Tom Swift and His Triphibian Atomicar (12 page)

This time, it was Tom’s turn to gape in surprise. Recovering, he burst out with a rueful laugh. "I guess your soldiers can prove that we
are
rather dangerous!" Tom said. "Even though we’re completely unarmed."

"Unarmed? This is true stuff?" the colonel asked the sergeant in charge. The officer nodded sheepishly. In response the colonel muttered something in his language that sounded unkind—perhaps a harsh personal observation.

"As for our being spies," Tom went on, "we have visaed passports and papers signed by your own ambassador in Washington, inviting us to come here at the request of your President. You know—tall guy? Pays your salary?"

The colonel frowned and stroked his jaw as Tom took out a sheaf of credentials, many stamped with elaborate gold seals. Reading them over, one by one, the man flushed and began to perspire heavily. Suddenly he sprang up.

"
Salmut-e-Salaam!
" he exclaimed, bowing crisply and snapping his heels. "It is clear there has been some mistake in our information, and I apologize most deeply. I dedicate my life to discovering the traitorous fool who imposed upon me these absurd orders, which I obeyed by compulsion, most unwillingly. Colonel Kazar, at your service!"

Chow and the others grinned through their bruises. Tom smiled and shook hands with the officer. "By the way, sir, do you mind telling us who the, er, traitorous fool was?"

The colonel stroked his mustache and looked uncomfortable. "Um—ah—the orders were received in a circuitous manner, if you see," he mumbled. "Most unfortunate. I should prefer to say no more about it. But by jingo!—do rest assured that suitable action will be taken against those responsible. You Yankee Americans are hereby our honored guests."

Tom guessed that the call had been anonymous, and although very curious as to the identity of the culprit, felt that it would be wiser to let the matter drop.

"Of course. In any case, Colonel, we’re due at the presidential palace for a meeting with His Excellency," he went on. "Perhaps one of your men could show us the way."

"But yes. And perfectly." The colonel leapt into action. He barked out orders and the sergeant bolted off on a run. Minutes later a large, glistening, but somewhat antiquated limousine was driven up to the front door of the barracks.

Colonel Kazar escorted the five Americans out, with profuse apologies and somewhat surreal compliments. The sergeant helped them climb aboard. Tom’s companions were in a giddy mood as the car pulled away.

"Brand my pomegranates!" Chow declared. "I’ll bet we left that hombre stewin’ in the juice!"

The presidential palace, an ancient structure, was a large white building topped by graceful minarets and a gleaming dome that glinted as if encrusted by jewels. After an hour’s wait, Tom’s group was ushered into an office richly furnished with satin draperies, upholstered chairs, and an Oriental rug.

Habib Qassir, the Western-educated ruler of Kabulistan, rose from his desk to greet them.

"I am most grateful," he said to Tom, "that you have come to help my people with your scientific prowess. Even in Kabulistan we have heard of the exploits of the two famous Tom Swifts, old and new. And look!" He held up a paperback book with a gaudy cover. "
Outpost in Space
—a gripping story!"

Tom blushed slightly. "Thank you, Your Excellency. The fictionalizations are very popular, though my father and I—well, the book authors sensationalize the facts and usually get the science all wrong."

"No matter. It is exciting. Is not inspiration the true breath of life?" The President shook hands with each man in the group, then turned back to Tom. "You are free to survey and inspect the entire country at will. Come to me and my officers at any time you need assistance."

"We’ll do our best to justify your confidence, sir," Tom replied. "I say that not only on behalf of the Provard group, but on behalf of my father."

On their way out of the palace, Tom’s group went through an anteroom crowded with people awaiting meetings with President Qassir’s ministry officials. Tom noticed a heavyset, black-bearded man pacing back and forth—a fuming pace Tom found familiar. He was wearing a ruby tie clasp!

"That’s Nurhan Flambo!" Tom whispered to Bud.

Chow grimaced. "Uh-huh. Jest hold me back. Leastwise he don’t have his dang flunkey with him."

At that moment Flambo caught sight of Tom. His hawklike eyes flashed angrily as he strode forward. "So!" he hissed. "It is clear now why you refused my offer! I have heard about the cunning project by which you seek to gain a business advantage here in the Middle East!"

Bud was about to retort when Tom stopped him. "If you’ve heard about our project, Mr. Flambo," Tom said calmly, "then you know we were invited here by the President. It would be an insult to decline—wouldn’t you agree? Come on, fellows!"

Outside the palace, Bud said hotly, "Ten to one he was the sneak who gave the colonel that phony tip about our being spies!" Arv and the others were inclined to agree, but Tom refused to jump to conclusions.

"I don’t know, guys. We may have worse enemies than Flambo prowling around."

The limousine had not waited. Tom had a suspicion its owner was unaware it had been borrowed for "reasons of state." Slim Davis hailed a rickety taxi and the group returned to the airport long enough for Chow to serve them a dinner of steak and French fried potatoes aboard the
Sky Queen
—with an optional persimmon topping. Then Tom, Bud, and Arv Hanson sauntered out to explore the town, leaving Slim and the loyal Texan to hold down the skyship.

As they strolled down the crowded streets, Bud nudged his friend. "Know what this place reminds me of, genius boy? That city in Montaguaya!" Tom agreed. Like the capital of the South American country, Shirabad was a strange jumble of the old—
very
old!—and new. Ancient mosques and houses of sun-baked mud or brick stood within sight of modern highrise buildings of glass and steel. Many of the streets were unpaved, yet flashy-looking automobiles sped past donkey carts that might have come from the era of Marco Polo and Kublai Khan.

"Quite a contrast!" Arv remarked. "You can read about it, but seeing it is something else."

Veiled women and fierce-faced men in turbans and baggy trousers rubbed shoulders with hurrying Europeans in well-cut business suits. Yet the Kabulistanis were darkly handsome and dashing, both men and women as well.

"Jetz, Europeans and Americans all over the place, not to mention the Japanese! Provard and his partners must have beat out a lot of competition to sell the Big Cheese on this deal," Bud remarked.

Tom said thoughtfully, "I guess that’s why Flambo was so sore. Some people feel the world is getting too small. I sometimes wonder if they might not be right."

"It would be a tragedy if the beauty of a city like this were buried under layers of office buildings," agreed Arv Hanson.

The Shirabad bazaar, which had been the local market place for millennia, was a dirt-floored arcade, covered over by an arching brick roof of modern vintage—only two centuries old! Tom and his two companions strolled inside. The narrow inner lane was lined with booths and stalls where craftsmen and merchants displayed their wares.

"Hey! A bookstall!" Bud said. The boys, intrigued, stopped to examine the volumes, some of which were old, and many printed in different languages.

Tom became excited as he noticed one old book entitled The
Jewels of the East and Their Romance
. He flipped through its pages as the proprietor stood by eagerly. The volume was written in English and had been printed in 1810.

"Look!" Tom exclaimed softly. "Here’s a chapter on famous ruby mines!" Turning to the proprietor, he asked the price.

The shop owner started to name a sum, but suddenly paled and stopped short with a gasp. "N-No! A mistake! This book—not for sale!" he mumbled.

Obviously, ominously, something had badly frightened the man. Tom whirled just in time to see a tall, sinister-looking, turbaned Kabulistani not far away. He was scowling and fingering a knife at his belt!

CAUGHT in Tom’s startled glance, the stranger darted away and vanished hastily among the crowd of shoppers.

Bud and Arv had not seen what Tom saw. "We want to buy this book! How much?" Bud persisted. But the proprietor no longer seemed to understand English. He shook his head, snatched the book away, and thrust it out of sight.

The shop owner remained adamant. Finally the Shoptonians gave up and left. Tom then described the man he had seen.

"Ten to one the guy’s been tailing us!" Bud grumbled.

"You’re probably right," said Tom. "But on whose behalf?"

"Like you said, boss—we have more than one enemy," was Arv’s comment. "Might as well just pick from the list."

Thinking over the incident in his bunk aboard the
Sky Queen
that night, Tom felt sure the book might contain a clue to the Amir’s Mine, a clue someone didn’t want him to have. The next morning he and Bud decided to return to the bazaar, and headed for the bookseller’s stall. To the boys’ astonishment, it was shuttered and empty! They tried to question the merchants nearby, receiving back many mumbles and blank stares, but no enlightening answers.

Suddenly a voice behind the boys asked, "Trying to buy something?"

Tom whirled in surprise. A huge, ruddy-cheeked man with a blond handlebar mustache grinned and stuck out his hand. "Mr. Wayne! So you
are
here in Shirabad after all!" Tom said, explaining that his cousin had glimpsed him, and introducing Bud.

The man chuckled. "I get around, don’t I? Came here to land some business for Europa Fabrikant! What about yourself? Oh, that’s right—I read about the development project. Asa Provard—good man."

Tom commented guardedly and changed the subject by mentioning the incident with the bookseller.

"Hmm." Wayne frowned and twirled his mustache. "That fellow who scared the proprietor may have been a member of the Hassassin. It’s an ancient cult, an underground group of religious fanatics who specialized in murder. It’s where our word ‘assassin’ comes from."

"Oh
swell
," muttered Bud.

Wayne seemed to enjoy his listeners’ discomfiture. "The leader of the sect, known as ‘The Old Man of the Mountains’, once had his stronghold in the Kabulistan highlands. Tell me, did the book have anything to do with the mountainous interior of the country?" he inquired.

Tom hesitated. "Yes, I think it did."

"That probably explains it," Wayne said. "I’ve heard a few rumors that the cult is active again—in a new,
updated-for-modern-readers
version, you might say. The cultists may be trying to keep outsiders from learning anything about the territory where they hide, the Tulq’ha Nur.

"And there’s another angle, boys," Wayne continued less jocularly. Bud shared an uneasy glance with Tom. "Today’s big motive tends to be training and mission planning for terrorists, aimed at the ‘infidel invaders’ from the world of the decadent faithless—that is, everywhere but
here
. Such people are going to cover their tracks by any means necessary."

Tom thanked the businessman for his information and concern, inviting him to dine with the visitors and Ed Longstreet that evening. "Sorry, boys. Got to be off. Business to do. Good to see you, though—you too, Barclay. Keep your friend out of trouble, hmm?" And he was off and gone like a desert whirlwind.

After Wayne and his handlebar mustache had bustled away, Bud remarked with a gulp, "Let’s hope we don’t get our throats cut, poking around these hills!"

Tom and Bud dropped by Ed Longstreet’s hotel, but Tom’s cousin was out, leaving a message at the desk suggesting that they meet him that evening for dinner at a restaurant he had discovered. The Shoptonians gathered there at the appointed hour, but there was not a sign of the balding world traveler.

"You worried yet, Tom?" asked Slim Davis, only half joking.

"Getting there," was the reply.

But Cousin Ed arrived a few minutes later, safe and sound and bearing a wrapped package under his arm. "Sorry if I set off any alarm bells, folks," he apologized. "But after I talked to Tom the other day, I had my own inventive brainstorm. Fifteen minutes ago, it panned out!"

"Sounds like good news, fer a change o’ pace," declared Chow in his foghorn voice, which caused some of the other patrons to turn and look.

"What have you got their, Ed?" Tom asked, eyeing the package.

Ed undid the elaborate wrappings and held up its content. "You guessed it, gentlemen—
Travels in Remotest Araby!
My special-hire sources—who are now what passes for
rich
around here—swear they found it by accident. Even without doing the retroscope thing, I’m sure this one’s not a fake."

The group was energized and exuberant! Tom carefully turned the yellow, crumbling pages to the chapter that made reference to the Amir’s Mine, as Ed lay out the folded copies of the ersatz version that he had brought to Kabulistan. Tom compared the two minutely.

"Do I see a frown on that angelic face?" asked Slim. "Don’t tell me it
is
a phony after all!"

"No," Tom responded. "It’s obviously real. But instead of solving the puzzle, it opens up a new one!" He explained that this book, the original, did not provide greater detail concerning the location of the lost mine. "Just the reverse! It’s the
fake
version that provides the detail!"

"Okay now, I’m as lost as that mine, boss," declared Hanson. "You’re saying—Mr. Gold-Tooth substituted a phony book that actually
helps
us find the Amir’s Mine?"

"But looky, mebbe it’s jest another helpin’ o’ bogus stuff," Chow objected. "You know—like as t’ throw us off."

It was Ed who answered. He had been reading over Tom’s shoulder. "No, Chow, I don’t think so. The details in the faked version are entirely consistent with the various mentions in the original—including a few references that are somewhat obscure without the additional explanation, but which now make clear sense. Faking
that
would be difficult. We can’t know absolutely, of course. But I have the impression someone wants to steer us right, smoke-bomb or no."