Tom Swift and His Spectromarine Selector (13 page)

"Even though it’s not in Texas?" Bud needled.

"Buddy boy, if’n it’s
gold,
it kin be anywhere it wants t’be!"

The four paused their conversation to watch the spectrosel crew cleaning off a pillared building near the perimeter of the
Deepwing
’s hydrodome. Then Chow muttered disgustedly, "Snakes alive! Heads up, boys!"

"There you are, Mr. Swift," called Julienne Gabardine from over the top of her notebook. "I was observing the maintenance activities in the
Deepwing.
But really, my place is with you."

Tom nodded. His polite smile ached just a bit. He didn’t dare risk a glance at the expression that he was certain occupied Bud’s face.

Mel Flagler was operating the cannon. As Mel swung the machine around to face the next target, Tom suddenly noticed that some strands of seaweed were hanging down into the air bubble from the waters beyond.

"Hey!" he called out to Mel in alarm. "Don’t aim the cannon that way! The filament barrier’s down over—"

Tom’s warning was too late! The intake tube of the cannon pointed straight toward the weak spot Tom had noticed!

There was a startling
whoosh!
as the powerful impulsion effect drew in a torrent of sea water. Masses of half-transparent vegetation and queer-looking fish and sea creatures came hurtling into the hydrodome!

Pop!… Pop!... Pop!

The subsea inhabitants exploded right and left under the sudden release from the deep-ocean pressure! One—an enormous octopus with eyes weirdly aglow—sent a shower of inky black fluid shooting in all directions, his final retort to a woeful world!

"Sh-shmokin’ rocketsh!"
Bud slurred as the rank fluid squirted into his face.

On the spectrosel Mel Flagler caught a faceful of the repulsive black stuff as well, and Hank Sterling slipped in a puddle of it and slid down on his backside with a yelp. Tom, also drenched, was the only one to realize what had happened. Jumping up on the platform and squeezing past the blinded Mel Flagler, Tom managed to grab the switch lever and shut off the wave emiters. The repelatron bubble instantly restored itself.

Mel gagged and coughed as he wiped his eyes.
"Whew!
What the heck did I do?"

"The invisible ‘screen’ of Inertite microfilaments, just inside the bubble-surface, must have gone down over in that section. I knew it when I saw some plants poking their way in," Tom explained. "Combined with the action of the water-repelatron, it normally has just enough resistance to hold off any loose, wet objects drifting into the airspace, even though tough guys like us can walk right through it."

"Yeah," grumbled Hank, staggering to his feet, "including our poor multi-armed pal the octopus."

"Obviously, something in the system failed," Tom declared wryly. "Probably just a minor problem—we wouldn’t have noticed anything wrong if the cannon hadn’t got into the act. The impulsion waves must’ve altered the specific ‘mix’ of the sea water, which made it immune to the repelatron."

Tom was speaking a bit loudly, to cover the sound of Chow Winkler, who was speaking
more
than a bit loudly. Chow was a mass of oily blackness cussin’ and bellerin’ beneath a ten-gallon hat. Next to him glowered Miss Gabardine—oddly, the only thing not covered in ink was her precious notebook!

"Uk!"
choked Zimby. "How long will it take to scrub this junk off?"

Tom laughed. "No longer than it takes for all of you to file in front of the spectrosel. And no pushing, please!"

The young inventor then gazed at the city area nearest them. What a mess it was! Not only were the streets now flooded with sea water, but scraps of dead fish and other sea life were plastered everywhere. Over all lay the black film of octopus ink!

"Sure can’t see no gold now!" Chow muttered disgustedly.
"Phoo-eey!"

"Never mind, Chow," Tom called, wiping his face, pointlessly, with the back of his hand. "We’ll clean it up—after we clean ourselves!"

"I suppose this is a form of
participatory observation,"
muttered Miss Gabardine—darkly. "I expect you gentlemen to turn your backs during my cleansing. Except the operator of the equipment, naturally."

For the next hour, the cannon was kept busy removing the aftereffects of the disaster. Just as the several victims were settling back to their orderly work routine, Dick Strong—one of the
Supermanta
crew—came rushing up to Tom.

"Chief, I just came from Braun and Teller, a couple blocks over, by that tower. They said you should come
quick—
they’ve discovered something important!"

TOM SWIFT wasted no time joining the pair of excited oceanographer-archaeologists.

"What is it?" he panted. "What have you found, you two?"

They gestured together, wordlessly, at the large flat wall of a portico newly revealed by the spectromarine selector. Tom’s mouth fell open, and so did Bud Barclay’s as he came running up behind them.

"Writing!" Bud exclaimed.

"The first we’ve seen here," George noted. "And we almost missed this, too. Even with the sea-gunk cleared away, it’s pretty faint."

"My retroscope camera should be able to handle that little problem," declared Tom.

Bud and Tom stepped closer to the wall. Fascinated, they didn’t look up as the group was joined by Brian Fraser. "Saw you running, guys," the Navy man said. "So what kind of writing
is
this?"

"Well, it looks a little like ancient Hebrew," replied George.

"I’m sure you
meant
to say classic Sanskrit," retorted Teller.

Tom held up a peacemaking hand. "I’ll tell you what it looks like to me."

"I can see it coming!" Bud gibed. "More space symbols, right?"

Brian Fraser looked puzzled.
"Space
symbols? What are those, technical symbols of some kind?"

Bud gave a humorous roll of the eyes. "Here we go again—meteor-missile from space, mathematical messages, oscilloscope transmitter, mystery rocket, all that stuff. I think I can recite it in my sleep by now!"

"I
gather
you’re referring to those extraterrestrials you’re in contact with," said Fraser with a wink.

Added Ham Teller: "Tom calls ’em his space friends."

"If
I could squeeze in a word," Tom said dryly, "these inscriptions
don’t
look
at all
like the mathematical symbols the space people use in communicating with us."

"Okay, so what does it look like to ya, kid?" asked Ham.

"Like the writing in the Voynich Manuscript."

"What!"
cried George.

"Okay, jokesters, you’ve stumped me," Bud protested. "What’re you talking about?"

"It’s a scientific mystery, chum," Tom explained. "The manuscript is centuries old, and has been passed along from one owner to another. It’s covered with writing similar to this, plus drawings of star constellations, plants, seeds—even what look like plumbing pipes."

"No one can read it, and no one has a clue as to what language it’s in," George continued. "But computer analysis indicates that it’s a real language, not just made-up gibberish. Ham and I studied it back when we were gathering old legends."

Bud gave an incredulous look. "So you’re telling me that manuscript comes from here—from Atlantis?"

"Whadda we look like, psychics?" protested Ham. "The manuscript is probably just a copy of a copy of a copy. But the language itself just might’ve come from Tulayon."

George corrected him. "Tlaan."

"Whatever you want to call the place," Tom interrupted, "if we can find many samples of the language, it’ll help scientists to decipher it."

"Right," George stated; "especially if we can find examples of it next to pictures or illustrations. But I’d guess," he went on, "that that sort of thing is more likely to be found on an inner wall."

"So far we’ve only used the spectrosel on the outsides," commented Tom thoughtfully.

Bud asked if the big machine might fit through some of the portals. "Maybe," was the reply. "Or if not, we might be able to get away with just using the intake cylinder assembly—poke its nose in, so to speak."

"At any rate, folks, it’ll probably have to wait until tomorrow," Brian pointed out. Tom agreed.

There was no dawn the next day, of course, and very little breakfast. Tom loaded several other pieces of equipment on the platform of the spectromarine selector and drove down the main boulevard with Bud, Ham and George trotting along behind. The cannon pulled up to the tower and the treads braked it to a halt.

"What’s first up, skipper?" Bud asked.

"Let’s use the retroscope on that wall."

Tom’s electronic retroscope was a remarkable camera capable of "seeing back" beyond the effects of weathering and erosion to photographically restore the original appearance of timeworn surfaces. Rolling its several units down from the platform, Tom set up the camera and trained its superhuman gaze on the golden wall of inscriptions.

"Getting anything?" inquired George breathlessly. "Can I uncross my fingers?"

"The time dial says the wall is only a little older than the inscriptions," Tom murmured, studying the instrument readout. "It stood out in the open for about 170 years—then the cosmic rays, which the retroscope makes use of, were suddenly cut off. That must be when Aurum City was inundated."

"How long ago?" Ham Teller asked.

Tom looked up at him, eyes wide with wonder. "7640 BC—
more than nine thousand years ago!"

George gulped but managed to say, "If that’s accurate, it goes along with our own estimates of the date of the oceanic catastrophe."

"I don’t see any pictures on the wall, though," remarked Bud as he peered over his friend’s shoulder at the retroscope screen.

"Let’s try using the cannon on the inside walls." The flexible treads allowed Tom to drive the spectrosel right up the steps and onto the portico. He carefully extended the telescoping mouth of the intake unit through the arched door opening until it extended a little ways into the central chamber, which had been lit up with floodlights.

"What a mess!" declared Ham. "Better call the super."

But even without the use of the moleculetron component, the basic process went forward quickly. In minutes half the big room was relatively clean and dry, its golden walls shining. Tom then withdrew the cannon and wheeled the retroscope into place. Once again the walls showed carved symbols, but no trace of pictorial figures.

"Too bad," said Bud. "Better try the next building."

"Not yet," Tom said. "There’s something else to try." The young inventor now brought another device to bear, Tom’s Eye-Spy camera, which was able to take lifelike television-type pictures through solid obstructions. To everyone’s surprise, he angled the camera downwards toward the floor.

"You think there might be an underground chamber?" inquired George.

"Just playing a hunch."

The hunch paid off! "There are several big room down below, on two levels!" Tom exclaimed delightedly. "And if we clear the gunk away from that corner over there, there’s some kind of vertical access tunnel—a stairwell."

There were no stairs, however. The round, vertical well between levels was lined with jutting, rectangular stone blocks which served both as steps and handholds. As they all arrived in the room below and beamed their flashlamps about, they were stunned by what was revealed.

"Jetz!" Bud whispered. "You want pictures, you got pictures!"

The high-ceilinged, auditorium-sized room was lined with elaborate murals etched somehow directly onto the golden walls. Despite a few cracks in the walls, the underground chamber showed few signs of deterioration. Neither spectrosel nor retroscope would be needed.

The four approached a wall and began to walk the perimeter. "These pictures aren’t carvings, but some kind of enameling, adhering right to the gold," murmured Ham Teller.

"Frankly, I’m more interested in what they show!" gasped Tom.

The walls gave many images of daily life in ancient Aurum City. The people were realistically depicted with almost photographic detail. Their skin was dark and coppery, but their hair, surprisingly, was usually blond or auburn. Men and women strode the crowded boulevards in graceful dignity. The typical garb was similar to that of ancient Greece—robes and tunics. But some of the men wore ballooning pantaloons, somewhat like the traditional male costume of the Turks. There were many signs of gorgeous jewels and brilliant metallic headwear, and odd saberlike weapons with S-curved blades.

"They had horses," said Bud, taking in a vivid street scene. "But what are these?" The youth was pointing to a sort of low cart being drawn by pony-sized animals.
"Those
aren’t horses."

"No," Tom said. "They’re
saber-toothed tigers!"

"You’re
kidding!"

George Braun laughed. "That’s what they are, all right. Not actually tigers, though, despite the name. They’re canines, relatives of the wolf. They survived on the island and the, mm,
Atlanteans
domesticated them, apparently."

"And look over here!" Ham called out. "I thought at first glance these were performing elephants, but I’m sure they’re mastodons!"

Tom was almost overcome with scientific amazement. "Just
imagine
how ancient this civilization must have been!"

"What excites me is how much writing accompanies these murals," said George. "This will really help the translation effort."

Another corner well led the four down to a yet-lower chamber. "Murals here, too," commented Tom.

"Not so impressive," Bud pronounced. "Villages of huts."

"I think moving downward took us to representations of an earlier time," theorized Tom. George and Ham agreed.

There was writing here also, possibly captions for the murals. Ham, drifting away from the rest, suddenly called them over excitedly. "Okay Brauny, what do you make of
this?"
he challenged his friend.

The picture showed a large gathering of figures in jeweled clothing that suggested ceremonial costumes. A man and woman, in peculiar headdresses, stood atop a stone platform or dais, raising their arms in respectful welcome. But in front of them, the figure being welcomed had been completely gouged out of the picture! Only a rough oval pit was left at that place in the wall.