Read Online Tom Swift and His Triphibian Atomicar by Victor Appleton II - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Victor Appleton II
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problem on my space solartron."
"You solved that problem with your antiproton device," Bud observed. "Couldn’t you use the same thing in your cars?"
"The energine?" Tom shook his head. "It runs on Exploron gas, remember, and the stuff is very limited in quantity—we don’t know how to manufacture it." Switching on his computer, Tom visited ForeSite and brought up its archives. "Here’s the article," he muttered. "Hmm! That’s interesting."
"What?"
"I’d forgotten—the original research was funded by Imperative Motorskill!"
"Ah hah! That must have something to do with Mr. Isosceles wanting to see you!" The dark-haired flier asked if Tom had yet heard from the eccentric businessman.
"Not a peep," Tom answered. "Strange, isn’t it? In any event, I don’t need to speak to Isosceles at this point, not about the neutron research. I’ll contact the company scientist who worked on it. Let’s see—the name is Rosso Freegler."
"Jetz!" Bud chuckled. "I’m sure glad I don’t have to come up with these names! Sometimes you gotta wonder what parents are thinking." It was a matter very familiar to young Budworth Newton Barclay. And to his childhood schoolmates.
Tom began making calls. To his dismay he soon found that Dr. Rosso Freegler was no longer in the employ of Imperative Motorskill, "where skill is the last word."
"I’m sorry, but it’s against our policy to give out information on our former employees," pronounced the head of human resources. "It’s a liability issue."
"I understand," Tom said. He made several other calls—to his father, to various contacts in science, industry, and government. Finally he hung up in disgust.
"Guess the guy doesn’t want to be found," Bud suggested.
"Maybe not." Then the young inventor decided to try another approach. "Bud, there’s one thing about us scientist-inventor types—we can’t help commenting when we think we see other people heading off on the wrong track, scientifically."
"So?"
"So I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find that Freegler has sent letters to various scientific journals since he left Motorskill. I’ll put a few search engines on the scent—we might be able to dope out his location!"
Tom’s strategy began producing answers almost instantly. "Thank goodness the guy has an uncommon name! All these ‘hits’ must be the man we want." It developed that Freegler had written several letters to scientific publications and research journals. One printed letter gave a partial address!
"Cygnus Crossing, Wyoming," repeated Bud. "Never heard of it."
"According to the net-atlas, it’s about eighteen miles southwest of Cody. Good night!—population 38."
"Counting the mules?"
As expected, calls to directory assistance yielded nothing. But ultimately the town police station had an answer for him. "Sure enough, that Freegler fella lives just outside town, in Nameless Creek Pass. Little shack, not much more’n that." Tom asked if the officer had a telephone number. "Nope. No phone out there, far as I know. No lines, no cell service, nothin’. Comes wanderin’ into town now and then for food and such—that’s all."
Tom took down directions from the officer, then ended the call and turned to Bud triumphantly. "Shall we pay a visit? It’s still morning."
"Great! Always wanted to meet a real hermit."
"We’ll take the SwiftStorm ." This was Tom’s wingless cycloplane, a supersonic jetcraft capable of hovering on a pair of spinning cylinders. The SwiftStorm was carried aboard the Flying Lab as an auxiliary craft.
They flew north, just skirting the mighty Rockies. It was not long before Tom could announce that the small scattering of buildings in view below was the tiny hamlet known as Cygnus Crossing. "And that section of woods over there between the hills—must be Nameless Creek Pass."
Bud snorted. "If that little squirt of a creek is Nameless Creek—no wonder it’s too embarrassed to give its name!"
Coming in low, they set down the
"You solved that problem with your antiproton device," Bud observed. "Couldn’t you use the same thing in your cars?"
"The energine?" Tom shook his head. "It runs on Exploron gas, remember, and the stuff is very limited in quantity—we don’t know how to manufacture it." Switching on his computer, Tom visited ForeSite and brought up its archives. "Here’s the article," he muttered. "Hmm! That’s interesting."
"What?"
"I’d forgotten—the original research was funded by Imperative Motorskill!"
"Ah hah! That must have something to do with Mr. Isosceles wanting to see you!" The dark-haired flier asked if Tom had yet heard from the eccentric businessman.
"Not a peep," Tom answered. "Strange, isn’t it? In any event, I don’t need to speak to Isosceles at this point, not about the neutron research. I’ll contact the company scientist who worked on it. Let’s see—the name is Rosso Freegler."
"Jetz!" Bud chuckled. "I’m sure glad I don’t have to come up with these names! Sometimes you gotta wonder what parents are thinking." It was a matter very familiar to young Budworth Newton Barclay. And to his childhood schoolmates.
Tom began making calls. To his dismay he soon found that Dr. Rosso Freegler was no longer in the employ of Imperative Motorskill, "where skill is the last word."
"I’m sorry, but it’s against our policy to give out information on our former employees," pronounced the head of human resources. "It’s a liability issue."
"I understand," Tom said. He made several other calls—to his father, to various contacts in science, industry, and government. Finally he hung up in disgust.
"Guess the guy doesn’t want to be found," Bud suggested.
"Maybe not." Then the young inventor decided to try another approach. "Bud, there’s one thing about us scientist-inventor types—we can’t help commenting when we think we see other people heading off on the wrong track, scientifically."
"So?"
"So I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find that Freegler has sent letters to various scientific journals since he left Motorskill. I’ll put a few search engines on the scent—we might be able to dope out his location!"
Tom’s strategy began producing answers almost instantly. "Thank goodness the guy has an uncommon name! All these ‘hits’ must be the man we want." It developed that Freegler had written several letters to scientific publications and research journals. One printed letter gave a partial address!
"Cygnus Crossing, Wyoming," repeated Bud. "Never heard of it."
"According to the net-atlas, it’s about eighteen miles southwest of Cody. Good night!—population 38."
"Counting the mules?"
As expected, calls to directory assistance yielded nothing. But ultimately the town police station had an answer for him. "Sure enough, that Freegler fella lives just outside town, in Nameless Creek Pass. Little shack, not much more’n that." Tom asked if the officer had a telephone number. "Nope. No phone out there, far as I know. No lines, no cell service, nothin’. Comes wanderin’ into town now and then for food and such—that’s all."
Tom took down directions from the officer, then ended the call and turned to Bud triumphantly. "Shall we pay a visit? It’s still morning."
"Great! Always wanted to meet a real hermit."
"We’ll take the SwiftStorm ." This was Tom’s wingless cycloplane, a supersonic jetcraft capable of hovering on a pair of spinning cylinders. The SwiftStorm was carried aboard the Flying Lab as an auxiliary craft.
They flew north, just skirting the mighty Rockies. It was not long before Tom could announce that the small scattering of buildings in view below was the tiny hamlet known as Cygnus Crossing. "And that section of woods over there between the hills—must be Nameless Creek Pass."
Bud snorted. "If that little squirt of a creek is Nameless Creek—no wonder it’s too embarrassed to give its name!"
Coming in low, they set down the
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