Tom Swift and The Visitor from Planet X

EARTHQUAKE ISLAND

Now came the hardest part of all for Tom and his companions—­waiting to learn if the shock deflectors had succeeded in blotting out the enemy quake wave.

No one spoke.  As the silence deepened inside the cave, the suspense became almost unbearable.  Minutes passed.

“When will we know, skipper?” a crewman ventured at last.

“Soon, I hope,” Tom replied tersely.

But the waiting seemed endless.  Bud’s eyes met Tom’s.  The flier grinned and held up crossed fingers, just as Tom had done to Mike Burrows the previous evening.  Tom managed a feeble grin in response.

Suddenly the telephone shrilled, shattering the silence of the cave.  Tom snatched it from the radioman’s hands.

“Tom Swift here!...  Yes?...  Thank heavens!  I guess we can all be grateful, Dr. Miles!”

“Providence protected us, I’m sure, Tom,” the seismologist replied at the other end of the line.  “But in this instance it worked through Tom Swift’s Quakelizors!  The Bona Fide plant and the surrounding area never even felt the tremor—­your quake deflectors worked perfectly!”

There was no need to tell the others.  Tom’s words on the telephone and the grin on his face told the story.  A spontaneous volley of cheers echoed through the cave as he hung up.  Then the crew crowded around to slap Tom on the back and shake his hand.

“I hope the whole country learns what you’ve done, Tom,” Mike Burrows said.  “If it doesn’t, I’ll be the first to spread the word as soon as the secrecy lid’s taken off!”

“Shucks, I knew all along Tom’s contraption would do the trick!” Chow boasted, glowing with pride over his young boss’s achievement.

Tom could only smile happily.  “Guess we can go home now,” he said to Bud and Chow.

They were preparing to leave when another flash from Washington came over the radiotelephone.  A ship’s captain, five hundred miles out on the Pacific, had just reported sighting a great waterspout, accompanied by considerable wave turbulence.

“It could have been the spot where the enemy shock waves and our deflector waves met and damped out,” Tom commented.

“Dr. Miles thinks so, too,” the caller said.

Soon the sleek Swift jet was arrowing back across the continent.  En route, Tom radioed word of his latest triumph to Mr. Swift.  As always, he used the automatic scramblers to make sure any enemy eavesdroppers would pick up only static.

“Great work, son!” Mr. Swift congratulated Tom.  “I was confident you could handle the situation with your Quakelizors.”

“Thanks, Dad.  See you soon.”

When the jet finally landed at Enterprises and came to a halt on the runway, the control tower operator spoke over the radio.

“Harlan Ames would like to see Tom Jr. at the security building.  He left word just a few minutes ago.”

“Roger!” Tom replied.

Chow frugally carted off his leftover supplies.  Tom and Bud, meanwhile, went by jeep across the plant grounds to security headquarters.

Ames greeted the two boys enthusiastically.  “Nice going on that earthquake situation, Tom!” he said.  “And now I have some more good news.  We’ve just nabbed the man who imitated your father’s voice over the phone the other night.”

“What!” Both boys were excited, and Tom added eagerly, “Who is he?”

“An actor at the Shopton summer playhouse.”

“How did you find out?” Tom asked.

“I had a hunch,” Ames went on.  “If the impersonator wasn’t a plant employee at Enterprises, then he had to be a person with a trained voice.  That gave me the idea of checking on all actors and station announcers here in the vicinity.  It paid off right away.  The guy’s name is Brent Nolan.”

“Have you questioned him yet?” Tom asked.

“I’m about to,” Ames replied.  “Radnor just brought him in.”

The security chief led the way into an adjoining office.  A slender, good-looking young man with blond wavy hair was seated on a chair with Phil Radnor on one side of him and a Shopton police officer on the other.  The actor was visibly nervous and perspiring.

“This is Tom Swift Jr.,” Ames told him.  “Brent Nolan.”

Nolan nodded.  “Yes, I’ve seen your picture in the papers many times.”  The actor tried to force a smile but his face muscles twitched.  “I—­I seem to have pulled a pretty dumb stunt by faking that phone call from your father.  I’m sorry.”

“What was the reason?” Tom asked.

Nolan fingered his wavy blond hair uneasily and swallowed hard.  “A man named Professor Runkle paid me to do it.”

“Professor Runkle?” Tom frowned.  The name seemed vaguely familiar.

“He spoke with a foreign accent.  Said he was doing research at Grandyke University,” Nolan explained.  “He told me you might be expecting a rare biological specimen from the East Indies.  He said both of you were eager to get hold of it for research purposes, but he was afraid that you had outbid him.  However, if he asked you straight out, you would guard the secret very jealously.  So he hired me to find out.”

“Didn’t it occur to you he might be an espionage agent?” Ames asked coldly.

Nolan seemed shocked.  “Believe me, I had no such idea!” he averred.  “Runkle seemed pleasant.  He said it all was merely a short cut to save him from wasting any more time on the project.  If Tom Swift had the specimen, he would quit.  I—­I guess I’m a little bit vain about the way I can mimic voices, and this gave me a chance to show off.  Besides, I saw no harm in doing it.”

“No harm?” Bud snorted.  “You had Swift Enterprises in a real lather when we found out.”

Nolan spread his hands in a helpless gesture.  “I’m truly sorry,” he repeated.

“How were you able to find out how my father’s voice sounded?” Tom asked.

“I listened to a recording of a speech he made at the Fourth of July rally here in Shopton,” Nolan explained.  “I borrowed the tape from a local radio station.  Guess that’s how your security men got onto me.”

“What did this fellow Runkle look like?” Ames asked.

Nolan thought for a moment.  “Oh, he was past middle age, I should say.  Grizzled hair, thick-lensed glasses.  And he was quite heavy-set.”

“Hmm.  Then it certainly wasn’t Narko,” Ames murmured to Tom.

The young inventor nodded.  “I believe I know him.  The name just came back to me.  I met a Professor Runkle in New York about a month ago, at a scientific convention.  He was a member of the visiting Brungarian delegation.”

“We’ll check on him,” Ames promised.  He turned back sternly to the young actor.  “All right, Nolan, I guess you can go.  But I warn you—­no more impersonations.”

After more flustered apologies, the actor hurried out, obviously relieved.

“What a dumb egg he is!” Bud muttered.

“In a way he may have helped us,” Tom pointed out.  “If the Brungarian rebels hadn’t found out about Exman, we couldn’t have lured them into that kidnap plot.  It’s already helped us to save the Bona Fide Submarine Building Corporation.”

Monday morning Ames reported that Professor Runkle had left the country.  Tom was not sorry, since an arrest and public trial might have led to dangerous publicity about Exman.  The probings of a sharp-tongued defense attorney might even have tipped off the Brungarian to Tom’s real purpose in letting the space brain be hijacked.

Meanwhile, a telephone call from Washington announced that State Department men were flying to Enterprises to confer with the Swifts about taking official action against the Brungarian attacks.  The group arrived by jet after lunch.  Thurston of the CIA was also present.

“The problem is this,” a State Department official said as they discussed the matter in the Swifts’ office.  “Should we bring charges against Brungaria before the United Nations?  Or should we rely on other means, short of war, to block the Brungarian rebel coup?”

Mr. Swift frowned thoughtfully.  “It might be difficult to prove they were responsible for the earthquake attacks,” he pointed out.

“I’d say it’s impossible,” Tom said, “unless we give away the secret about our electronic spy.”  He paused, then added, “Sir, if the State Department will agree, I’d like more time before you make any official moves.”

The Quakelizors, Tom argued, seemed to offer protection against any future quake waves, unless the power of the shocks was greatly stepped up.  Meantime, working through Exman, Tom might be able to provide the Brungarian loyalists with valuable information.  “I’m hoping it will help them overthrow the rebel clique and their brutal allied military bosses.”

The State Department men conferred, then Thurston spoke up quietly, “In our opinion, it’s worth a gamble.”

After the group had left, the Swifts resumed their sensing experiments in Tom’s private laboratory.  They were hard at work when the signal bell suddenly rang on the electronic brain.

The two scientists rushed to read the incoming message.  It said: 

    EXMAN TO SWIFTS.  ONE ENEMY EARTHQUAKE PRODUCER IS AT…

Here the message gave precise latitude and longitude figures.  It went on: 

    RUIN OF SWIFT PLACE IN ONE WEEK.

Tom and his father gasped in dismay.  “I thought the New York-New England Quakelizor was going to protect us!” the young inventor exclaimed.  “Our enemies must have located another earth fault with Enterprises right in its path!”

Hastily opening an atlas, Tom fingered the location of the proposed source of attack.  It was Balala Island off the coast of Peru.

“Dad, that settles it!” Tom declared grimly.  “It’s clear now that those Brungarian rebels want to destroy us and use Exman in some way to conquer the earth!”

“I don’t doubt that you’re right, son,” Mr. Swift said grimly.  “We must act fast!  But how?”

Again, the signal bell interrupted.  This time, Exman gave a number of military details, evidently picked up from orders issuing from Brungarian rebel headquarters.  They concerned incoming troop movements from the north and operational plans for crushing out the last pockets of resistance by loyal government forces.

Tom recorded them with TV tape, then snatched up the telephone and called the Central Intelligence Agency in Washington.  He relayed the information from Exman and asked if American agents could transmit it to the loyalists.

“Don’t worry.  Well see that it reaches them,” the CIA chief assured Tom.  “Many thanks.  This could have important consequences.”

As Tom hung up he decided on a bold move.  “Dad, I’m going to lead a raid on Balala!”

“A raid!” The elder scientist was electrified.

“According to the atlas, the island is barren and deserted,” Tom said, “so no friendly power will object if we land there.  If it’s being used as an enemy base for quake attacks against our country, we have every right to investigate.  I might be able to learn the secret of the setup—­perhaps even put the equipment out of commission.”

“Nevertheless, a raid by a United States force could lead to trouble if the base there puts up any resistance,” Mr. Swift said gravely.

“That’s why I intend to handle it myself,” Tom declared.  “I’ll take all responsibility.”

Tom Sr.’s eyes flashed as he recalled some of his own hair-raising exploits in younger days.  “All right, son,” he said, putting a hand on Tom’s shoulder.  “I know I can trust your judgment.  Good luck!”

Again Tom issued a call for volunteers.  Bud, Hank Sterling, Arv Hanson, and Chow were all eager to take part.  Within an hour they were taking off for Fearing.  At the rocket base, they embarked in the Sea Hound, Tom’s favorite model of his diving seacopter.  A powerful central rotor with reversible-pitch blades, spun by atomic turbines, enabled the craft to rise through the air or descend into the deepest abysses of the ocean.  Propulsion jets gave it high speed in either medium.

Loaded with equipment, the Sea Hound streaked southward through the skies—­first to Florida, then across the Gulf and Central America into the Pacific.  Here Tom eased down to the surface of the water and submerged.

It was near midnight when the Sea Hound rose from the depths just off Balala.  The lonely rocky island lay outlined like a huddled black mass against the star-flecked southern sky.  No glimmer of light showed anywhere ashore.

“Maybe no one’s here,” Bud murmured.

“Don’t bank on that,” Tom said.  “They wouldn’t be apt to advertise their presence to passing ships or planes.”

Tom nosed inshore as closely as he dared from sonar soundings, finally easing the Sea Hound up to a rocky reef that fingered out from the beach.  Then he, Bud, Hank, and Arv clambered out, armed with wrecking tools and powerful flashlights.

Chow, in spite of his muttered grumblings, was ordered to stay aboard and guard the ship with the other two crewmen who had come along.

Tom led his party cautiously ashore from the reef.  They probed the darkness of the beach.  Their footfalls sounded eerily in the night silence, broken only by the soughing of the sea wind and splash of breakers.

“Good place for spooks!” Bud whispered jokingly.

A steep draw led upward among the rocky slopes.  A hundred feet on, Tom’s group found the black yawning mouth of a cave.  The yellow beams of their flashlights revealed a tunnel leading downward inside.  Tom checked with a pocket detector.  Its gauge needle showed no field force caused by electrical equipment in operation.

“Okay, let’s go in!” Tom murmured.

Cautiously they moved into the tunnel.  Then suddenly ahead of them a powerful dazzling light burst on, nearly blinding the searchers!