Tom swift and the Captive Planetoid (14 page)

“Yes. Tom... I suppose... you and that lovely Pakistani girl—”

“Dr. Jatczak, I don’t try to predict the future. Predicting the
present
is hard enough!”

“The present” proved even harder to predict than Tom realized. With starry space at last above and behind, the
Challenger
had no sooner eased down upon its Fearing Island pad than Tom, motoring across the airfield with Bud toward the waiting
Sky Queen
, was flagged down by Mace Vendiablo. “Tom!”

Bud applied the brakes. “What’s wrong, Mace?” Tom asked.

“You probably heard—I got the word just now from the Feds—it’s
outrageous
that they blame—”

“Is it too late to head back up?” muttered Bud in disgust.

“Mace—please. Slow down!” Tom commanded.

“I’m sorry,” said the island security chief. “I just have a habit of making an aggressive response to imminent threat.”

“I haven’t heard anything about—whatever you’re aggressively responding to.”

“Oh? Well, good! I wouldn’t want your opinion to be shaped by outsiders.” Vendiablo leaned close to Tom. “Those attackers, the ones we captured—they’ve gone down!
All of them!
”

“What!—?” shouted the startled youth. “What do you mean?”

“Th-the coma thing?” asked Bud.

“Every last one of them, in a Federal detention facility, one hour ago!”

“
U’umat
,” breathed Tom. “Right under the eyes of the tightest security in the world.”

Vendiablo nodded with alarming vigor. “They were all being kept in separate cubicles, under constant watch, no unauthorized visitors, constant medical monitoring. My God, even the air was monitored! And they were keeping quiet, too—can’t blame ’em for that, after what happened to that one. And then, this AM, at the same moment, they all just collapse! Still alive, but their eyes just stare.”

“They’ve been
neutralized
,” Tom said slowly. “The Ninth Light risks exposure every time it—or
he
—induces the effect. But for some reason he thought it was worth the risk to prevent any of them from talking.”

“Worth the risk...” Bud repeated. “But why
now
, Skipper?”

There was no answer to Bud’s question. But Vendiablo was more than willing to fill the silence. “And obviously none of this is our fault, Tom. It’s all politics. They want to find a scapegoat!”

Tom stared at him. “What are you saying?”

“I just got word, word from Washington.
The Feds are shutting down Fearing Island!
”

“THEY can’t do that!” Bud cried in fury.

“I’m not sure they
have
, pal,” said Tom coolly. “Mace, what exactly has come down?”

The man’s face adopted its usual defensive posture. “It’s just as I said, Swift! That man Trump called me with a heads-up—”

“Colonel Trump isn’t in charge of our Federal authorizations,” Tom interrupted. “What he decided to ‘leak’ to you may not have been accurate. Have you heard from Defense? Homeland Security? I’ll settle for the FBI!”

Vendiablo flushed but shook his head. “It’s my job to give you advance warning, isn’t it? By the time all the bureaucratic wheels turn—”

The young inventor forced himself to be calm and appreciative. “Mace... thank you. Now we’re prepared for a few calls that I need to make.”

Ultimately the answer came from Tom’s father in Shopton. “All right, it’s cleared up,” he told his son. “Yes, all the prisoners have collapsed in their—well, they’re
cells
, aren’t they? Yes, there’ve been some loud discussions in Washington about
whether
the Fearing operation should be suspended until we know whether these induced seizures will spread to our own personnel—such as pilots in flight. But
no
, no official decision has been made. The leadership of the Subcommittee wants to be cautious.”

“Good for them,” replied Tom. “It’s usually a good bet that Vendiablo’s blowing things out of proportion. But Dad... even if
u’umat
only affects the Ninth Light’s own people—it’s clear something is being used to monitor what
we’re
doing at Enterprises, very closely.”

“That’s putting it mildly. It’s a frightful thought, some kind of listening device or long-range visual scanner penetrating the walls of Enterprises, even our own home. We’ve developed the technology to detect such things—so I thought. But we’ve thought that before.”

“And I’ve thought of a few
other
things,” Tom continued. “Given the way the Fearing maintenance-access codes are used, it’s hard to imagine how some sort of hidden camera device could capture the symbol sequence. That was the whole point! No record is made; each man has only half the code; the code-halves don’t exist apart from the screen, which a visor-hood makes ‘for your eyes only.’ The code guards have to
remember
the series; they can’t write it down. The final keying input is done entirely by
touch
—the key panel is never in view.”

“And the two guards are never in the same room prior to keying. How could such a system be defeated, son? I thought... perhaps... some adaptation of your megascope technology...”

“It wouldn’t be
my
megascope technology if they can establish a viewpoint-terminal
inside
the monitor-visor hood,” retorted the young inventor. “I’m not even close to figuring out how to project the matrix carrier beam through solid matter without decohering the quantum counterparticles.”

“I know, Tom,” Damon Swift said. “If this ‘sultan’ or his organization are advanced enough to accomplish
that
, it’s hardly likely they’d use it for pulp magazine ‘sabotage’ plots and planted news releases.”

Tom sighed, but added: “Then again—
who knows
what a mega-wealthy family of cultists might find worth doing?”

It was, both agreed, an unwanted point to ponder.

The next day—once again Tom spent the night at Swift Enterprises—the young inventor called Bud up to his office. “Don’t tell me you have time to look away from that screen!” gibed the athletic young pilot as he sauntered through the door.

“Sorry, pal,” Tom responded, his tone low and weary. “With Bartonia on the move, I can’t break away from the Gerard project. We’re all up to our eyebrows right now, the whole technical and engineering staff—Hank, Arv, Felix Ming—everyone.”

“Gosh! For once you have an excuse even Bashalli would accept.”

“And that’s why I need to ask a favor of you. I know I can...” He paused slightly and smiled. “Trust you.”

“More trust, huh? Got it.” Bud sank down into a chair with a wry expression. “So what’s the mission, genius boy? A bank job? A kidnapping?”

“More like high-altitude chauffeuring.” The young Shoptonian explained that he had taken a call from Felton Demburton within the hour. “The guy’s decided to take me up on an offer I made to help him with Neil Gerard.”

“Captain Future’s making a problem?”

“Mr. Gerard can be demanding, I guess. The corporation put him up in their big hotel down at the end of the lake, so he’d be nearby when—if—his okay is needed on some aspect of the project. Some kind of legal thing.”

“So what is it Gerard wants? If he’s demanding money, I’m all out!”

“He’s demanding
attention
, flyboy. He says he won’t play anymore unless Demburton flies him out to
Idaho
—now!”

“Idaho,” Bud repeated. “Does he want to go backpacking?”

Tom shrugged. “I don’t know. Something about needing to visit his old home—someplace in the mountains south of Burley.”

“I see. You want me to fly him?”

“Fly him, rent him a car, drive him where he wants to go, whatever. Basically, keep an eye on him, Bud. You know how I feel about Demburton’s attitude toward Mr. Gerard. You get along well with people.”

“When I’m not throwing a punch,” grinned Bud. “I see what you have in mind. I know there’s more to it than you’re saying.”

Tom looked floorward. “It’s a sensitive kind of situation.”

“This Gerard guy means a lot to you, doesn’t he.”

“Thanks for understanding, flyboy.”

“That’s what trust
is
.” Bud stood up briskly, like a good soldier with a mission. “Just give me my orders, Skipper. Say—what if I ask Chow along? He always keeps things on the light side. If you, er, overlook his waistline.”

“Let’s call it a load of Texas charm.”

“Almost an
over
load.”

Soon they were flying south of west in a Swift Construction Company commuter jet—Bud, Chow, and their placidly unfocused passenger. “Engine runs quiet,” said Neil Gerard. “I used to fly. Flying’s nothing like being in space.”

“You been in space, Mr. Gerard?” asked Chow.

“No. All I
said
was, there’s nothing like it. Someday we’ll
all
be in space. Of course, we are now.”

Chow looked blank. “Yeah. Er—we are?”

“Where d’you think Earth is, Chow?”

“Oh. Yup. Jest couldn’t picture ole Texas floatin- around in—”

“Pictures, pictures. That’s what we need, friend-o,” Gerard stated. “Pictures make it real. People won’t pay their taxes without pictures. The big picture—that’s what society needs to get space-minded. You see that, doncha?”

“The picture, y’mean?”

“Or maybe you’re too old. I’m old too. After a certain age—all gone. Over the wall. Comfortable clothes for the brain. See, we’re never gonna move on up into space in comfortable clothes.”

“What about hats?” Chow touched the big wide one on his head.

“Chow, our brains don’t need more covers. Leave the covers on the bed and
get up!
It’s morning! Up!
Up
!”

Chow stood up, alarmed. “Okay!”

“What’s wrong? Wha? Are you about to say something? Should I listen?”

“N-not me, Mr. Gerard.” Chow plopped back down. His nerves were becoming
wracked
keeping an eye on the mercurial Man of the Future.

“
Boise
, eight minutes,” Bud intercommed back.

“Now
those
’r words I never e’spected t’ hear,” murmured the big wide cowpoke. “Not in this here life.”

Gerard shrugged. “But that
is
Life. Boise is
always
eight minutes away.”

Two hours later their rented minivan was charging up a twisty, poor excuse for a road between pine and boulders at the apron edge of the Uinta Mountains. “So that was Burley,” Bud remarked improbably. “Sure you didn’t want to just head on to Minidoka, Mr. Gerard?”

“I love Minidoka, but the gravity’s too high. I want to feel like I’m
up there.
”

Bud made a mental comment involving the phrase
up there
. “So—you say you grew up in the mountains?”

“Hunh?” The man leaned forward. “When did I say that? What time? What day?”

“Never said it!” Chow piped up. “I been listening. Buddy Boy, y’gotta
lissen
t’ this here hombre. Real close!”

A few more things were unsaid by the mind of Bud Barclay. Then: “What
is
this place we’re looking for, then? A little town? The only thing on the map before Utah is Black Pine Peak.”

“You can get mighty high on Black Pine Peak,” Gerard observed dreamily. “I used to go up there to dream the dream when I was in college. The College of Uselessness, by the way. Nothing I learned there mattered one bit.” He swiveled to face Chow, who shrank back. “You go to college? Do you any good?”

“No, sir. And no, not a dang bit.”

“You didn’t need to say
No
twice,” huffed his backseatmate. “We have too much
No
and too little
Know
in this human race of ours. Whatsat? See what I mean on that one? Same sounds, two spellings. Man oh man, I want to see the stars from above! Before I die, not after.”

The vehicle suddenly jolted to a halt. Gerard bounced off Chow with a strong rebound. Bud turned back from the wheel and faced Gerard angrily. “Look!—I’ve already been through space up and down and
I want you to tell me where we’re going!
Get it together, man, or I’m turning back.”

Gerard smiled amiably. “Sure. Exactitude! Two point seven one miles ahead, veer off left thirty-six degrees. I have a perfect sense of direction, and numbers are my friends.”

“Big wow. Then what?”

“How much do you want? How much do we
deserve
in this life? There’s a bare patch to drive on between the pines, uptending angle about eight degrees average, cool climate, no view, then you get to Longbone Ridge. Paved road up to the door. Used to be one, anyway. Thirty-two years now, but there must be some of it left. Maybe not.”

Chow looked at him with bullfrog eyes as Bud revved up, resigned to what seemed to be the Permanent Unknown. “You useta live up there?”

“
Live
is right, Chow. That’s the only place I
ever
lived.”

Many rumbling turns and harrowing cliffside views led them at last to an imposing concrete wall in the mountainside, and an enormously wide aluminum door, like the door on an Enterprises plane hangar. “Jetz! What
is
this place?” breathed Bud as the three stood next to the ATV-wheeled minivan.

Neil Gerard was grinning like a schoolboy. “What’s
any
place, Bud? Just a little crossing point in space and time. Right?”

“W-wudden that a barbed-wire fence we ran over back there?” quavered Chow.

“Naw, naw,” laughed Gerard, “it was
two
fences, and both were knocked down flat already. Snow thaw undermines the post bases more often than not.

“Doesn’t matter. Nobody remembers this place. Nobody cares now. Say, let’s be accurate—obsessive is not excessive, I may have said, probably—nobody cared even
then
, in the end. Not the politicians. They were glad to just let it go. Too controversial. But ‘controversy’ equals ‘future.’ Remember: someone said that, friendies. It was said.”

As the futurist was speaking, Bud had wandered some distance away. He had spotted a metal sign on a post, rusted, its lettering barely legible in the mountain shadows of late afternoon.

The young San Franciscan slowly picked out the words.

LONGBONE RIDGE SECURE CONTAINMENT FACILITY
FEDERAL REGULATIONS IN FORCE
NUCLEAR REGULATORY COMMISSION