A MAGNETIC KIDNAPING
"The space people or some enemy's invadin' us!" Chow shouted. "Take a
squint through your telescope, boss! Brand my bazooka, they may be
landin' any second!"
More people came streaming in, attracted by the chef's cries and
gesticulations. Some were bewildered, a few frightened. Others were
laughing, thinking the whole thing a joke. The scene was rapidly taking
on the proportions of a riot!
"Whoa! Slow down, Chow!" Tom ordered, trying to make himself heard above
the din.
"It--it's the truth, boss!" Chow stammered, mopping his brow with a huge
red bandanna. "Why, sufferin' rattlesnakes, didn't I hear 'em spoutin'
their space lingo with my own ears?"
"You heard _what_?" Bud said.
"Spoutin' space talk!" the cook repeated. "It come right over the
loud-speaker in the galley! They was chitter-chatterin' plottin' to blow
us all to smithereens!"
"That's a fact! We heard it, too!" one of the workmen chimed in.
Tom and Bud looked at each other blankly. Then suddenly Tom's eyes
kindled with a dawning suspicion. Whirling around, he rushed over to
inspect the public-address outlet on the wall.
Meanwhile, Mr. Swift had just driven in through the main gate of
Enterprises. "What's going on?" he asked the guard at the gate, noting
the excited hubbub around Tom's laboratory.
"Don't rightly know, sir," the guard replied. "I was wondering myself. I
know it sounds crazy, but I thought I heard someone yelling there was
going to be a space attack."
Mr. Swift's eyebrows lifted in amazement. Without further discussion, he
stepped on the accelerator and sped off along the paved drive. Seconds
later, his car braked to a stop near Tom Jr.'s private laboratory. The
scientist jumped out and made his way through the milling crowd.
"What's going on?" Mr. Swift stared in astonishment at Tom and Bud, who
were both doubled up with laughter.
"A scrambled radio alert, Dad," Tom gasped between chuckles. "Chow
thought some Martian monsters were invading us, and sort of pushed the
panic button."
The Texan blushed as Tom explained what had happened. Realizing Chow's
embarrassment, Tom tried to make his mistake sound understandable.
Apparently the power line to the ion-drive control board had somehow
picked up the boys' scrambled conversation underwater. The signal had
been transferred by inductance in the wall wiring and amplified over the
public-address system.
"Our wall mike was on," Tom added, "and it probably picked up some of
the sound waves from the tank. Anyhow," he concluded, slapping the cook
affectionately on the back, "I'm sure glad we have a wide-awake hombre
like Chow in the outfit. It wouldn't be the first time he's saved our
necks!"
Chow perked up, and the employees, reassured, returned to their jobs.
"I have some news of my own," Mr. Swift announced with a smile as the
room cleared. "But I'm afraid it'll sound pretty tame compared to a
space attack."
"Let's hear it, Dad," Tom said eagerly.
"I've been conducting some experiments with those space plants," the
elder scientist said. "It looks as though they may prove to be a
valuable nutritional source."
The plants, Mr. Swift went on, showed promise of producing enormous
amounts of protein quickly and cheaply--enough to increase the world's
food supply by a sizable margin. Moreover, he had isolated a vitamin in
this protein not found in any of man's present foods.
"Doc Simpson has been working with me," Mr. Swift concluded. "He has
been doing some experiments of his own with a vitamin extract from the
space plants. He thinks it may prove highly beneficial to human beings."
Tom was thrilled, and even Bud realized that Mr. Swift's cautious report
could well turn out to be of history-making importance.
"I'd say your news makes a phony space attack look pretty tame, Dad,"
Tom said, his eyes flashing enthusiastically. "With the earth's
population increasing, this could be the answer to the food problem."
"Don't tell Chow," Bud added, "or we may find spaceburgers on the next
menu!"
The Swifts chuckled. Chow's hobby of concocting weird dishes was a
standing joke at Enterprises, and already had led to such dubious
triumphs as armadillo stew and rattlesnake soup.
Monday morning Tom buckled down seriously to the job of designing an
undetectable sub. His drawing board was littered with sketches and
diagrams when the phone rang, breaking in on his thoughts. Tom answered
it with a scowl of impatience. The caller was Lester Morris.
"Could you meet me at the yacht club to talk over the dance program?"
Morris asked.
Tom hesitated. For Sandy's and Phyl's sakes he was eager to do
everything possible to make the square dance a success. But on the other
hand....
"I'm pretty busy today," Tom said. "But my sister and my friend Bud
Barclay can tell you what we want--probably better than I can. Suppose I
ask them to meet you there after lunch?"
There was a slight pause. "Very well," Morris agreed, although he
sounded a bit annoyed.
After hanging up, Tom phoned Bud and asked him to keep the appointment.
Bud was only too happy to oblige, jumping at the chance to take Sandy
out to lunch beforehand.
At one o'clock the husky young pilot and his date strolled into the
yacht club lounge. Lester Morris was nowhere in sight, so they sat down
to wait. Twenty minutes later the musician still had not appeared.
"I hope he hasn't forgotten," Sandy said, glancing at her wrist watch.
"If he's a square-dance caller, his memory ought to be extra good," Bud
joked. "Fine thing if he can't even remember the time of day!"
After waiting a while longer, Bud decided to telephone Morris's home.
But at that moment a thin, seedy-looking man came into the lounge. His
close-set eyes and loudly striped suit combined to give him a somewhat
disreputable appearance.
"Good grief! Len Unger!" Sandy whispered. "What does he want with us?"
Unger was walking straight toward them. Both Bud and Sandy had met him
occasionally around town and found him obnoxious.
"Sorry, but Morris got tied up," Unger informed them. "He sent me to
talk to you."
Sandy's blue eyes met Bud's in a flicker of distaste, but she tried to
conceal her feelings. "Please sit down," she invited Unger politely.
"What square-dance numbers does Mr. Morris do?"
Len Unger shrugged. "You name 'em."
"But, my goodness," Sandy said, puzzled, "how do we know he'll have the
squares I name?"
Unger stared at her as if he did not quite understand. "You mean, can he
call off the dances you want? If he can't, I'll let you know."
"Does he do patter calls or singing calls?" Bud put in.
Again Unger hesitated, then said, "Both."
"Wonderful!" Sandy exclaimed gleefully. "I thought he only did singing
calls." After a moment's thought, she went on, "Well, let's see. What
about 'Birdie in the Cage'?... And 'The Gal from Arkansas' ... 'Uptown
and Downtown'...."
Unger jotted the names on the back of an envelope. Pausing a moment, he
remarked, "Guess your brother was too busy to make it today, eh, Miss
Swift? What kind of ex-spearmints is he working on now?"
"I really couldn't say," Sandy replied coldly. She always made it a
point not to discuss Tom Jr.'s or her father's research work with
outsiders.
Unger persisted chattily, "I read where he handled that Jupiter probe
shoot for the Navy."
"Let's get back to square dancing," snapped Bud. As he and Sandy
finished planning the program, Len Unger continued to drop remarks and
questions about "The Great Tom Swift" and his inventions. All prying
queries were side-stepped.
As soon as possible Sandy and Bud cut short the conversation and left
the yacht club. Unger's face wore an angry sneer as they walked out.
"What a creep!" Bud said, when he and Sandy were driving back in his red
convertible.
Meanwhile, in his private laboratory at Enterprises, Tom was somewhat
discouraged. He had tried several different experimental attacks on the
problem of an undetectable submarine. None had worked out successfully.
"I thought that idea of a sonar-wave baffle might lead somewhere," he
murmured, "but it looks as though I'm wrong."
Flopping down on a stool at his workbench, Tom cupped his chin in his
hands. He was frowning, deep in thought, as the pudgy figure of Chow
Winkler came into the laboratory.
"'Smatter, boss?" the cook inquired cheerfully. "Ain't your ole think
box workin' today?"
"Doesn't seem to be," Tom confessed.
"Give it time, son. Tomorrow's another day," Chow said philosophically.
"What you need is a haircut for the square dance."
Tom laughed in spite of himself. "Maybe you're right, Chow. Might help
me think better."
Tom got off the stool and stretched out the kinks in his legs. He
strolled outside with Chow, then scootered to the parking lot and hopped
into his sleek, silver sports car.
A moment later he was whizzing off in the direction of Shopton. Nearing
town, Tom turned off on a side-road short cut. He noticed in his mirror
that a truck behind him also turned off.
"Really barreling along!" Tom thought. "If you're in such a hurry, the
road's yours, pal."
He pulled over sharply, motioning the truck to pass. Instead, to Tom's
surprise, it closed in straight behind him. The next moment, Tom saw a
port open below the truck's hood and a strange-looking device pop out on
a springlike steel cable.
It clamped magnetically to Tom's rear bumper! His car was caught like a
fish on a line!
Tom stepped on the accelerator, trying to pull free. The truck at once
swerved off the road, steering around a utility pole. As the cable
tautened, there was a sickening screech of metal and the sports car was
brought to a crashing halt!
Tom's head slammed against the side window. With a groan, the young
inventor blacked out.