will be adequate to the project," Helm said to Mr. Swift.

"More than adequate!" replied the head of Enterprises. "The
Titan—
at least as we designed her—could easily carry a crew of twelve, with considerable storage space for the various necessities and equipment."

"Then I’d say we have ample reason for optimism." Mr. Helm smiled and thanked the Swifts. Then he asked their opinion on the chances of survival on the bare surface Little Luna for an extended period of time.

"None, outside of a space suit," Mr. Swift answered, "unless my son’s latest invention could be put to practical use there." He mentioned the atmosphere-making machine.

"Fantastic!" one of the scientists burst out. "We could use one of those in Los Angeles."

His listeners were very much interested in this new Tom Swift invention. One man asked, "Do you intend to use compressed gases?"

‘"For my first tests, yes," Tom replied. "But I’m hoping we’ll find the necessary elements on the satellite to make all the gases we’ll need for a permanent atmosphere. Long-range readings suggest that the surface of Little Luna contains high concentrations of metallic oxides and nitrogen-bearing compounds."

The conferees now got down to details of planning. Since the Swifts had already estimated the amount of necessary equipment and the cost of a minimal expedition, they were able to quote definite figures as a starting point for the discussion.

"Here’s something you Swifts should know," a representative of the Central Intelligence Agency declared. "We have reliable information that the Brungarians are making feverish plans for an expedition of their own. As you know, they’ve revived their space program with help from Russia, and we’re sure they’re hoping to reach the satellite first, and establish a military base! I don’t need to tell you what that would mean to the whole world."

"Isn’t Brungaria an ally these days?" asked Tom politely.

"A great nation has no friends," said the man sitting next to Helm, speaking aloud for the first time.

"The United States
must
reach there first!" an Air Force general stated grimly.

"We’ll rush the project at top speed," promised Mr. Swift.

Helm nodded. "Incidentally, we would prefer to let your own staff at Swift Enterprises handle the security angle on this, although government officials will be on hand for any emergency."

"Budgetary constraints," muttered a man with thick glasses and no tan whatsoever.

A few minutes later the conference broke up and the Swifts were soon winging back to Shopton. The elder inventor put an arm on his son’s shoulder. "Tom, you are to be in charge of this expedition. My place is on the ground at Enterprises. I’ll help in every way I can, but you’ll be Number One man."

"Thanks, Dad. I’ll try to live up to your faith in me."

"Just return to us safely!"

In the days that followed the Washington meeting, both Swift Enterprises and the Fearing Island space facility bustled with intense activity. Crews at Enterprises worked around the clock, readying supplies and equipment for the historic journey into space, while on Fearing Island trained specialists, many from NASA, assembled the modular parts of the nuclear rocket
Titan,
which had been freighted to the island by barge. In the meantime Tom worked to complete his atmosphere-making machine. He had decided that he would be bringing on the
Titan
enough parts to construct two of the machines, to be set up on opposite sides of Little Luna. This would speed the production of a livable atmosphere for the barren satellite.

Two days after the Swifts returned from Washington, an Air Force jet touched down on one of the Enterprises airstrips. Aboard were the first four members of the government team to report for duty. The Swifts had agreed that six spots on the 12-person
Titan
crew would be reserved for government assignees, including Col. Northrup.

Tom and Bud drove out on the field to meet the arrivals. First out of the jet was a big man in a well-tailored suit. Bounding forward, robust and bareheaded, hair shot with gray, he looked like a high-powered business executive. Which was exactly what he was.

"I suppose you’ve come to give us a lift, eh boys?" he boomed. "Well, let’s get going! Take us to the man in charge!"

"As a matter of fact, I’m in charge," Tom said, smiling.

"What!" The man’s jaw dropped.

"I’m Tom Swift. And I imagine you’re Mr. Jason Graves." Tom had been prepared for his arrival by telegram. He knew that Graves was the dynamic owner of a large metallurgical research plant—a man who had won a reputation for quick fulfillment of defense contracts.

Graves shook hands, chuckling. "Almost had me fooled there for a minute, sonny. Of course I recognize you now. But your father’s the CEO around here—he’s the man I’ll deal with."

"Sorry, sir, but Dad’s at our rocket facility on Fearing Island this week," Tom replied. "He’s supervising the construction of the new launch pad for the nuclear spacecraft. So you’ll be working with me, Mr. Graves. As you know, I’ll be skipper on the flight, too."

Graves’s face turned a ripe plum color. "You mean, I’m supposed to take orders from a kid who isn’t even old enough to order a martini?"

As Bud bristled, Tom said calmly, "Sorry if it seems a little unusual, Mr. Graves. Bud and I are space veterans and have run some big projects before, including the construction of our space station. I hope you’ll give me a chance to prove myself."

"Well," said the man doubtfully, "that’s what America is all about."

While Graves struggled to accept the idea of taking orders from someone so much younger than himself, introductions to the other two arrivals followed.

Col. Jess Northrup looked very much like his photographs—big, colorful, manly, and full of smiles.
And maybe a little too full of himself!
thought Tom as he shook hands. The ex-astronaut was about fifty years old, with thinning brown hair that Tom suspected would be gray without some regular technical assistance. "Goodta meetcha, Tom!" he said heartily.

A blond, husky, likable metallurgical engineer and mineralogist named Kent Rockland introduced himself. "This is like a dream!" he confessed. "Looking for ore on an alien world—wow!"

"Speaking of dreams," said a quiet voice, "I never dreamed I would live to set foot on one of the celestial bodies I’ve studied through my telescope." The voice belonged to Dr. Henrik Jatczak, one of the world’s foremost astronomers and an expert in planetary chemistry. A small, shy, wiry man, Dr. Jatczak had a shock of unruly black hair that seemed not to want to lie down, and twinkling blue eyes peering through thick-lensed glasses.

"It’ll be a privilege to work with you, sir," said Tom as they shook hands. "I’ve been an admirer of yours ever since I can remember."

"Which is not very long, as cosmic time is counted; yet I thank you. I, too, am an admirer of yours, young man," said Dr. Jatczak in a quiet voice. "I consider Swift the greatest name in modern science—applied science, that is." With mischief in his eyes, he added, "And
I
for one shall be honored to take orders from any of the Swifts!" Bud could not help smiling at this quiet rebuke to Jason Graves, who responded with a sour look. But Tom, charmed as he was by Dr. Jatczak, found himself wondering if the frail man had the stamina required to cope with the rigors of space travel.

Tom took his guests on a quick tour of the experimental station by jeep, then assigned each one certain duties before they dispersed to their living quarters near the administration building.

During the next few days, other top-level scientists and engineers arrived and quickly began work. Among them were Jim Stevens and Ron Corey, two young specialists in forced plant growth from the United States Department of Agriculture.

"Didn’t know they’d be sending along a couple of farmers!" joked Bud, as he and Tom lunched with their new guests in the Enterprises cafeteria.

Stevens replied with a smile and a pleasant southern drawl. "Our jobs will be to cultivate crops for a permanent food supply on the satellite, something made possible by the atmosphere machine. I’ll be handling the work from this end, of course—on Planet Earth!—while Ron’s doing his thing up on Little Luna with the rest of you."

"Have you set a date for take-off?" Corey asked Tom.

"We have, but for security reasons, Dad and I are the only ones who know what it is," replied the young inventor. "We’re not even supposed to tell our families and friends the real nature of this project. The official story is that Enterprises is planning to launch a robot flyby to probe the satellite with instruments." He looked embarrassed, and in fact he was.

Bud gave a mock groan. "Everything’s so hush-hush around here that even the mice are starting to complain!"

As the meal ended, Ron Corey leaned over to Tom and asked, "Tom, what did your friend mean—about the mice?" Then Tom knew for certain that Ron Corey lacked a sense of humor!

By week’s end the last of the government crew assignees had arrived at Swift Enterprises. He presented himself at Tom and his father’s office, hand extended. "Teodor Kutan," he said. "And before you ask, gentlemen, the name and the accent are Polish. Now, though, I am a citizen of this country."

The Swifts knew that Kutan was a diplomat, a somewhat well-known one who had represented the United States in a number of difficult foreign negotiations. His age was indeterminable, though probably closer to fifty than thirty, and he was short and somewhat heavyset, with thinning light hair and eyebrows like small shrubs. "Tell me, Dr. Kutan, if I might ask…" Tom began, not wanting to be overly blunt.

"Ah, no doubt you wish to know my exact function on this voyage of discovery." Kutan gave a slight, rather perfunctory smile. "The expedition may have need of a diplomat representing our government in a formal sense. No, not to deal with alien space beings, but with encroaching astronauts from other nations who may be inclined to dispute the American claim."

"In other words, Brungaria," said Tom.

"In my youth, I spent many a summer in Volkonis, the capital," continued the diplomat. "I know the Brungarian character well."

After Dr. Kutan had left to unpack, Tom and his father resumed their discussion of some remaining aspects of the expedition. "When we last talked, son, you hadn’t yet filled out the last four seats on the Swift team," Damon Swift noted. "Other than you and Bud, who will be going with you in the
Titan?"

Tom replied, "First of all, Hank Sterling." The blond, square-jawed chief of the engineering division of Enterprises, Hank, only a few years older than Tom and Bud, had accompanied them on most Swift expeditions and was in many ways Tom’s righthand-man for technical problems.

"I expected Hank to be picked," commented Mr. Swift.

"Then I wanted someone from the medical and physiological field. As Doc Simpson doesn’t yet have his ‘space-legs,’ I decided to go with Violet Wohl from the Life Sciences department."

"I’m not acquainted with Dr. Wohl, but I’ve heard good reports on her work, and I know she has an MD. Two places remain, then."

Tom nodded. "Of course I considered Arv Hanson, and also Bob Jeffers. But I couldn’t turn down Rafael Franzenberg, given his expertise."

"Yes, he’s a real triple threat—physics, chemistry, and electronics." Mr. Swift paused. "Still, you and I know that not everyone enjoys his company, and his brand of humor."

Tom chuckled. "Between Dr. Kutan and I, we may have a few extra diplomatic problems to handle on this trip!"

"Who is your remaining selection?"

"I suppose you can guess that one, Dad. After all, we’ve got to eat!"

Damon Swift laughed gently and said, "Absolutely! And I know Chow Winkler and his rather extravagant observations play an important role in keeping the captain of this ship psychologically trim."

Tom joined in the laughter. "But I’m not shoe-horning Chow into the project on a whim—he’s had space training, and was actually pretty valuable during the construction of the space outpost."

Frenzied days fled past without incident. A week before the scheduled secret take-off, Tom was busy one afternoon in his laboratory with Hank Sterling. They were testing a large scale model of Tom’s atmosphere machine, a working model created by Arvid Hanson, Enterprises’ talented maker of prototypes.

Suddenly Bud Barclay rushed in, yelling, "Hey, skipper! Take a look at this!"

He waved an early edition of the
Shopton Evening Bulletin
on which large banner headlines proclaimed:

SWIFTS TO HEAD U.S. EXPEDITION
TO PHANTOM SATELLITE!

With growing anger and alarm, Tom read through the story, credited to Editor Perkins himself. The report included an amazing wealth of detail, including the exact time and date of departure, type of spaceship to be used, and the names of some of the personnel!

"A complete account!" gasped Hank Sterling as he read the story over Tom’s shoulder.

"But who tipped them off?" Bud exclaimed. Sick with rage and dismay, Tom could hardly speak. "We’ll soon find out!" he declared, when he recovered his voice.

Snatching up the telephone, Tom called the
Bulletin
and asked for the editor. "Where did you get that story on this supposed space expedition?" he demanded.

Dan Perkins sounded surprised. "Why, from you folks, naturally. Where else?"