They skirted the edge of a meadow, looking intently among the trees that lined the road.
“There he is!” Bud exclaimed, pointing across the field. “Dangling in that tree!”
From where they were, the three could distinguish a man, swaying from one of the trees on the edge of the open expanse, about fifteen feet off the ground. Mr. Swift whipped a first-aid kit from the dashboard compartment, as the boys leaped from the car and ran to aid the pilot.
“It’s Rip Hulse, all right!” Tom exclaimed.
The pilot hung suspended by the shroud lines of a parachute. Its canopy was caught fast in the topmost branches. Looking up, the others could see a smear of blood across the airman’s face, and his right arm hung crookedly.
Though conscious, Hulse was still dazed, for he stared at them as if not fully aware that help had arrived.
“We’ll get you down,” Tom called up to him.
Quickly he and Bud clambered up the tree to a position above Rip. With a firm grip on him they severed the cords from the main body of the chute, then carefully lowered him. Mr. Swift eased the pilot to the ground.
By this time, Ripcord Hulse was regaining his wits. Perspiration streamed down his face and he was obviously in great pain.
“My shoulder …” he said falteringly, “disloThe boys leaped from the car and ran to aid the pilot 60 TOM SWIFT AND HIS FLYING LAB
cated … always happens … like a trick knee. Pull the arm straight out for me …”
Tom jumped forward to help. Gently he exerted pressure on the flier’s injured arm until there was a sudden relief of tension, and the arm snapped back into the shoulder socket. There was a gasp from Rip, then a smile of thanks.
“This is a fine way for me to arrive for a visit,” he said, sitting up.
“Never mind that. I’m glad you’re safe,” Tom replied.
Mr. Swift introduced Bud, then examined the cut on Rip’s cheekbone.
Satisfied that it was not a bad injury, he applied antiseptic and then placed a patch on it.
As Ripcord tried to stand up, one leg gave way. Tom and Bud grabbed him.
“We’re taking you straight to the hospital,” said Mr. Swift.
“Guess I can’t make it at that,” the pilot said. “But before we go, let’s take a look at the wreckage for evidence of sabotage.”
“Sabotage?” Tom repeated. “Do you think that was the cause of the explosion?”
Rip’s face darkened, and his wide generous mouth became a thin line.
“I’m afraid so. Ever since I was given the job of trailing a suspicious A.W.O.L.
Air Force pilot, I’ve run into trouble. I think a bomb was placed on board.”
The boys gathered in the deflated chute, then went in search of pieces of the plane. They found
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them about half a mile away, scattered over a wide area.
“It’s going to be tough for the FBI to find any evidence of sabotage,” Tom commented.
Bud kicked at a couple of the smaller remnants of the once sleek jet and remarked wryly, “Even those brainy boys’ll have a tough time figuring anything out of bits like these!”
On the way to the hospital Mr. Swift telephoned news of the disaster to the FBI. He also asked that the local police have a man guard the debris.
Meanwhile, Tom had been giving Rip a description of the Sky Queen. The ace’s eyes lighted in anticipation of the initial test. Then suddenly he remembered his injuries.
“But I can’t hold you up,” he said. “I don’t know how long this leg’ll keep me in the hospital. I hope it isn’t fractured.”
Tom told him that they would gladly hold up the test a few days. “Let us know what the doctor says.”
A few hours later the flier phoned that the injury to his leg was not so serious as he had thought and he would be ready for the test flight three days later.
“Good,” said Tom. “We’ll wait.”
In the meantime, Tom again examined the hoists for the mammoth elevator that would raise the Sky Queen to ground level. He decided that one of the compressor motors should be stepped up. After leaving orders for this to be done, Tom heaved a sigh of relief. Now he could concentrate on the uranium-detector idea.
A few minutes later Bud found him in the under-62 TOM SWIFT AND HIS FLYING LAB
ground hangar office drawing a sketch on the back of an envelope.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“My latest brain storm,” Tom replied.
“About what?”
“A novel idea for a long-range radioactivity detector.”
“How is it novel?” Bud asked.
Tom ran his fingers through his already rumpled hair. “This gets away from the Geiger-counter idea completely. I’m going to our optical lab to work on it.
Want to come?”
“Lead the way, genius,” Bud answered. “If this is the birth of something big, I want to be in on it.”
“You’d better plan to spend some long hours at it,” Tom told him.
“I’ll help,” Bud declared loyally.
The two boys made their way to a small cubicle of the Flying Lab which had only recently been furnished. Inside was a long bench, equipped with calipers, grinding wheels and tools, and a wide assortment of prisms and lenses.
Tom switched on a bright light, then opened a wall cabinet containing some new equipment which Bud had not seen. He whistled in surprise.
“Boy! What photographic equipment! Are you going to take pictures? I thought you were working on a detector.”
“I am,” Tom said with a smile. “Photography will be part of the invention.”
“Now look, Tom,” Bud said skeptically, “don’t
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tell me you intend to take a picture of a radioactive wave!”
Tom was so busy adjusting a large lens that he did not hear the question. Bud followed his friend to the workbench and repeated the query.
“You’re on the right track,” Tom replied.
Tom’s hands worked with dexterity as he went about his task, whistling softly to himself. This was proof to Bud that everything was working out to the inventor’s satisfaction.
The copilot watched in growing wonder for nearly an hour as Tom worked methodically on what resembled a large, old-fashioned box camera, which was two feet square and made of heavy metal.
“For the love of aerodynamics, Tom,” Bud said, finally unable to restrain his curiosity any longer, “just what are you doing?”
Without pausing in his work or looking up from the bench, Tom replied, “Know what happens in nuclear decomposition?”
“Yes. Radiation.”
“Right. Then what?”
Bud scratched his head. “I give up. What?”
“It produces fluorescence in neighboring molecules. Like making watch hands glow in the dark.”
“At this point I’m completely lost in a cloud bank,” Bud admitted.
Tom’s hands ceased their activity for a moment and he stared straight ahead, as if looking through space.
“Now, a bed of uranium ore won’t glow in the
64 TOM SWIFT AND HIS FLYING LAB
dark,” Tom continued, as if visualizing the complete invention, “but I’m going to try constructing a photometer with nonabsorptive prisms. With it we might be able to detect fluorescence from considerable distances, and record its density on photographic film. Bring me a roll of motion-picture film from cabinet C, will you, please?”
Bud marveled at the rapid-fire functioning of his friend’s mind. Getting the film, he took it to the workbench, where Tom fitted it into the contraption.
“Say, pal, it’s way past suppertime,” Bud reminded him.
“Well, how about getting us some sandwiches and milk? And phone Mother that I might not be home tonight, will you?”
“Hey, Tom, have a heart. You want me to starve to death?”
“Suit yourself, but bring me some food,” Tom said, slapping his friend on the shoulder.
Bud went off, returning presently with double portions for both of them. At three o’clock the next morning light still glowed in the optical laboratory.
Inside, Tom Swift, his collar open and his tie loosened, was drilling screw holes in the black box.
“This just about does it, Bud,” he said excitedly. “Hey, Bud! Wake up! You’re a fine assistant!”
Seated on a stool beside Tom, his head resting on his arms, Bud Barclay was snoring gently.
“Huh? What? What did you say, Tom?”
“I said wake up. This radioactivity detector is nearly finished. Grab a handful of two-inch metal
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screws and set them just where I’ve drilled these holes.”
A half-hour later Tom stood back from the black box.
“This is it, Bud,” he said. “If my invention works, it will detect uranium in those South American mountains no matter how deep it’s buried!”
CHAPTER IX
GHOSTLY PHOTOS
“SOUNDS TERRIFIC, Tom!” Bud said. “When do we try out your midnight brain storm?”
“After we catch forty winks.”
“That I’m glad to hear!” Bud yawned. Tom smiled because his friend had had forty winks every hour since eleven o’clock.