Read Online Tom Swift and the Mystery Comet by Victor Appleton II - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Victor Appleton II
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the telesampler rig. "Wa-aal now, how does she work, boss? I figger ya already went over it with Bud, like as always."
"Well, basically," Tom explained between mouthfuls, "the antenna pulses out a high-energy microwave beam, concentrated like a superthin laser beam, that knocks particles loose from the surface of the target substance. Sort’ve the same way a beam of light knocks free electrons off a photoelectric plate."
"I don’t unnerstand that neither, son," grumped the ex-Texan. "How d’ye make them lil bitty party-cules o’ the stuff come back to you?"
"Robot carrier pigeons," Bud said unhelpfully.
"The momentary ‘hotspot’ produces a microsized puff of what’s called plasma , a very thin gas of molecules with a net electric charge. The plasma is barely detectable, but it packs just enough punch to carry the loosened target molecules along with it back to Earth—the plasma, because it bears a charge, can be propelled along by the reflected electromagnetic beam as it returns to the transmitter."
"Like radar," Bud put in. "The bounceback carries the ion gas, and the ion gas carries the target particles. Piece o’... cake."
"And," Tom concluded, "the curving receiver panel functions as what’s called a wave guide, sending the sample through the connecting tube to the recovery tank—in this case the plastic beaker Bud was scooping the icing from."
Chow shook his head admiringly. "Brand my burro, it’s plumb wonderful! Why, a prospector wouldn’t need t’ pan fer gold with this lil ole whatchamacallit! A feller could jest fly around up in th’ air takin’ samples and mark it on a map."
"Yes." Tom nodded. "Matter of fact, this afternoon Bud and I are going to test this preliminary model in mineral prospecting. It has practical uses here on Earth as well as out in space. It won’t just detect radioactive substances like my Damonscope does, or metals like Dad’s metal detector—it will actually scoop up samples of anything I aim it at—or so I’m hoping."
"So the beam can pierce soil?" Bud asked.
"Not yet. The ‘capture beam’ itself has little penetrating power—that gold of yours, Chow, would have to be lying on the ground in plain sight, I’m afraid. But my perfected model will have something extra for subsurface probing." Now energized himself, Tom added that the telesampler system also would analyze and identify the sample automatically by a Swift Spectroscope and some other advanced instruments developed by Enterprises. "With my space model, I’m hoping to mineral-prospect distant moons and other celestial bodies. It’ll be the heart of the comet probe operation I’m putting together."
"Wow! How about that, Chow?" Bud exclaimed. "Imagine bringing home a piece of comet!"
"Sure beats a pickax."
Chow plucked off his chef’s hat and ran a beefy palm over his sparsely-attended scalp. "Looks like your fuzz up there is starting to run wild," gibed Bud. He patted the telesampler controls. "Want a little off the top?"
"Naw, Buddy Boy. Ain’t had much need fer a real haircut since Texas came t’ Abilene." Chow turned to Tom. "Jest one o’ my colorful Texas toss-offs, boss. Like as they allus have me spoutin’ in them―"
"Let’s start packing up the machine," Tom said to Bud, darkly.
Presently the two boys jeeped out to the airfield. The Sky Queen had already been raised from its special underground hangar. This giant, three-decker aircraft, solar-powered and equipped with jet lifters for VTOL hovering, had become known worldwide as Tom Swift’s Flying Lab.
Several employees and mechanics who had just completed the prep protocol were standing by. Hank Sterling, the blond, square-jawed chief engineer of Enterprises, and Arvid Hanson, a hulking master craftsman who oversaw the fabrication of working prototypes of Tom’s inventions, hailed their young chief as he climbed out of the midget electric vehicle, called a nanocar.
"Ready for take-off, Skipper?" Sterling asked.
"Sure
"Well, basically," Tom explained between mouthfuls, "the antenna pulses out a high-energy microwave beam, concentrated like a superthin laser beam, that knocks particles loose from the surface of the target substance. Sort’ve the same way a beam of light knocks free electrons off a photoelectric plate."
"I don’t unnerstand that neither, son," grumped the ex-Texan. "How d’ye make them lil bitty party-cules o’ the stuff come back to you?"
"Robot carrier pigeons," Bud said unhelpfully.
"The momentary ‘hotspot’ produces a microsized puff of what’s called plasma , a very thin gas of molecules with a net electric charge. The plasma is barely detectable, but it packs just enough punch to carry the loosened target molecules along with it back to Earth—the plasma, because it bears a charge, can be propelled along by the reflected electromagnetic beam as it returns to the transmitter."
"Like radar," Bud put in. "The bounceback carries the ion gas, and the ion gas carries the target particles. Piece o’... cake."
"And," Tom concluded, "the curving receiver panel functions as what’s called a wave guide, sending the sample through the connecting tube to the recovery tank—in this case the plastic beaker Bud was scooping the icing from."
Chow shook his head admiringly. "Brand my burro, it’s plumb wonderful! Why, a prospector wouldn’t need t’ pan fer gold with this lil ole whatchamacallit! A feller could jest fly around up in th’ air takin’ samples and mark it on a map."
"Yes." Tom nodded. "Matter of fact, this afternoon Bud and I are going to test this preliminary model in mineral prospecting. It has practical uses here on Earth as well as out in space. It won’t just detect radioactive substances like my Damonscope does, or metals like Dad’s metal detector—it will actually scoop up samples of anything I aim it at—or so I’m hoping."
"So the beam can pierce soil?" Bud asked.
"Not yet. The ‘capture beam’ itself has little penetrating power—that gold of yours, Chow, would have to be lying on the ground in plain sight, I’m afraid. But my perfected model will have something extra for subsurface probing." Now energized himself, Tom added that the telesampler system also would analyze and identify the sample automatically by a Swift Spectroscope and some other advanced instruments developed by Enterprises. "With my space model, I’m hoping to mineral-prospect distant moons and other celestial bodies. It’ll be the heart of the comet probe operation I’m putting together."
"Wow! How about that, Chow?" Bud exclaimed. "Imagine bringing home a piece of comet!"
"Sure beats a pickax."
Chow plucked off his chef’s hat and ran a beefy palm over his sparsely-attended scalp. "Looks like your fuzz up there is starting to run wild," gibed Bud. He patted the telesampler controls. "Want a little off the top?"
"Naw, Buddy Boy. Ain’t had much need fer a real haircut since Texas came t’ Abilene." Chow turned to Tom. "Jest one o’ my colorful Texas toss-offs, boss. Like as they allus have me spoutin’ in them―"
"Let’s start packing up the machine," Tom said to Bud, darkly.
Presently the two boys jeeped out to the airfield. The Sky Queen had already been raised from its special underground hangar. This giant, three-decker aircraft, solar-powered and equipped with jet lifters for VTOL hovering, had become known worldwide as Tom Swift’s Flying Lab.
Several employees and mechanics who had just completed the prep protocol were standing by. Hank Sterling, the blond, square-jawed chief engineer of Enterprises, and Arvid Hanson, a hulking master craftsman who oversaw the fabrication of working prototypes of Tom’s inventions, hailed their young chief as he climbed out of the midget electric vehicle, called a nanocar.
"Ready for take-off, Skipper?" Sterling asked.
"Sure
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