Tom Swift and His Deep Sea Hydrodome (11 page)

"She’s hardly likely to be the mastermind," Tom declared. "But she could be acting as their agent here in the plant, the one who leaked information to Niffman and got him stirred up."

He told Bud that he would discuss the matter with his father and with Harlan Ames, to work out a scheme to keep watch on her until the suspicions could be confirmed.

After saying goodbye to Bud, Tom showered and changed in his office, then phoned Harlan Ames at home and reported the incident.

"Any idea where the plane came from?" asked the security chief.

"None at all," Tom replied. "It had no marks of identification, and we couldn’t see the pilot."

"Okay, I’ll notify the authorities. Maybe the Air Patrol can spot it."

No word came, but the next morning Tom and his father received a long-distance call from Admiral Hopkins, who had previously acted as Swift Enterprises’ contact person for scientific work involving the U.S. Navy. In tones that bespoke deep concern the officer reported that a patrolling Navy sub had found a cache of sealed titanium containers in a crevice on the ocean floor near Bermuda. "The men made jokes about ’em first-off—said they looked like pirate treasure chests, that sort of thing. We didn’t open them. But we did x-ray them. And then, gentlemen—then we didn’t
want
to open them!"

"What do you mean?" asked Damon Swift.

"The chests contained round, reinforced high-pressure tanks. You and I know what that could signify in the present circumstance."

Tom and his father exchanged startled looks. The implication was clear—T-9-E!

"We forced a tank open in a sealed test chamber, and our supposition proved correct. Do you understand? And gentlemen, there were nineteen of those chests!"

Tom gasped.
"Nineteen!
And no clue as to who planted them?"

"None," replied the Navy man. "We assume it was that big submersible, of course. The motive is unknown. Our government has received no warnings, no threats. It seems they’re being stockpiled."

"The implied threat is pretty obvious!" Tom exclaimed in anger.

"No argument there. The foreign intelligence and anti-terrorism people are going crazy. We’ve put Swift Enterprises in the loop on this, as it seems the matter is connected to your helium project," Admiral Hopkins concluded. "I’ll be keeping in close touch with your security man—Ames, isn’t it?"

The Swifts thanked him for the promise. When the call was ended father and son sat and talked in grave tones, quietly. The threat to human life was horrific. "And we have no means of taking the battle to the enemy," declared the elder Swift. Tom could only agree.

Tom spent the balance of the eventful weekend at home, keeping in close contact with Bashalli to make certain that she had suffered no lingering effects from the vapor. Though the compound was basically harmless, Doc Simpson, telephoning the Swift home Sunday evening, suggested that she might be allergic to it. The exposure had caused her windpipe to momentarily constrict, it appeared, bringing about her fainting spell.

"How’s Niffman coming along?" Tom asked.

"According to Dr. Cole at the hospital, he’s much calmer now—more rational and talkative. Tom, it was wise of you to deal with the problem medically instead of having him arrested."

"It’s obvious he’d had some sort of breakdown," Tom said. "He’d been a loyal employee before—Enterprises owed him something for that."

Doc Simpson agreed. "In fact, looking at the blood workup, he may have had even less responsibility for his behavior than we thought."

"What did you find?"

"Hold on to your hat, Tom. The lab detected traces of lysergic acid—LSD! I’m pretty sure Rube Niffman was drugged!"

TOM WAS dismayed—and outraged!
"Drugged!
By someone else, you mean?"

Doc Simpson hesitated, weighing Tom’s question carefully. "We don’t really know. I’m sure he’ll tell us eventually, but I don’t recommend putting too much pressure on the man right now, not in his present condition. Though drugs might have caused the problem to develop in the first place, it’s possible that they exacerbated an underlying psychosis. He could slip into a schizophrenic state if we try to confront him."

"Yes, I see," replied the young inventor. "You’re the expert, Doc. But confidentially—I’m afraid I can’t give you the details—there’s a lot riding on Niffman’s story. If there’s a plotter working at Enterprises, we need to smoke him out. It’s vital that we uncover him!" Tom added silently:
Or her!

"Let’s give it another couple of days," Doc said. "Take that as my ‘doctor’s advice’."

"Right. Thanks a lot."

"I’ll send you my bill in the morning!" joked the young medico.

At Enterprises the next morning, Tom plunged into the task of modifying the basic repelatron so that it would automatically adjust its field setting to changes in the predominant mix of trace substances in water. "Trying to make it a bit more open-minded," Tom explained to Bud with a grin.

Bud asked if the redesigned system would be able to repel elements or chemical compounds other than water, such as iron or calcium. "Just think, Tom—if you could get your gimmick to repel dirt and rock, you could put one underneath a plane and she wouldn’t be able to crash if she wanted to! Or maybe you could use repelatron force rays to throw enemy missiles back on whatever country fired ’em off!"

Tom sat up tall on his workstool, eyes bright with thought. "You’re right, flyboy—absolutely! In theory, the concept has almost unlimited potential. Unfortunately, though, the Lunite used in the antenna-radiator—the surface of that metal ball is actually the ends of thousands of tiny Lunite filaments—is subject to a sort of ‘lag effect’ that I haven’t been able to overcome."

"You mean the stuff doesn’t want to switch back and forth?"

The young inventor gave his pal a nod. "You’d almost need a separate radiator for each basic compound. However, I do think I can get the water-repelatron to show a greater range of tolerance with respect to the proportions of trace chemicals in the mix."

"Well, skipper, I’m all for tolerance." Bud eyed the small device sitting on Tom’s work table. It resembled an oversized flashlight, the end flaring out into a parabolic reflector. "That’s either your new repelatron model or a satellite dish for mice."

"Just a midget test prototype Arv Hanson whipped up for me," Tom said with a laugh. "The parabolic reflector keeps the spectron space-wave field focused like a beam. I’ve been testing the new circuitry on different mixtures and solutions." Tom showed Bud a small opening in the top of the device. "There’s a tiny spectroscopic sampler inside that ‘reads’ whatever mixture you drop in and adapts the field characteristics accordingly. My goal is to get it to work on any type of salty solution, more or less."

"Then let’s make Chow your next test subject, Tom," Bud gibed. "He’s about as salty as they come!"

Tom asked Bud to assist him in the lengthy process of testing and adjusting the machine. His pal grinned. "Guess I can do the ‘monkey-wrench’ work about as well as any monkey," he replied.

The day passed quickly with barely a break for a sandwiched lunch. The boys were still hard at work at closing time when most of the employees went streaming out through the main gate.

Some time later Chow Winkler stuck his bald head through the doorway. "Some folks never know when to take a break," the old cook remarked.

Tom looked up in surprise. "Hi, Chow! Say, what time is it?"

"Nigh onto seven o’clock."

Tom gave a whistle. "Gosh, I had no idea! Guess we’d better get home to dinner, eh, Bud?"

"Suits me," said the husky young pilot, laying down a Phillips-head screwdriver.

"Hold on now, partners!" Chow interposed with a gruff frown. "You fellers kin just sit y’selfs back down. Brand my propeller-trons, seems like I hardly get a chance to see your faces lately—ceptin’ when you’re playin’ tricks on me with my salt shaker!" He interrupted himself with a low groan and put a hand to his cheek. "Besides," he went on, a strained expression on his face, "I figured you’d sure be here all night a-workin’, so I fixed up some real fancy vittles to line your insides with. And they’re dang good and
I don’t want any arguments, you hear?"

Tom and Bud exchanged glances of surprise. "Chow!" murmured Tom in sympathy. "What’s—"

"Ain’t nothin’ wrong!"
The old Westerner spoke so harshly that the two youths were taken aback!

"Uh—okay Chow."

The cook put a hand to his cheek again. "Aw, it’s this tooth o’ mine. Achin’ away like a pick-axe at work, and blame if I can’t get in to see the dentist till tomorree!"

Bud tried to extend some sympathy to the friend he so often kidded. "Maybe we can find something to take your mind off it."

"Naw, don’t need nothin’," Chow replied stubbornly. "And don’t think a passel o’ them lame-mule wisecracks o’ yours’ll make a difference, Buddy Boy!"

"S-sure!" said Bud with wide-eyes.

"Chow, dinner’d be swell!" Tom smiled. "I could sure use one of your super-deluxe specials! We both could—right, Bud?’’

"More like it. Comin’ right up!" the cook responded in grumpy tones. "Back in jest a minute with th’ goods—
oww!"

"Whatever he’s thrown together in the state he’s in," muttered Bud to Tom as the door closed, "something tells me
we’ll
be the ones who end up groaning!"

Tom immediately phoned his mother and explained that he and Bud would not be home for the late supper they’d planned. Then, clicking shut the circuitry cover of the small repelatron, he went to a far corner of the laboratory to look at some construction plans he had promised his father he would deliver to Arv Hanson. Meanwhile Bud did a quick cleanup job. He put away tools and sorted out the jumble of electronic parts strewn over the workbench, When Tom turned around, he found his pal seated at the table they often used for quick meals.

"Hungry?" Tom asked.

"Oh yeah," smiled Bud.

Presently the boys heard a shrill whistle on a bosun’s pipe just outside the laboratory.

"Chow down!" boomed a foghorn voice, and the roly-poly sun-bronzed cook appeared, wheeling a tiered cart loaded with covered dishes. Frowning and silent—except for some soft moaning—Chow laid the table with a snowy white cloth, dishes, glasses, and silverware. Then he lifted the lid of a soup tureen. Out floated a cloud of steam, bearing with it an appetizing aroma.

"Mmm! Smells delicious!" Tom said with great haste, almost before the whiffs had time to reach his nose. "What is it?"

"Armadillo soup," Chow replied as he grimly ladled it into the bowls. "Reckon you’ll say it’s the finest you ever tasted!"

Tom had turned a bit pale. "Don’t know that I ever tried any before," he said cautiously, not wanting to hurt the Texan’s feelings, or provoke a further eruption.

"Course you ain’t never had any o’ this kind before," said Chow, "’cause I jest got the idea the other day."

Bud stared at his soup dish suspiciously. "You mean you stewed up one of those armor-plated critters you see in the zoo?"

"Oh, I took the shell off," Chow assured him. "Jest cooked the pink tender meat—folks like the flavor fine down on the Rio Grande. You will, too, when you taste it. Go ahead and try some." As the two hesitated, he added:
"Now!"

"I can hardly wait!" said Bud, leaning over the bowl as if enjoying the aroma.

"You jest go ahead an’ spoon ’er in. Won’t kill ya, an’ if it does, I don’t want t’ hear about it!"

Chow’s words ended in a shriek as the soup suddenly flew from the dishes!

"G-great jumpin’ Jehoshaphat!"
The cook turned white as a ghost as he stared down at the empty dishes, then up at the spattered ceiling. "Uh—uh—what in tarnation’s goin’—
owww!"

Both boys were shaking so hard with laughter they could hardly talk. Finally Tom managed to find his voice. "Don’t worry, Chow. Something tells me The Great Barclay is back of this!"

Reaching down, Bud brought out the new portable repelatron from underneath the table. He confessed, somewhat meekly, to being the culprit and explained that he had propped the device on the floor with its antenna pointing upward and flicked on the switch just an instant before. He had managed to dribble one spoonful of the salty soup into the repelatron as a sample.

"Brand my boot heels, I mighta known this here jokin’ varmint was up to somethin’!" Chow groaned, mopping his forehead.

"But I’ll bet it took your mind off your tooth!" Bud pointed out with raised eyebrows.

Chow’s glare slowly softened, and finally he joined in the laughter, good nature restored.

At last the meal proceeded, with fresh helpings from the tureen. Though the taste of the armadillo soup was strikingly unusual, both Tom and Bud found it delicious. The rest of the meal proved to be equally appetizing. Chow looked happy when the boys praised his cooking in glowing terms.

"Guess I kin take a joke long as I’m cookin’ fer folks who ’preciate good grub!" he beamed.

While Tom took the construction drawings to a far part of the building where he knew Arv Hanson was working late, Bud helped Chow clear away the dishes, then sponge off the spattered soup. The old Texan hung around for a moment, chatting idly, but finally went off wheeling his cart and nursing his tooth.

Bud carried the repelatron across the lab and screwed it into the wall-mounted clamps that held it firmly in place during the testing procedure. Awaiting Tom’s return, he stood at one of the counters with his back to the lab and amused himself by making a costume jewelry pin for Sandy out of a piece of copper.

Gradually a strange feeling crept over him. His throat seemed dry and painful. It was hard to swallow. The muscular, athletic youth ignored the feeling for a time.
Guess that armadillo’s still got a little life in him!
he joked to himself. But his head began to throb. Dropping his work, Bud slumped down on a stool. The whole room was swimming before his eyes.

"What in the world’s happening to me?" he muttered. He had chatted with Tom about Niffman’s case—was it possible that Bud himself had been slipped some kind of drug?