Tom swift and the Captive Planetoid by Victor Appleton II Page B
Authors: Victor Appleton II
Ads: Link
where Tom’s father awaited them beneath the towering column of rings that formed the antenna for Tom’s electronic space prober.
“All set and ready,” declared Damon Swift, pointing at the megascope’s circular screen. In the middle of the screen, between the sea of stars and the blazing blue of the earth, floated a small silver-white cone.
“So that’s your ‘rocket in distress’!” nodded Bud.
“Now for the Sir Galahad rescue!” Tom checked his handheld monitoring unit, called a Spektor. “Coming up... mark !”
They watched the screen tensely. For a moment nothing changed. “Of course we’re seeing this in ‘real time’,” muttered Mr. Swift, “Faster than the control signal from the plant—”
“ There it goes! ” Bud cheered.
From the underside of the cone, the side facing the world beneath, a sort of “tongue” of dull-colored material leapt out into space, swelling before three pairs of eyes with startling speed. In less than two seconds it had assumed a shape like the tapering head of a javelin, though with a blunted nose that turned slightly upward. Two guidance control booms jutted out behind.
“Man, the thing sure doesn’t waste time,” exclaimed Bud with a back-clap for his chum. “But—say, what happened to the capsule?”
Tom grinned and reached for the megascope controls, shifting the position of its viewpoint in relation to the duratherm wing. “There—you can see a bulge protruding from the upper surface of the wing. The capsule’s inside, completely enclosed in the sheathing material.” Bud nodded as Tom checked some readings on his Spektor. “All right, you two. Time to bring her down!”
Using the Spektor as a communicator, he told Hank to commence the set reentry procedure. The capsule drifted downward on the screen, and Mr. Swift touched the space prober’s trackball control. “I think I can keep it centered by eyeball,” he said.
There was no detectable movement against the stellar backdrop, but suddenly faint streamers of haze began to flick across the screen. “A few traces of air,” murmured Tom. “Still pretty much a vacuum.”
Bud nodded. “But just wait! By the way, genius boy, with no retros, what gets it out of orbit in the first place?”
“Micro-gravitex units inside the wing, pulling backwards to create drag and slow it down. They also help maintain stability and orientation. As you know, they take very little power, especially compared to a repelatron. Each one runs off a tiny solar battery.”
As the D-Wing speared into the denser reaches of the atmosphere, its shape was altered by remote control. The nose stretched further up, curving into a windshield-shape. The plasma corona had begun to form.
“How’s the temp?” Mr. Swift asked Tom.
“Fierce, Dad, but within the parameters. The new Durafoam sheathing is doing fine.”
The backdrop had begun to fade from the black of space to the indigo of the ionosphere. The duratherm wing now changed its angle relative to its trajectory, tilting up. Tom noted: “She’ll take the worst of the heat belly-first, flyboy. Then when she falls below hypersonic, we’ll straighten her out again and fly her more or less like a standard jetcraft.”
“Where’s the wing right now?”
“Over southern Illinois. Minutes to go.”
As planned, the flux-coils that interacted with the streaming plasma were used for fine-tuning the wing’s course, and to further slow it. “Dropping below Mach 1,” Tom announced, too intent to shout in triumph. “Dad—Bud—I’m bringing her in for a landing. She’s in one piece and cool as a cucumber!”
“More than I can say for myself,” joked Mr. Swift.
They abandoned the megascope and ran out into the sunlight. Like a great bird of prey, the sofa-sized duratherm wing was low in the sky and streaking toward its roost in Swift Enterprises. It slowed tremendously. Seconds later, ambling along at a modest forty miles-per-hour, it pancaked down on its
“All set and ready,” declared Damon Swift, pointing at the megascope’s circular screen. In the middle of the screen, between the sea of stars and the blazing blue of the earth, floated a small silver-white cone.
“So that’s your ‘rocket in distress’!” nodded Bud.
“Now for the Sir Galahad rescue!” Tom checked his handheld monitoring unit, called a Spektor. “Coming up... mark !”
They watched the screen tensely. For a moment nothing changed. “Of course we’re seeing this in ‘real time’,” muttered Mr. Swift, “Faster than the control signal from the plant—”
“ There it goes! ” Bud cheered.
From the underside of the cone, the side facing the world beneath, a sort of “tongue” of dull-colored material leapt out into space, swelling before three pairs of eyes with startling speed. In less than two seconds it had assumed a shape like the tapering head of a javelin, though with a blunted nose that turned slightly upward. Two guidance control booms jutted out behind.
“Man, the thing sure doesn’t waste time,” exclaimed Bud with a back-clap for his chum. “But—say, what happened to the capsule?”
Tom grinned and reached for the megascope controls, shifting the position of its viewpoint in relation to the duratherm wing. “There—you can see a bulge protruding from the upper surface of the wing. The capsule’s inside, completely enclosed in the sheathing material.” Bud nodded as Tom checked some readings on his Spektor. “All right, you two. Time to bring her down!”
Using the Spektor as a communicator, he told Hank to commence the set reentry procedure. The capsule drifted downward on the screen, and Mr. Swift touched the space prober’s trackball control. “I think I can keep it centered by eyeball,” he said.
There was no detectable movement against the stellar backdrop, but suddenly faint streamers of haze began to flick across the screen. “A few traces of air,” murmured Tom. “Still pretty much a vacuum.”
Bud nodded. “But just wait! By the way, genius boy, with no retros, what gets it out of orbit in the first place?”
“Micro-gravitex units inside the wing, pulling backwards to create drag and slow it down. They also help maintain stability and orientation. As you know, they take very little power, especially compared to a repelatron. Each one runs off a tiny solar battery.”
As the D-Wing speared into the denser reaches of the atmosphere, its shape was altered by remote control. The nose stretched further up, curving into a windshield-shape. The plasma corona had begun to form.
“How’s the temp?” Mr. Swift asked Tom.
“Fierce, Dad, but within the parameters. The new Durafoam sheathing is doing fine.”
The backdrop had begun to fade from the black of space to the indigo of the ionosphere. The duratherm wing now changed its angle relative to its trajectory, tilting up. Tom noted: “She’ll take the worst of the heat belly-first, flyboy. Then when she falls below hypersonic, we’ll straighten her out again and fly her more or less like a standard jetcraft.”
“Where’s the wing right now?”
“Over southern Illinois. Minutes to go.”
As planned, the flux-coils that interacted with the streaming plasma were used for fine-tuning the wing’s course, and to further slow it. “Dropping below Mach 1,” Tom announced, too intent to shout in triumph. “Dad—Bud—I’m bringing her in for a landing. She’s in one piece and cool as a cucumber!”
“More than I can say for myself,” joked Mr. Swift.
They abandoned the megascope and ran out into the sunlight. Like a great bird of prey, the sofa-sized duratherm wing was low in the sky and streaking toward its roost in Swift Enterprises. It slowed tremendously. Seconds later, ambling along at a modest forty miles-per-hour, it pancaked down on its
Similar Books
