Read Online Tom Swift and His G-Force Inverter by Victor Appleton II - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Victor Appleton II
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carefully noted down the license plate number.
The plaza was open and had the occasional night stroller and security guards. Tom and Bud parked their scooters and strode across the ancient stones like casual tourists walking off a night of touristy drinking. "Very strong trace profile," Tom televoc’d.
"He sure made a beeline," commented Bud. "Didn’t wander around at all. Must have seen an easy mark."
"My guess is his ‘work’ hours were over. He wasn’t here to pick pockets, flyboy. He had some business to take care of at the Old Basilica. He may have arranged to meet someone at a certain spot."
"We’ll probably pick up his trail leading back, then."
Tom disagreed. "His pickup’s still parked in place. He may have gone off with whoever he met—"
"Or he may still be here!" Bud declared excitedly. "Tom—we’re mighty exposed out here on the plaza."
"No choice. All we can do is follow the trail. Even if we don’t get our hands on the guy, we could come across a clue as to where he hangs out."
"When he’s not on duty."
The trail took them into the moon-shadows of the ancient, looming structure. They proceeded cautiously, thinking that their presence might be challenged at any moment. But most security seemed to be focused on the modern basilica, where the image was housed.
They came across, and slipped through, chainlink fences with signs: Zona Construción . "Rampo did it just like we are," Bud whispered. "No one stopped him."
"Within the last hour, too. The traces are very strong and clear, layered over the trails of the zillions of tourist visitors. Bud—I think he went inside the cathedral."
"Sure. He’s a crook. Maybe he decided to make confession! But how are Swift and Barclay going to get inside?"
"Well, how about the same way Rampo did?" The trail led directly to a service door cut in a temporary plywood barrier. If there had ever been a padlock, there wasn’t one now!
They entered into darkness, but pulling open another plywood door they found themselves in a long corridor braced by two-by-four beams, a dim electric bulb burning at the far end. There were no sounds but their own footsteps crunching on the sawdust and shards of stonework and plaster. Bud asked by televoc, "Know the floorplan—I don’t suppose?"
"What counts is that Rampo did." The scent-trail was clear and confident.
They passed into the main body of the ancient cathedral—huge ornate rooms, long hallways, high windows of stained glass. Most of the furnishings had been removed from this portion of the old basilica, evidently in the middle of a decades-long restoration.
Bud pointed to some discarded styrofoam cups. "I hope they drank their ‘big gulp’ with reverence."
More doors, an arching portico—and suddenly they were in a vast and awesome space lit by slanting beams of moonlight. The floor was covered by row after row of pews. "The nave. This is where they used to display the tilma, I think," Tom murmured into his pal’s auditory nerve. "Looks refurbished, as best I can make out."
"Right. Safe for the tours. But not necessarily safe for us!" Bud added nervously, "Don’t you think some lights should be on in here? They must have security guards walking through, even after midnight."
"I agree," Tom pronounced grimly. "Someone killed the lights—and maybe took care of the guard as well."
"Man, I wish I had one of your impulse guns!"
"I’d settle for the sensitector."
They made their way up one of the side aisles as stealthily as possible. There was no sound—and then Bud gave a sudden, stifled grunt! "Tom!" he televoc’d. "Look down here!"
Lying between the pew benches was a limp body!
They approached the unmoving form cautiously. It was a man, lying crumpled face-up. Though his face was hard to make out in the dimness, he didn’t appear to be Mexican and had a short goatee.
Tom felt for a pulse. "Dead. I feel blood—I think he’s been shot."
"It’s not Ociéda," Bud murmured. "No uniform—I
The plaza was open and had the occasional night stroller and security guards. Tom and Bud parked their scooters and strode across the ancient stones like casual tourists walking off a night of touristy drinking. "Very strong trace profile," Tom televoc’d.
"He sure made a beeline," commented Bud. "Didn’t wander around at all. Must have seen an easy mark."
"My guess is his ‘work’ hours were over. He wasn’t here to pick pockets, flyboy. He had some business to take care of at the Old Basilica. He may have arranged to meet someone at a certain spot."
"We’ll probably pick up his trail leading back, then."
Tom disagreed. "His pickup’s still parked in place. He may have gone off with whoever he met—"
"Or he may still be here!" Bud declared excitedly. "Tom—we’re mighty exposed out here on the plaza."
"No choice. All we can do is follow the trail. Even if we don’t get our hands on the guy, we could come across a clue as to where he hangs out."
"When he’s not on duty."
The trail took them into the moon-shadows of the ancient, looming structure. They proceeded cautiously, thinking that their presence might be challenged at any moment. But most security seemed to be focused on the modern basilica, where the image was housed.
They came across, and slipped through, chainlink fences with signs: Zona Construción . "Rampo did it just like we are," Bud whispered. "No one stopped him."
"Within the last hour, too. The traces are very strong and clear, layered over the trails of the zillions of tourist visitors. Bud—I think he went inside the cathedral."
"Sure. He’s a crook. Maybe he decided to make confession! But how are Swift and Barclay going to get inside?"
"Well, how about the same way Rampo did?" The trail led directly to a service door cut in a temporary plywood barrier. If there had ever been a padlock, there wasn’t one now!
They entered into darkness, but pulling open another plywood door they found themselves in a long corridor braced by two-by-four beams, a dim electric bulb burning at the far end. There were no sounds but their own footsteps crunching on the sawdust and shards of stonework and plaster. Bud asked by televoc, "Know the floorplan—I don’t suppose?"
"What counts is that Rampo did." The scent-trail was clear and confident.
They passed into the main body of the ancient cathedral—huge ornate rooms, long hallways, high windows of stained glass. Most of the furnishings had been removed from this portion of the old basilica, evidently in the middle of a decades-long restoration.
Bud pointed to some discarded styrofoam cups. "I hope they drank their ‘big gulp’ with reverence."
More doors, an arching portico—and suddenly they were in a vast and awesome space lit by slanting beams of moonlight. The floor was covered by row after row of pews. "The nave. This is where they used to display the tilma, I think," Tom murmured into his pal’s auditory nerve. "Looks refurbished, as best I can make out."
"Right. Safe for the tours. But not necessarily safe for us!" Bud added nervously, "Don’t you think some lights should be on in here? They must have security guards walking through, even after midnight."
"I agree," Tom pronounced grimly. "Someone killed the lights—and maybe took care of the guard as well."
"Man, I wish I had one of your impulse guns!"
"I’d settle for the sensitector."
They made their way up one of the side aisles as stealthily as possible. There was no sound—and then Bud gave a sudden, stifled grunt! "Tom!" he televoc’d. "Look down here!"
Lying between the pew benches was a limp body!
They approached the unmoving form cautiously. It was a man, lying crumpled face-up. Though his face was hard to make out in the dimness, he didn’t appear to be Mexican and had a short goatee.
Tom felt for a pulse. "Dead. I feel blood—I think he’s been shot."
"It’s not Ociéda," Bud murmured. "No uniform—I
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