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

wrong.”
    “Still—kinda nerve-wracking to set down without knowing what we’re setting-down on .”
    “I know—which is why I’ve designed things so that during reentry a small section of the sheathing fuselage, guided into position over the viewports by means of the transifoil, will purposely be allowed to burn away to a thin layer. Then we can blow-off that last bit, to provide pilot visibility and a degree of cabin control during the final landing maneuvers. Oh, by the way, flyboy...”
    “What?”
    “We’re already on our way down! The gravitexes started running as soon as the wing was fully expanded.”
    “Thanks for telling me! What now, Skipper?” Bud asked.
    “Relax.”
    “Not funny!”
    “We’re poor helpless space victims! Nothing much to do—except watch the gauges and keep our fingers crossed till it’s time to fly manually.”
    Like a hurtling meteor, the spacecraft bit deeper and deeper into earth’s blanket of air. Tense minutes passed, and the D-Wing’s temperature shot up.
    Suddenly Bud saw a tense look of fear creep over Tom’s face. “Aw jetz . Just to be polite I’m gonna ask you: Anything wrong?” the copilot queried.
    “Look at those temperature needles! We’re overheating all over the wing! The heat cells aren’t functioning properly!”
    “Glad I asked.”
    Tom frantically studied the absorption terminal output ammeters and adjusted various controls, but the skin temperature gauges continued to soar.
    Bud’s face paled and his heart thudded. No more jokes! Unless Tom could correct the trouble, they would plunge to fiery destruction in the atmosphere—or crash horribly if the craft somehow survived reentry!
     

CHAPTER 8
BUZZ BOMBERS
    THE PRIVATE EAR unit beeped with its incoming message alert. “ Fire Eagle , what’s going on up there? We’re showing nom-plus thermal on the shell! ”
    “Acknowledged, Control. Amos, I’m trying to work it out.”
    “We can get the Challenger up there—”
    “No time!” choked Tom Swift. “Look—the Eagle’s own metallumin coating won’t burn through at these temps. Give me time, Amos!”
    As Tom clicked off the PER, Bud said fearfully: “We’re safe at these temps—but we’re just starting reentry.” Bud’s pal didn’t reply. “I—I know you hate to hear this as much as I hate to say it, but—maybe you should jettison the D-Wing and deploy the backup paraglider.”
    The young inventor didn’t break his attention to look at his friend, but the reply was dead grim. “I’ve been trying to activate the system. The explosive bolts are malfunctioning.”
    “And... unless you jettison the wing, you can’t use the chute. Yeah. —Tom, what’s fouling up the heat cells? More of what happened in the tunnel?”
    “I don’t know. I don’t think so.” The young inventor strained to focus his attention and his genius. His eyes remained glued to the gauges. Bud stared ahead at his own white reflection in the black-backed porthole viewpane.
    They plummeted.
    “I still have some control,” muttered Tom. “The heat and plasma-corona are interfering with the transifoil, but I can tweak the aerodynamics at least a little.”
    “Hey, how about the gravitexes?”
    “Support struts are warped out of line. Besides, yanking us one way or another won’t make much difference to the outside temperature—”
    “ Look !” Bud cried, pointing. “The Durafoam’s starting to burn through!”
    A rectangular area of the D-Wing, directly in the boys’ line of sight in front of the twin portholes, was glowing red—then white. It began to flake and sizzle away!
    “The visibility slot,” pronounced Tom dully. “It’s supposed to burn away, but not so soon. The forward surface of the wing is already as hot as if the reentry phase were near completion!”
    “Doesn’t sound so good, Skipper.”
    “The durathermor system has failed completely. We’re doing a basic ballistic reentry with no parachutes, no