Free Tom swift and the Captive Planetoid by Victor Appleton II Page A

The rocket had been named after Eradicate Sampson, the long-time faithful friend of the first Tom Swift, the young inventor’s great-grandfather.
    In the distance the huge Challenger loomed ready for takeoff. “She’s prepped and ready in case you two end up stranded,” declared Amos Quezada, the chief spaceflight controller. “Not that I have any doubt about a Swift invention, Tom! I may just go swimming.”
    Tom laughed. “Bud and I may end up swimming too—if something goes haywire when we drop in the ocean. We have our emergency paraglide system as backup. But really, every part of the D-Wing setup has been thoroughly checked out.”
    “Sure, as always , pal,” Bud retorted nervously. “But you still ended up on the wrong side of a tornado. You’ve heard of Murphy’s Law—if anything can go wrong, something will go wrong!”
    “Sure, there’s always a margin of risk,” Tom admitted in a serious tone of voice. “That doesn’t keep you from test-piloting for Enterprises, does it? Sooner or later the duratherm wing has to be test-flown, and since I invented it, I may as well be the man in the cockpit!”
    Bud looked sheepish, then grinned. “Correction, genius boy—we’ll both be in the cockpit!”
    Tom and Bud looked at each other in silence for a moment. Then the young inventor chuckled and squeezed his pal’s arm. “And that’s really ‘as always’!”
    The gantry elevator carried the spacesuited pair up to the hatch of the tiny test craft, which was hardly bigger than Bud’s scarlet convertible. Attached to the nose of the Eagle was the compact, drum-shaped D-Wing pack. The boys took their places in the pilot’s and copilot’s seats, their shoulders almost touching, and the final checkout proceeded smoothly. Meanwhile, radar antennae were turning steadily, scanning the skies above the island—and the two were very aware that many other instruments and devices were on patrol. “And Dad’s watching us on the megascope,” Tom reminded his chum.
    Liftoff was routine. Tom eased the Fire Eagle into orbit at an altitude of approximately two hundred miles, then reported to Amos Quezada that all was ready. “Happy landings!” replied the mission controller over the young inventor’s Private Ear Radio.
    “Right,” muttered Bud. “I think we’re a little more concerned with the getting-down than the landing .” Bud had been shaken by Tom’s recent brush with death—by the sight of his friend pinned like a bug in the tornado tunnel. It haunted him.
    Tom grinned through his transparent bubble helmet and circled a thumb and forefinger. “Come on, this is how we have fun! But if you want, I could let you off. Next bus on this route comes by in a few days...”
    “Aaa. Hit it, pal!”
    “Okay, here we go. ‘Oh help, we’re stuck in orbit!’ But never fear!” He pressed a button on the Spektor control unit attached to the main board. Looking forward through the two small portholes in front of them, the astronauts watched the cylindrical package on the Fire Eagle ’s nose burst open like a flower-bud filmed in fast motion. The Durafoam sheath, its metallumin filaments glistening in the harsh sunlight, shot out into space in a flash and immediately molded itself into its programmed delta-wing shape, the twin tail booms streaming aft. In seconds the D-Wing had enclosed the Fire Eagle completely, like a protective hand. Light from the two portholes was blocked out.
    “Skipper, I didn’t think to ask this before, but—just how do we see to steer this baby down?” Bud asked. “Just fly on instruments only?”
    Tom replied, “The wing comes equipped with its own built-in instrumentation and ‘brain.’ It handles the reentry and landing almost entirely on its own, though there’s a PER-type link to Fearing to allow some remote monitoring—and remote steering if necessary. But I’ve told the control team to leave us to our own devices unless something serious goes