Tom Swift and His Spectromarine Selector (9 page)

Tom chuckled. "Seems we have more suspects than we need."

At that moment a yell came from Chow. "Hey! What in tarnation’s splashin’ me?" As the big cowpoke reared back to look upwards, cries of alarm rose from the crewmen as they saw water spraying and dribbling into the bubble near its peak!

"Brand my periscope, we’ve sprung a leak!" Chow hollered. The ranch cook, already half drenched, galloped clear of the torrent.

The air space would soon be flooded, with disastrous results to the occupants!

"All hands back aboard!" Tom shouted. "Get into the
Fathomer!"

Sizing up the situation in an instant, he dashed toward the repelatron. Quickly Tom’s eyes scanned the control panel. To his amazement, the monitor dials were wavering madly! The selector needle had strayed almost two points off peak tuning for the local sea water. Tom’s lean, sinewy hands flew over the controls, adjusting various knobs. Gradually the needle flickered back to correct position.

"Hoo-ray!
Th’ leak’s stopped!" Chow shouted, poking a probing palm out the hatchway, his bald head following.

As Tom mopped his brow in relief, a voice spoke behind him. It was Mack Avery, one of the technicians assigned to set up the repelatron’s power lines to the mantacopter. "I think this was my fault, skipper," he confessed shamefacedly. "When I made the connection I got impatient and forced it a little. I must’ve dislodged something. The needle was holding steady, so I figured it would be all right—boy, was I wrong!"

Tom nodded understandingly. "Okay, Mack. But don’t let it happen again. Next time let me know, so I can run a check."

In spite of his calm manner, the young inventor was disturbed by the brief emergency. He shot a veiled glance at Bud. Everyone had been clustered around Chow on the other side of the
Fathomer,
the repelatron out of view. But was "everyone" really
everyone?

"I didn’t notice who was in the crowd at that exact moment," Tom muttered. Mack Avery might not have been the cause of the problem after all. What if another mishap occurred with one of the three repelatrons, trapping the expeditioners before they could reach safety? Tom shuddered at the horrible picture that rose to mind—men being crushed by the unforgiving pressure of two miles of piled ocean! To discuss the problem, Tom called a conference with his crew chiefs and Lieutenant Fraser, joined by Miss Gabardine and her notebook.

"Why not put a watch on the repelatrons?" Mel Flagler proposed.

"That would be a lot safer, of course," Tom agreed. "But what if the machine itself conks out? Would we have time to repair it?"

"Tell me, Mr. Swift, are you saying your devices are unreliable for actual human use?" Gabardine demanded coolly. "In your proposal to the Subcommittee—"

"I recall the details, ma’am," Tom interrupted heatedly. "Perfection can’t be guaranteed, not by anyone who’s honest. We pointed out the risks."

"Then how about ordering your men to keep emergency diving rigs handy at all times?" Brian Fraser suggested, hastening to break up the moment of tension.

"Aw, come
on!"
Bud grumbled. "We’d never accomplish anything lugging those big dinosaur eggs around with us! Might as well pull out and go home."

In the end, Tom decided to connect the automatic repelatron monitors to loud warning sirens piped through the mantacopters’ external speakers. "I’ll also radio Fearing to send three smaller repelatrons by jetmarine. They don’t have the power to create huge airspaces, but with extra machines on stand-by at all times, the danger of a total collapse of the hydrodomes will be eliminated."

"Sounds like a good plan, skipper," said Slim Davis. "But how exactly do you plan to ‘radio Fearing’ from down here? The rock walls will block any sonar signals, and besides, the ship sonophones don’t even have the power to reach the helium hydrodome, much less the coast of Georgia."

"That is my understanding as well," sniffed Julienne Gabardine.

Tom smiled. "I shouldn’t have said
radio.
I plan to use an experimental undersea communications system Enterprises has developed. We’d planned to test it during the expedition anyway." He added that it would allow direct communications between Aurum City and Shopton.

"Keep your men close to the ships while I go up through the chute in a Fat Man," Tom told the others. "Hank, you can help me. We’ll float the transmitter in the open water on a cable, just outside the channel mouth."

By the end of the workday the transmitter, a metal drum about three feet long, was ready to be put in place. Holding it between their two Fat Men, Tom and Hank waddled through the yielding bubble wall and into the water, then jetted upwards, paying out the rolled cable that would connect the unit to the
Fathomer.

"Better keep an eye out for old Jelly Belly," joked Hank.

Tom laughed. "I’m just hoping he doesn’t have an appetite for metal snacks."

Above the channel mouth they anchored the strong cable to the rocks, allowing the drum, which was slightly buoyant, to drift upwards a ways. Then they descended again.

In the control cabin of the
Fathomer,
Tom sent a control signal to the transmitter, which he called the longwave aqua-rad. Bud and a number of watchers stood quietly behind.

"
Fathomer
to Fearing Communications, come in!"

There was a worrisome pause.

"This is Fearing! Your equipment’s working perfectly, Tom!"

"Clear as a bell!" Bud pronounced happily.

Tom made a few technical inquiries, then gave a brief report on the status of the project. Then, to Tom’s surprise, Phil Radnor took over the mike. "Something up, Rad?" asked the young inventor.

"Up, or down, or who knows where, boss! That abandoned sub, the
Hydra-Gaea—
it’s disappeared!"

"DISAPPEARED!" cried Tom. "You mean it’s drifted from its position?"

"It’s
gone,
at any rate," Radnor replied. "As soon as we reported your rescue incident the government asked us to scout out the site right away in the
Sea Hound,
to help Centas’s people arrange a salvage operation. We’re sure we followed the coordinates you sent us, but there’s no trace of it anywhere—and we searched for hundreds of miles, using all our locating equipment."

"It was anchored in place just hours ago, when we left it," declared Tom. "Even if it pulled anchor, it couldn’t have gone very far, not unpowered."

"And it didn’t buoy up to the surface either—we checked. Any theories, Tom?"

Tom was silent for a moment. "I suppose a freak current could be responsible—we know there are subocean jetstreams in this general area."

Bud snorted. "You can say that again!" The
Ocean Arrow
had been victim to such a freak current.

Tom and Radnor could almost read each other’s minds. Was the disappearance another move by the Mayday Mob? Or the Kranjovians? Or the mysterious, deadly Comrade-General Li? But Tom didn’t want to pursue the question in front of the other listeners in the cabin; he changed the subject in a brusque manner, sure Phil Radnor would take the hint.

"Anyway, Rad, I need to speak to Marie Casey at the jetmarine dock."

"I’ll put you through, boss."

Tom arranged for one of the Swift Enterprises jetmarines, the
Sceptre,
to bring three of the smaller-model repelatrons to Aurum City. After receiving the coordinates, she closed with: "We’ll start loading right away. You should have them in hand in, oh, nine hours or less."

"Thanks. And make it ‘less,’ please."

Dividing up between the three ships, the scientists and sub crews made ready to settle in for the night. Chow prepared a tasty stew for supper, and a couple dozen of the new Aurum Citizens drifted back to the
Fathomer
before retiring to share in it.

Professor Centas and Mordo were among them, sitting in the open on folding chairs and showing no further signs of physical distress.

"Say, Mordo," Bud asked in a friendly way, "is that your first name, or your last?"

The dark young man laughed, "First name—the other, I tell you, you could not pronounce. Eight syllables!" Bud joined in the laughter.

Tom pulled close to the Professor in a chair. "If you feel up to it, how about filling me in on what happened to you? It might give us a clue as to where the submersible is."

"Yes, yes, Tom, and indeed it must be found. My
Hydra-Gaea
is irreplacible," responded the marine biologist and explorer. "She goes deep, moves quickly, has the grace of a ballerina. I designed her myself, my blueprints, my own labor. Just as my father did, with his famous deep-submergence sphere; like you, I have a family tradition to live up to!"

"Did something go wrong with the controls?" Tom persisted.

"Ah, we are not so sure. We began to lose pressure, first one hull, then the next. When the remaining hull was affected, we retreated to the descent sphere, after starting the distress tone. Soon the air went bad."

Mordo added, "We could not have lived much longer."

"Could you have returned to the surface in the sphere?" Tom inquired.

"Alas no. We did not wish to make it buoyant—it is let down on cables, when we must go deeper than the main hulls can stand."

Bud asked the purpose of the
Hydra-Gaea
’s mission. "Ah, a wonderful question!" exclaimed Professor Centas. "You have noticed, of course, the temperature here. At this depth it should be close to freezing. Yet it is balmy enough to stroll about in shirtsleeves, eh?"

Tom nodded. "Yes, that’s what we’d determined on our earlier visits."

"Now let me tell you the reason. This entire area, for hundreds of kilometers around, is geologically active, volcanic—we have known this fact for a hundred years. From deep underground sources, there is heat, plentiful heat. It warms this sunken land mass, and also gives rise to vents of escaping water. Some of it is quite hot, in fact."

"I’ve heard of that," stated Bud with some pride. "Tom said he thought the hot vents caused some of those jetstreams in the area."

The Professor smiled at Bud in tolerant approval. "These hot vents are what we marine biologists call micro-ecologies, almost little worlds unto themselves where natural evolution has been forced along different lines. The sea serpent you encountered—which I believe, from the description, was a mutated form of cephalopod and thus a relative of
Ommastrephes,
the squid—it was surely an example of this deviance."

"I take it you were searching for other such creatures," Tom said.

"Yes. But in fact, we had a more specific goal. Perhaps you have read that bacteria have been found in certain kinds of vents called
black smokers,
after the plumes of dark, mineral-laden water they emit." Centas suddenly fell silent for a long moment, and Tom and Bud exchanged veiled glances. "Ah. Yes. The clever bacteria have evolved the ability to make use of the dim red light from deep volcanism for photosynthesis. Heretofore this was discovered in the Pacific, but we are ready to report similar findings here—not only bacteria, but unusual forms of plant life."

"It’s fascinating," Tom commented seriously. "But now your submersible is missing. We’ve already dealt with sabotage and murder on this mission. We’ve got to consider that the same enemies fouled the
Hydra-Gaea
in order to steal it, for some reason. Were there any signs that someone was tracking you? Anything odd?"

Centas shook his head. "No, no—and why should anyone do that?"

But as the older man again fell silent, Mordo suddenly spoke up. "But Professor, have you forgotten? I told you of sounds on the telephone at the Foundation base."

"Sounds? Yes, I do recall now," Centas murmured. "It seems I did not take it seriously. Perhaps indeed someone was listening in. Thus they might have learned of our general course, our operation." The thought seemed to disturb Professor Centas. He abruptly stood and excused himself, wandering away with a slow, unsteady gait.

"Guess we tired him out," Bud said.

"It happens more and more," replied Mordo quietly. "He remembers less and less, and what he does remember is sometimes confused. His actions have become eccentric. He cannot always account for them. There are times when I am more an attendant than a colleague. But he is a great man."

Tom nodded and said gently, "Great men are still human, and humans are frail."

"Yes, surely. Still, it is sad to see." With a shrug Mordo rose to follow after the Professor.

"What do you think, pal?" Bud asked.

"I don’t know what to think," was the puzzled response. "Someone may have taken advantage of Centas’s condition in some way."

"Yeah. And now that same someone has made off with the
Hydra-Gaea."

"Maybe so. Motive—or
motives—
unknown." Surprisingly, Tom broke into a grin. "But you know what, flyboy? There are other things I’d rather think about right now."

Bud laughed. "Oh, I’m sure of
that.
You’re itching to starting blasting away with the cannon!"

"Right!"

Before retiring for the night, Tom conferred in his private cabin aboard the
Fathomer
with Lieutenant Fraser, Bud joining them. He reported his conversation with Centas, and his and Bud’s speculations. "If you’re right, Tom," mused Brian, "the Kranjovians and their agents may not stop at just sabotage and spying." The young Navy officer’s face looked grim.

"You mean they might even attack our setup at Aurum City?" Bud asked, wide-eyed.

"I’m told the big guy’s been squawking about the ‘unfair deal’ between the democratic nations to explore the city. The Kranjovian Navy might move in," Brian pointed out.

"You may have a point there," Tom conceded. "They could easily cook up some phony excuse in order to provoke an international crisis. They believe turmoil and conflict between nations gives them a leg up in negotiations. We’d better keep a sharp alert at all times."

During the sleep period, the
Sceptre
had arrived with the three emergency repelatrons. The two-person crew breakfasted outdoors with Tom and his friends before preparing to depart on their return trip to Fearing Island. "Looks as though you fellows have been busy while we’ve been goofing off on our little rocket island," joked the
Sceptre
’s young captain, Billy Yablonskovic, a congratulatory smile brightening his face.