Tom Swift and the Visitor From Planet X by Victor Appleton II Page B

mighty sophisticated seller of snake-oil! he thought ruefully. But what exactly went on in those secret no-secrets sessions?
    Bud glanced in his mirror. A compact car, beat-up and badly in need of paint, ambled along the almost deserted highway about a half-block behind. Several turn-offs later and the car was still keeping pace, no closer, no further.
    "Swell," grated the youth. "I’m not in the mood."
    Bud slowed. The other car slowed also, making no move to pass. They went slower, slower—and Bud suddenly swerved onto the shoulder and yanked the parking break. A bound took him out onto the pavement as the compact skidded to a startled halt not far away.
    Quickly striding up, Bud motioned for the driver to role down his window. He did so—a young man, about Bud’s age, face frightened.
    Bud leaned into the window like a highway patrolman. "Friend, you’re messing up my enlightenment, but for the moment I’m feeling too righteous to punch you out. So look, don’t waste our combined soul-power following me. Packing a gun?"
    The kid shook his head as if the very idea amazed him.
    "Tell you what, then. I’m hitting Beach Dogs over at the Rec Pier—I’m hungry. How ’bout if I meet you there? I’ll even buy you a hot dog and fries. Frankly, I’d prefer being kidnapped on a full stomach. Okay?"
    "O-Okay!" the youth gasped.
    They rendezvoused at the Recreation Pier in Shopton, on Lake Carlopa. Bud handed his follower the promised snacks, eyeing him. He was a nondescript, muscular youth, not very tall, with hair beached-out by the sun. "So what’s your name?" Bud asked as they plopped down together on a bench.
    "I’m Fred Latty," said the other. Bud suddenly realized that his benchmate was even younger than he had first thought—no older than a high-school kid. "I know who you are. You’re Bud Barclay."
    "You a fan of high-school football?"
    "No, but I’ve seen you in news photos," Fred replied. "You’re the guy who’s always standing next to Tom Swift."
    Bud took a snapping bite of his hot dog. His expression had soured. "So what’s up, Fred—why’re you following me?"
    "I saw you at Informatics and recognized you right off."
    "You a member of the church?"
    "No—I just volunteer to do a little custodial stuff there, part-time. When I’m not in school, I teach water skiing here on the lake."
    "Okay. You saw me and followed me. Now you got me. What’s the deal?"
    Fred Latty cleared his throat. "It’s just... I thought maybe you could get a message through direct, to Tom Swift himself. I think something bad’s going down in Shopton. And it’s aimed right at Swift Enterprises!"
     
CHAPTER 7
PLOTTERS’ CACHE
    "THAT’S real interesting, Fred," Bud commented in disinterested tones. "But so’s this hot dog. I can’t think of the last time Tom—my good pal Tom Swift!—and his company weren’t staring some kind of catastrophe in the snout. We just got back from an almost sunken ship, how ’bout that! All of which goes to say that whatever you want me to pass on had better be worth Tom’s time."
    "Oh, man, it is!" declared Fred hastily.
    "I’m listening. And eating."
    Fred drew in a long breath, and Bud had the feeling the story was going to be a lengthy saga. Fortunately he had bought one of the extra-long dogs. "I grew up in New Jersey. My folks just got divorced and still fight a lot—from separate locations, but they hassle each other. I just had to get away. So I moved here."
    Bud interrupted with a note of skepticism. "Just coincidentally the home of Tom Swift."
    "Hey, it was because my uncle Pete lives here, that’s all," said the boy indignantly. "I’m living with him. He’s a great guy, except when—"
    "Except when he’s not?"
    "Except when’s he’s out o’ work, which happens kind of a lot, y’know? Then he’s a different dude altogether—real down for days, then mad, mad all the time. He broke his foot punting the TV through the window!"
    "Okay. So no TV."
    "Just listen—please.