Tom Swift and The Visitor from Planet X

REPORT FROM INTERPOL

Tom, astonished, stared at the stranger.

“Who are you?” the young inventor demanded.

“Never mind who I am.  Just do as I say!”

By this time Tom had recovered from his surprise and coolly sized up his enemy.  The man was about thirty years old, with close-cropped black hair.  Steely eyes glinted in a lean, hard-jawed face.

Tom wondered, “Should I risk a fight?  Or is he armed?”

As if in answer, the stranger growled, “I gave you an order, my friend. 
Don’t press your luck!  Get going!”

As he spoke, the man thrust one hand deep into his coat pocket, and Tom felt something hard poke against his ribs.

The young inventor drove on, but proceeded slowly.  He wanted time to think.  Presently Swift Enterprises, enclosed by a high wall, came into view.

Tom’s brain was working fast.  At last he decided on a ruse.  He would head for the main gate, get out, and use his electronic key without waiting for the guard to admit him.  At the same time, he would press a secret warning bell to alert the Swift security force.

But the stranger seemed to read his thoughts.  As Tom started to turn off toward the main gate, his passenger snapped, “Go to the private gate which you and your father use!”

“And if I refuse?”

Again the hard object poked into his ribs.  “You will be what you call in this country a dead duck!” the stranger warned.  “I will then let myself in with your key!”

Tight-lipped, Tom drove on another half mile, then turned in at the private gate.  The man got out with him as Tom walked up to the gate and beamed his electronic key at the hidden mechanism.  Instantly the gate swung open, then closed again automatically after the car passed through.

Tom parked in his usual spot.  The stranger kept his hand in his pocket, still covering Tom but glancing around cautiously.  The sprawling experimental station was a vast four-mile-square area with a cluster of gleaming modern laboratory buildings and workshops.  In the distance, a tall glassed-in control tower overlooked Enterprises’ long runways for jet planes.

Suddenly the stranger stiffened.  A paunchy, bowlegged figure, topped by a white Texas sombrero, was coming straight toward them.

Tom’s heart gave a leap of hope.  The man was Chow Winkler, formerly a chuck-wagon cook and now head chef for the Swifts’ expeditions.

“Hi, boss!” Chow bellowed in his foghorn voice.  As usual he was wearing a gaudy cowboy shirt.  “Who’s the new buckaroo?” the cook added, squinting at the stranger with open but friendly curiosity.

“Why—­actually I don’t know his name yet, but he’s looking for a job,” Tom replied.  Turning to the stranger, he added, “What is your name, mister?”

The stranger glared from Tom to Chow, as if not certain what to answer.

Chow’s eyes narrowed.  He had detected something strange in the way Tom addressed the fellow as “mister,” and had also noticed how the man kept one hand hidden in his pocket.  Looking to Tom for a lead, Chow suddenly noticed the young inventor make a quick “thumbs down” gesture.

“My name is…”  The man’s voice fell to a mumble, obscuring the syllables.  “Frankly I am not yet sure I desire a job here, but being an engineer, I thought perhaps—­”

  [Illustration (Tom and Chow fight the intruder)]

The man’s gaze switched back to Tom, and in that instant Chow jumped the intruder.  With surprising agility for his rotund bulk, the cook bore down on him and let fly a gnarled fist at the stranger’s jaw.  Tom followed up like lightning, grabbing the man’s wrist and yanking his hand out of his pocket.

He was clutching a snub-nosed automatic.  Tom twisted it from his grasp as the man landed, writhing on the hard ground.  Chow quickly pinned his other arm and drove a knee into the man’s solar plexus.

“Jest lie quiet now, you varmint, or you may git yourself roughed up a bit,” Chow warned, then added, “Who is he, Tom?”

“Search me.  He stopped my car on the road and forced me to drive him in through the private gate.  Boy, was I ever glad to see you, old-timer!”

Tom emptied out the clip of shells.  Then he searched the stranger while Chow continued holding him down.  The man carried no wallet, papers, or other means of identification.

“Brand my tumbleweed salad,” Chow grumbled, “he sure wasn’t takin’ no chances on people findin’ out who he is!  Which proves he’s some sort o’ crooked cowpoke!  Honest ones ain’t afeared o’ showin’ their own brand!”

The man muttered something angrily in a foreign tongue.  Chow merely pressed down harder with his knee.  “What’ll we do with him, boss?”

“Let him up, Chow,” Tom said.  “Security should be here any second.”

Even as he spoke, Tom glimpsed a jeep speeding toward them in the distance.  The young inventor knew what had happened.  Since the stranger did not have the special electronic wrist amulet worn by all Swift employees, his presence had automatically shown up on the master radarscope.  A security squad was coming to investigate.

As Chow released the man, he got to his feet slowly.  Then, without warning, he suddenly butted the cook square in the stomach.  Chow was knocked sprawling!

Before Tom could counter the surprise attack, the man’s fist cracked against his cheekbone.  Tom, though stunned, lashed out.  More punches flew back and forth.  Tom landed a stinging blow to his opponent’s midriff, then took a punishing one himself.

Suddenly Tom felt the stranger’s hand clawing at his pocket for the key to the gate.  With all his wiry strength, Tom locked his arms around the man and wrestled him to the ground.

The stranger fought like a tiger.  But a second later a jeep screeched to a stop.  Three security guards, led by stocky Phil Radnor, leaped out.  Within moments they had the man subdued.

Tom quickly briefed the security men on what had happened.

“All right, mister, start talking!” snapped Radnor, head security police officer.

The man’s only reply was a scowl of rage.

“Okay, take him away till he cools off,” Tom ordered.

Disheveled and still panting, the man was bundled into the jeep and driven off to the security building.

Tom arrived there by motor scooter several minutes later.  Harlan Ames, the slim, dark-haired security chief of Enterprises, had taken charge of the case, and the prisoner was now being fingerprinted and photographed.

“Any leads?” Tom inquired.

Ames shook his head.  “He won’t talk and we’ve nothing on him in our files.  His clothes have no tags or laundry marks, but I’d say they’re of foreign make.”

Tom nodded.  “He’s definitely foreign.  He spoke with an accent and he also muttered something at Chow—­I didn’t catch it, but it certainly wasn’t in English.”

Ames frowned.  “I don’t like the looks of this, skipper.  He may be a spy.”

“Have you notified the police?” Tom asked.

“Right.  Also the FBI.  They’re on the way right now to pick him up.  Maybe they’ll be able to worm something out of him.”

Tom spent the morning in routine work in the big double office which he shared with his father in Enterprises’ main building.  It was equipped with huge twin modern desks, deep-pile carpeting, and roomy leather chairs.

Each of the two inventors had his own drawing board, designed to swing out from the wall at the press of a button.  Small scale models of some of their most famous inventions were also placed about the office, including a red-and-silver replica of Tom’s first rocket ship, the Star Spear; a blue plastic model of the jetmarine in which he had fought a band of undersea pirates; and also a gleaming silvery model of Tom’s latest, unique space craft, the Cosmic Sailer.

Because of his father’s absence in Washington, the burden of administering the vast experimental station now fell on Tom’s youthful shoulders.  Telephone calls, letters, and other detailed work occupied him until noon.

Chow broke in, bringing a lunch tray with milk, a hot chicken sandwich, and a chocolate eclair.  Tom ate hungrily.

“Kind o’ peps up the ole supercharger, eh?” said Chow, lingering to chat.

“Sure does,” Tom agreed.

“Wal, jest remember that, an’ don’t go missin’ any meals—­or sleep, either,” Chow advised as he gathered up the tray.  “A brainy young hombre like you needs plenty o’ rest an’ vitamins to keep from burnin’ himself out.”

“I’ll remember.”  Tom grinned affectionately as the leathery-faced old Texan took his leave.  The Swifts had first met Chow when they were on an atomic research expedition in the Southwest.  Chow had become so attached to Tom that he had returned to Shopton with the Swifts as a permanent employee.

Soon after Chow left the office, the telephone rang.  Tom took the call and had just finished talking with Harlan Ames when Bud came strolling in.

“Any more news on that nut who jumped you this morning?” the young flier asked.  “Ames told me about it.”

“Not yet, but there may be soon,” Tom said.  “Harlan just phoned and said he’d had a call from Washington, asking us to stand by the videophone at one-thirty sharp.”

Ames arrived in person shortly before the scheduled time.  Moments later, a red signal flashed on the control board of the Swifts’ private TV network.  Tom flicked on the videophone and two men appeared on the screen.

One was Blake, the Swifts’ Washington, D.C., telecaster.  He introduced the other man, a calm-faced, balding individual in a dark suit.

“This is John Thurston of the Central Intelligence Agency, Tom,” Blake said.  “He thought it might be better to discuss this with you face to face.”

Tom, Bud, and Ames were also visible to the pair in Washington.

“Glad to know you, sir,” Tom said, and introduced his companions.

“We’ve identified the man you captured this morning,” Thurston began.  “He’s in the United States on a French passport under the name of Jacques Renard.  But we’ve just learned from the International Police Organization that he’s actually a Brungarian.  His name is Samson Narko.”

Tom and Ames exchanged startled glances.  In the past, certain Brungarian factions had been responsible for some of the most fiendish plots ever perpetrated against the Swifts.

“Unfortunately, that’s not all,” Thurston went on.  “Interpol believes that Narko is also a member of the same rebel outfit with whom you’ve had trouble before.”

Tom was dismayed by the news.  “I sure thought that group had been smashed!” he said.  Soon after Tom had balked their attempts to seize the satellite Nestria, the rebel ringleaders had reportedly been arrested and tried for treason.

“It now appears,” Thurston explained, “that only one segment was quelled.  Other members of the antigovernment movement are active again and are said to be strongly organized.”

The CIA man related even more sinister news.  It was suspected that a larger nation—­by aiding the rebels—­was planning a coup to take over Brungaria.  They had already subverted various government agencies and were sending their own professors to staff the Brungarian technical schools.  It was all part of their insidious fifth-column pattern.

“Many top Brungarian officials have joined the plotters,” Thurston added, “and it’s now becoming very difficult for anyone to enter or leave the country.”

Ames asked for information on any rebel sympathizers known to be in the United States.  Thurston was able to tell him very little.

“We keep strict tabs, of course, on all Brungarians entering this country,” Thurston explained.  “But even though we screen them carefully, a rebel agent like Narko may slip in—­usually on a stolen or faked passport.”

When the telecast ended, Tom, Bud, and Ames discussed the news grimly.

“What if Narko has pals working with him?” Bud conjectured.

“If he does,” Tom said, “they may try carrying through Narko’s mission.”

“I’ll station extra guards around the outer wall on twenty-four-hour alert,” Ames promised.

Tom approved this measure wholeheartedly, but the purpose of Narko’s secret mission remained a mystery.  Why had he tried to force his way into Enterprises?  What was he after?  There was little hope of resolving these questions, since United States Intelligence had learned of the rebel movement itself only within the past few days.  Thurston had asked Tom and his companions to treat the information as confidential.

“I’d better get back to work,” Tom decided after Bud and Ames had left his office.  Tom sat down at his drawing board and began to sketch out some rough ideas for a vehicle to house the “brain energy” from space.

Tom wondered if the brain would be able to perform actions by itself, given the proper mechanical output devices.  Or would he have to help it function via an electronic computer to digest incoming information or stimuli and then to respond through servo controls?

The problem was so baffling and complex that Tom became completely oblivious to the passage of time.  He sketched out plan after plan, only to crumple and discard each one.

Suddenly a disturbing thought jarred the young inventor out of his concentration.  Perhaps the Brungarian rebel scientists had now figured out how to decode the radio messages from the Swifts’ space friends!

If so, when the brain energy was launched toward earth, they might try to divert it to their own receiving setup!