Free Tom Swift and His Repelatron Skyway by Victor Appleton II Page B

shots and papers, too. No problem bringing her back."
    "What is it?" Hank Sterling put in with a grin.
    "A bush baby—or galago. She’s very friendly."
    " Friendly? " Bud swung his muscular legs down from the bunk, landing on the deck with a furious thump. "When I woke up and saw that spook staring at me upside down I almost did a jet takeoff!"
    Chow howled with laughter.
    "And just what’re you laughing at?" Bud demanded.
    "A great big buckaroo like you scared out o’ his wits by that little critter!"
    Bud snorted. "Seems to me I remember hearing a story about a big brave Texan and another little― "
    "Aw now, you kin just fergit about what happened in New Guinea!" Chow interrupted, fuming and indignant. "Brand my ghost-dance, yew cain’t do a blame thing without it follerin’ you around fer the rest of― "
    "I was afraid to move," Bud muttered defensively. "It might have poked my eye out or bit my nose off."
    "I take it the thing won’t bite?" Tom asked Bill.
    "No, of course not," he said hastily. "The seller told me she was owned by a little old Kenya lady who brought her up from cub-hood. I—I guess should have asked permission to bring Bushy on board, but I didn’t think she’d bother anyone. She was curled up asleep in some of my gear. I didn’t think she’d go off exploring."
    "Uh-huh. She decided to explore me . Okay, okay. She is kinda cute I guess ," conceded Bud as the little creature timidly poked her ears and eyes out from Bill’s jacket. "But keep her away from me!—I’m all explored."
    As the group left Bud alone to resume his interrupted sleep, Tom whispered to Bill: "He’s melting already!"
    The next morning, as the rest of the crew readied the Sky Queen for the next leg of her mission, Tom decided to return to the stall where the ivory idol had been displayed. Bud accompanied him.
    The hour was early, but already the streets of the capital were thick with humanity. The youths found the little stall, already up and running, the owner working quietly and patiently as if he had never left, whittling a piece of wood.
    "Something tells me half these tribal antiques are newer than last Tuesday," Bud murmured with a smile.
    Tom chuckled. When he glanced up, he noticed that the carver had stopped work and was watching them closely.
    Indicating the small ivory statue, Tom asked, "How much?"
    The man stared at the American impassively, then suddenly resumed his carving. When Tom repeated the question, the response was barely audible. " Nkò mo nto wi. "
    "That’s putting it mildly," gibed Bud. "Maybe he doesn’t speak English."
    "With all these tourists? I’ll bet he does—at least ‘ how much? ’!" Tom took out his wallet. "We want to buy it. Please name a price."
    " Kise tita! " The carver shook his head. He did not look up.
    As Tom persisted, the craftsman grew excited. A crowd of locals began to gather, muttering ominously.
    "Wrong way, sirs, wrong way." The high-pitched voice came drifting in, on a thick accent, from nearby in the crowd. Looking back and forth, Tom couldn’t make out who had spoken at first. But presently another comment drew his eyes to a very short young African, no more than a child, who was looking on with a shrewd expression.
    "What did you mean— wrong way? " Tom asked him. "I only want to buy one of the items he’s selling."
    The boy laughed. "Oh yes, sirs, so you do! You were here last-day. So was I, sirs, and I saw you looking." He stepped closer to Tom as Bud watched suspiciously. "But no—um, um, um—you will not be able to buy it."
    "Yeah? How come? Isn’t it for sale?" demanded Bud.
    "Not to you, sirs."
    "Why?" asked Tom.
    "Because of your friend, the black man who was with you before," the boy replied. "This man here, Old Bu’umo—he will not sell to those who make friends with an Ulsusu. If he did, all his own friends would go away."
    Tom was amazed! "But—but that’s—!" He forced himself to stop sputtering. "Our friend is American, like us.