Tom Swift Jr - And His Space Solartron Part 13

Tom tested some with a Swift spectroscope, then nodded, grinning. "Taste it."

Chow did so, somewhat gingerly. His sun-bronzed leathery face cracked into a broad smile. "Boss, this takes the cake!" he exclaimed. "Machine-made groceries! Brand my coyote cutlets, I never would 'a' believed it!"

"Chow," said Tom, "get me some spoons, dishes, a bowl, and an egg beater from the galley, will you?"

As the cook hurried off, Tom resumed his production of simple food compounds. He made citric acid, several fats resembling corn oil, a gelatinlike protein substance, and finally water. When Chow returned with the utensils, Tom mixed the gelatin in water, added some sugar and citric acid, and set the mixture aside to jell. Finally he whipped the fats, water, and the remaining sugar into a texture similar to whipped cream.

"To top off our lemon gelatin," Tom explained. The others were speechless.

After it had jelled, Tom served a dishful to each man. In a moment they were smacking their lips and p.r.o.nouncing the concoction delicious.

"It's nourishing too," said Doc Simpson. "A person could live on it indefinitely."

"Of course, sirloin steak and onions might taste good for a change, every so often," Bud remarked.

"Give me time." Tom grinned. "With a lit- 126 .

tie experimenting, I might come up with something that tastes like steer."

"Reckon the Texas cattle business is safe for a while yet," Chow remarked.

"But this stuff sure tastes a heap better'n some o' them dried-up rations we used to take on s.p.a.ce cruises!"

"Better watch out, Chow, or this solartron may put you out of business," Bud teased.

"A good cook ain't never out of a job, son," Chow retorted calmly.

"You can say that again, Chow!" Tom chuckled, slapping the old Westerner fondly on the back.

After much urging, Tom was persuaded to lie down for a nap. He found himself more tired than he realized and finally dropped off to sleep. But almost at once, it seemed, his radio was flashing him awake. Ken Horton was calling from the s.p.a.ce station.

"Tom, we just had another radio call from your dad and Ted!"

"I want to talk to them!" Tom cried, springing up from his bunk.

"Can't do it," Ken answered. "The call was just like last time. Both Mr. Swift and Ted said a few sentences and then signed off. When we tried to signal your dad, he didn't respond, or Ted either."

Tom groaned with frustration. "What did they say?"

"Same thing. They're on the moon and want you to come and get them. One thing, though,"

MOON SEARCH 127.

Ken added, "we got a fix on their signal and it was definitely coming from the moon."

"That's good enough for me," Tom declared. "Pa.s.s the word to embark. We'll unhook the power gatherers. Same crew as before, plus Doc Simpson."

Everyone responded eagerly. Soon the powerful s.p.a.ce craft was zooming moon ward. When it was well underway, Tom ordered his crew to rotate watches-each man to s.n.a.t.c.h an hour's sleep at a time.

Later, when Chow was serving cocoa and sandwiches, the intercom buzzed in the flight compartment. "Just picked up another call from your dad, skipper!"

the radioman reported.

"Anything new?" Tom asked tensely.

"He said you'd find him and Ted Spring in the same location where you made your landing on the moon last time. That was all. Then he signed off."

"Okay. Thanks, Marty," Tom said. "Keep monitoring the same frequency."

"Roger!"

Bud flashed the young pilot a questioning glance. "I suppose your dad meant when you and I landed on the repelatron donkeys."

The "donkeys" were small flying platforms, also nicknamed flying carpets, which Tom had invented for moon transport work on his earlier trip. Each platform was about three feet square, with a housing for the repelatron which held it aloft by force ray. The pilot steered by means 128 .

of a small hand-control box at the end of a six-foot wire.

Bud asked, "Tom, do you think the message from your dad was on the level?"

Tom shrugged uneasily. "I don't know, Bud. I can't figure out why neither Dad nor Ted will respond to our calls. It doesn't make sense."

As Tom gunned the repelatrons to full power, they blazed through the void at cometlike speed. No one broke the tense silence. All eyes in the flight compartment were glued to the view panes.

Ahead of them the moon loomed with a white and ghostly radiance. Its face was pock-marked with craters and ridged with jagged mountain ranges, while the lunar plains or "seas" showed as smooth dark patches.

In two more hours the Challenger was hovering a hundred miles above the moon's surface. Tom steered for the Crater of Copernicus, scene of his previous landing, "Take over the controls, Bud!" he ordered.

Eagerly Tom focused the ship's powerful telescope and scanned the terrain below. Light-colored streaks radiated outward from the rim of the crater. Inside the towering rock walls, the bowl-like surface was strewn with gritty dust and rubble.

"See anything?" Hanson asked.

Tom shook his head. "Not a trace of a recent landing so far as I can make out. Cruise around in widening circles, Bud."

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The crater was fifty or sixty miles in width and the telescope showed every detail of its interior with needle-sharp clarity. Yet Tom could discern no evidence of movement, nor unusual marks in the gritty debris.

Grim-faced with disappointment, Tom turned the telescope over to Arv Hanson and went back to the controls. He brought the ship still lower and began circling farther and farther beyond the crater. Yawning cracks and crevices, spiny mountain ridges, and tumbled heaps of rocks pa.s.sed below them.

"Hold it, skipper!" Arv cried. "Go back over that stretch of lava sand we just pa.s.sed."

Tom swiveled the steering repelatrons to turn the ship around, then retraced his course slowly.

"There it is!" Arv shouted. "Tom, I believe that's a rocket half-buried in the sand!"

Tense with excitement, Tom got up to peer through the telescope, while Bud held the ship hovering over the spot. "You're right, Arv," the young inventor said tersely. "Want to come along while I examine it, Bud?"

"Sure do. Take over, will you, Arv?"

The two boys hurried down to the hangar deck, donned their s.p.a.ce suits, and carried two repela-tron donkeys out through the air lock. They sailed off the ship's landing platform and swooped downward. What would they find inside? Tom wondered tensely.

As soon as the donkey touched ground, Tom leaped off and ran to examine the rocket more MOON SEARCH 131.

closely. There was no hatch or other opening in the part sticking above the sand.

Eager to find out if the rocket held an occupant, Tom tapped out a message in International Code. He held his ear close to the hull, but could detect no response.

"Bud, we must find out if anyone's inside!" the young inventor said urgently.

"Help me turn it over!"

CHAPTER XV.

THE HALF-BURIED ROCKET.

EXCITEDLY the two boys pushed and tugged at the rocket. But it had plowed too deeply into the ground to be loosened easily.

"Now what?" Bud asked.

Lacking digging tools, he and Tom were at a disadvantage.

"Let's kick at the dirt," Tom suggested.

Together the boys clawed at the coa.r.s.e lava 5and with their boots. Finally they freed the rocket and turned it over.

"There's the entry hatch," said Tom, pointing to a closely fitting door outlined in the hull.

"How do we open it?" Bud asked.

"Hmm, good question."

Tom fingered the hatch until he found a place where it yielded to pressure and the door sprang open. Tom and Bud gasped at the contents. There was no one inside. Instead, the rocket contained a ma.s.s of electronic equipment, including several tape recorders and a powerful radio transmitter.

132.

THE HALF-BURIED ROCKET 133.

"Well, for Pete's sake!" Bud cried out. "What does this mean? Did the rocket land here by mistake?"

"No, it was sent here on purpose. It's tuned to our special frequency." Tom said grimly after a glance at the dial.

"You mean this is what's been sending us those radio messages we thought were from your father and Ted?"

Tom nodded, tight-lipped. "I'd bet on it. Let's check these recording tapes."

"Good night! Don't touch the stuff, Tom!" Bud begged. "It may have some kind of alarm mechanism that will warn your enemy we're here!"

The words were hardly out of his mouth when one of the tape recorders switched on automatically and began to play. Ted Spring's voice came blaring out of the loud-speaker.

"Calling Tom Swift at the outpost! This is Ted Spring speaking. Come and rescue us, Tom! Your father and I are stranded on the moon!"

Mr. Swift's voice joined in. "Please come at once, son. We can't hold out much longer. Our location on the moon is near the same spot where you landed before."

Tom and Bud exchanged stunned glances as the broadcast ended. "There's your answer, Bud," the young inventor muttered. "If you ask me, Dad and Ted have never been near this place. The rocket was sent to the moon to lure us up here!"

134 .

"Then Arv was right!" Bud exclaimed. "We've walked into a trap!"

Ruefully Tom admitted that this could be true and an attack might be imminent.

"Then let's clear out p.r.o.nto!" Bud urged. "Why wait for them to capture us?"

He started to steer off.

Tom grinned wryly through his transparent bubble helmet. "Relax, pal. If they've already detected us, there's no point in trying to sneak off. Now that we're here, let's find out as much as we can."

"Like for instance?" Bud inquired, still feeling that they should leave at once.

"You go over the rocket and see if you can find any markings which might give us a clue to the sender," Tom replied. "In the meantime, I want to examine these tapes. I have a hunch the pattern is a broadcast every four hours."

The boys conducted their examination as tensely as if they were handling a time bomb.

"No luck," Bud reported a few minutes later. "I've been over every inch of the hull and motor section. She's clean as a whistle."

"Well, I've found out something," Tom said. "These tapes have been spliced."

"Spliced?" Bud was puzzled. "You mean-"

"I mean these messages are as phony as a nine-dollar bill! They've been pieced together out of entirely different conversations."

"Oh, now I get it!" Bud exclaimed. "They quizzed your dad and Ted for hours, and re- THE HALF-BURIED ROCKET 135.

corded every word they said. Then they snipped out a few words here and a few words there, and pieced them together into brand-new tapes."

"Exactly. So when the spliced tapes are played back, they sound like calls for help."

Bud scowled angrily. "Of all the dirty tricks! Boy, would I like to get my hands on those rats!"

"I want to as much as you, so I can find Dad and Ted. Well, maybe we can,"