Free Tom Swift and the Mystery Comet by Victor Appleton II Page A

to the next spot."
    "Roger!— Skipper ."
    Asking Hanson and Sterling to monitor the telesampler’s overall performance through the main board monitor readouts on the command deck, Tom climbed down into the searchlight bay and wriggled into a small fold-down seat facing the telesampler console. A low hum came from the machine as he switched on power. Thrilled as always to commence chipping away at the Unknown, Tom shoved a lever. Through the observation slit in the bulkhead before him, he saw the emitter antenna of the transmission unit move out into position, silhouetted against mottled ground and bright sky. He aimed it at a bare patch of soil below and tuned the circuits.
    A blink of light on the monitoring board proclaimed welcome news even before Tom glanced into the sample receptacle. "Got something!" he chortled over the ship intercom. "Just a tiny smudge—but something!"
    "Congratulations, Tom," Hank Sterling commed in reply. "Everything meters out fine up here—the output profile is exactly as you calculated."
    With a grin of pure pleasure, Tom eyed the master analysis oscillograph. "Dredged up some aluminum silicate—that’s clay to you boys up there. Let’s try that next hill, Pilot Barclay."
    The Sky Queen moved ahead with a twitch of forward power, ambling along slowly on its jet lifters. Again Tom aimed and tuned the telesampler beam-transmitter.
    He frowned in startled surprise at the indication on the readout panel—but only for a split second. Before he could give name to his thoughts, a blinding flash arced upward from the ground and the compartment exploded around him in purple-white lightning!
     

CHAPTER 8
THE USUAL SUSPECT
    THE INTERCOM speakers throughout the skyship screeched like fingernails on a blackboard, then collapsed into static. "What’s happened?" gulped Hank Sterling.
    "Jetz! Tom !" choked Bud. A swath of indicators on his board were flashing red! With a single sweep of hand he switched on the craft’s sophisticated automatic pilot system and rocketed out of his seat toward the metal stairs leading down to the bottom deck. Wisps of yellow-gray smoke were already billowing up the stairwell, and the air was tainted by the acrid smell of fried electronics.
    The youth was horrified by the sight that met his eyes as he leapt from the bottom step in the direction of the searchlight bay. The overhead lights, flickering dully, gave only faint illumination to a compartment thick with stinging smoke. Visibility zero! thought the copilot desperately. The searchlight bay must be on fire!
    Bud tensed to dash forward through the smoke. Then he drew back—a dark silhouette loomed up in the bay hatchway in front of him. As it came nearer, he made out two figures: Lethal Monica and, sagging and stumbling in the grip of his arms, Tom.
    "H-how—how is—?" Bud stuttered.
    " T’neb —here, help lower him," gasped Lett. "The air low down―"
    "I know, better," said Bud, taking half his pal.
    The young inventor was stunned but conscious. As Bud and Lett eased him down flat, he whispered, "I’m—I’ll be okay—the air circulators..."
    "Hank, step up the air system!" Bud shouted up the stairwell. "Arv, get down here with a flashlamp!"
    Even as Arv Hanson joined them, flashlamp in hand, the ship’s interior circulation and filtration system had begun to whisk away the pungent smoke. Tom sat up weakly, ignoring Bud’s gentle protest. "No... no, I’m all right. Nothing broken."
    "What about your eyes?" asked Lett.
    "Still working. There was no concussive blast, fortunately; no flying glass. Got a few burns and scrapes, though—oww!"
    "If you think you’re all right," said Arv, "I guess the next question is—what about the ship? Was the hull breached?"
    Tom rose to his feet unsteadily before he answered. "No. I’m sure we’re intact. At least... Swift and the Sky Queen are intact. From the glimpse I got, I’d say our test routine is over for today."
    Tom slowly approached the bay hatchway and