Read Online Tom Swift and His Triphibian Atomicar by Victor Appleton II - Free Book Online

sketch presented a sleeker, more attractive version of the atomicar’s body shell and overall configuration. The teardrop dome now completely enclosed the upper part of the vehicle, nose to tail, without a break in its smooth line. Throme had added some chrome trim, and had moved the forward wheel cowlings further toward the front, so that they now extended slightly beyond and below the enclosed nose. "Wow!" grinned Tom, very impressed. "The future on wheels!"
    Ed studied the drawing. "Mounting the wheels so far forward really changes the look."
    "Now the Silent Streak looks more like a leaping jaguar!" Sandy exclaimed. "I’ll bet Enterprises’ll sell a million of ’em!"
    Tom handed the sketch back to Throme. "Ort, would you be interested in selling us this design of yours?"
    Grinning, Throme waved off the napkin. "No, Tom, keep it—it’s yours. Send me a release to sign if you want. I don’t care to become a paid automotive designer."
    "Son, you stick to yer picture-paintin’, ’specially western stuff," advised Chow. "Never goes out o’ style!—an I been in plenty o’ motels."
    Darkness had fallen when the group finally started back to the Citadel, with Tom at the wheel. Sandy and Bash were still chatting excitedly about the day’s sightseeing and their encounter with the celebrated Orton Throme. The highway was almost deserted, moonlit and star-lit except for a pair of lights far behind them. Eventually even that disappeared.
    About ten miles out from Taos, the van’s engine suddenly began sputtering and coughing. "Wonder what’s wrong," Tom said.
    "Frankly, cousin, it sounds as if we’re out of gas," Ed said cheerfully.
    "We can’t be. Look at the gauge needle."
    A moment later the engine died abruptly. Tom barely managed to steer off the road before the van rolled to a halt. The three menfolk got out to check the tank, lift the hood, and offer unneeded advice.
    Suddenly a distinctive-looking pair of headlights flashed on some distance away on the highway. The car that had been behind now overtook them and pulled off the road just ahead of the van. A bareheaded man leapt from the car, brandishing a revolver.
    "Raise up your hands, all of you!" he snarled in a voice that had a familiar foreign accent.
    No turban. But it was Mirza!
     
CHAPTER 8
TOM RETHINKS
    AS HE strode toward Tom, Ed, and Chow, Mirza’s face was starkly revealed in the glare of the Citadel van’s headlights. He looked pale and unshaven. His eyes gleamed fanatically.
    Moving past the three men, Mirza jerked open the rear door. "You women, if you please—step outside!"
    "At least you asked politely," commented Bashalli with calm dignity.
    Sandy followed Bash out. Mirza motioned for the girls to join the others.
    "I suppose you drained our tank while we were having dinner back in Taos," Tom accused Mirza. "And then doctored the fuel gauge."
    "Most clever of you to guess," the man sneered. He turned to Sandy and held out his free hand. "I will take that ruby ring, please!"
    As Sandy stepped back defiantly, Tom snapped, "Go ahead, take it from her. I want to watch what happens when you touch it!"
    Mirza froze. "And what is this?"
    "In case you’ve forgotten, the rubies from that lost mine in Kabulistan bear the curse of Shaitan! Did you forget what happens to one of the faithful who defies the words of an imam?"
    Tom’s words were a mere shot in the dark. But the effect was startling. The former secretary’s face contorted in fear. "What does a young American fool like you know about the curse of Shaitan?" he blustered.
    "I know that it’s already bringing you bad luck," Tom said smoothly. "Every word we’re saying is being picked up—which means a State Police car is probably on its way here right now!"
    "A lie!"
    "Take a look for yourself at the cellphone on the dashboard," Tom prodded. "It’s on. Did you think we wouldn’t guess that we were being followed, just because you switched off your headlights?"
    "We spend half our time