Tom Swift and His Deep Sea Hydrodome (17 page)

"Then the change came. Now we were open capitalists, and lived even better.

"My company became part of a consortium, hired by a national government, a powerful one that wished to be more powerful still. We were to construct, in deepest secret, an extraordinary submersible, this very ship. As a gesture to you, our guest, let us continue to call it by your charming name, the
Mad Moby
.

"It is propelled by a magnetic force channeled through the waters that surround it. I am not a scientist, but I pay for scientists, and they have explained it to me—somewhat. All very nice; silent, swift-moving. Valuable for any number of purposes, defensive, offensive, even scientific.

"We delivered the
Moby
to those who had requisitioned it, on time and with only the slightest cost overrun, and the work of the consortium was concluded.

"And yet… You see, I had fallen in love with this vessel, its ingenuity, its clean lines. I wanted it back. So I took it back."

Tom nodded as Fornath sipped. "You stole it."

"A harsh word, but yes, absolutely. And it was very cleverly done. The government concerned, its brief owners, had not a clue. Their little men searched and searched the world over, but what could they do? Nothing tied the affair to me; besides, I have big friends. And they had to exercise great reserve in their inquiries—secrecy, you know. Indeed, even within their own government… but no, I shall be discreet and leave it unsaid.

"It was, shall we say, in a certain sense,
written off.
And then it was mine to enjoy."

"And to make a profit from," declared Tom. As Fornath looked on in tolerant surprise, Tom went on. "Intake tubes in front, exhaust tubes in the back—you’ve modified the sub to be a mobile water processing plant. Or maybe we could call it a filtration and extraction plant, making direct use of its motion through the water to extract—what? Gold?"

The Hungarian laughed softly. "We considered that, but it proved quite uneconomic and impractical. No Tom, what we do—in a most complicated manner, involving what is called quantum mechanics—is extract certain rare substances of value in producing medicines. We mine the sea, just as you intend to do here in your great hydrodome bubble. We will provide mankind, so very sick, with the medicines it demands."

Tom nodded grimly. "At a price."

"Indeed, and a high one; yet not so high as it might have been without our revolutionary methods of production."

"Your ‘process’ produces, as a byproduct, the most potent and deadly neurotoxin known to man," said Tom, leaning forward. "And you release it directly into the sea through your outlet pipes. That’s what we detected in the water when my seacopter first came to the mountain area."

Fornath delicately set down his empty glass and put the fingers of his hands together like a small pyramid. "A wonderful, efficient industrial process with a dangerous waste product that cannot be eliminated. A dilemma indeed. We attempted to compress it into tanks, to hide the containers in the sea. Alas, you seemed to take our efforts as a challenge—clues to a riddle which we wished not to have solved. I’m afraid you and your people became rather a problem."

"Which you tried to solve by killing us off!" Tom pronounced heatedly.

"Such a thing to say to your host!" remonstrated the Hungarian. "Yet I do understand your confusion. You took it personally, our chemical containers."

"You planted them in a location that endangered my base on Fearing Island!"

"Yes, after your people had discovered the first cache. The second cache—only a few chests, you know—was placed as it was to serve as a dissuasion, a warning."

"Am I supposed to accept that, Mr. Fornath? Your agent at Swift Enterprises sabotaged my test tank, manipulated a fine employee into destroying my machine, buzzed me in a plane—and what about the notice and the explosive squib in that chest?"

Fornath gestured mildly, dismissively. "I do see your point, Tom. Perhaps we went a
bit
far. I suppose our pranks did get rather out of hand at points." He was silent for a moment, a frozen expression on his face. "I fear the convivial mood has departed us. But come, let me show you our beautiful ship."

Tom was led by Fornath deep into the high-tech bowels of the
Mad Moby,
Lt. Andre bringing up the rear. The Hungarian seemed inclined to gush and brag, and Tom decided to play along, asking questions and displaying a degree of admiration. "How large a crew does she normally carry?" Tom inquired.

"Myself and a mere six more, including John Andre here. Much of the control is automated; what need have we for many hands and prying eyes? A marvel. We surely gave our unnamed and nameless national backers much more than they expected."

"I certainly can agree with you there," remarked Tom dryly. "But don’t work too hard trying to conceal the name of the nation from me, Mr. Fornath. I know what it is."

"Really?" Fornath’s eyes glittered with suave amusement.

Tom smiled and extended a long, slender arm, pointing to a spot on a bulkhead partially covered by pipes that ran alongside the corridor. Beyond the end of his finger, in a spot not easy to see, a small decal depicting a nation’s flag had been carelessly stuck to the wall.

The flag was Old Glory—the American flag!

"IT WAS my country, the United States, that commissioned the building of this sub," Tom declared. "A way-deep-secret project. I suppose that’s how the lieutenant here got involved in the first place. You stole the sub from Uncle Sam."

"What a delightful, insightful young man you are!" beamed Alsemj Fornath. "But please, don’t hold anything against Admiral Hopkins or your Navy. They didn’t know. Few knew. It was to little advantage, and many persons’
dis
advantage, for the embarrassment to become widely known, even within official circles. Imagine, allowing a submarine to become snitched. Ah—
snatched."
He led Tom further along the corridor, to a private dining room. "I have a little surprise for you. A gift. There—it marks your place at the table."

Stepping forward, Tom could not suppress a gasp.
His test repelatron, the midget model created by Arvid Hanson, rested on the table next to his plate!

"It can’t be!" Tom muttered in amazement. "I saw this in my lab not ten hours ago!" As if not believing his eyes, he picked it up and began to examine it.

"No indeed, Tom," chuckled Fornath. "You did not see
this—
for this is not the one made at your great installation. It is a perfect duplicate, built according to your final blueprints, which were copied and transmitted to my workmen."

"Right," said Tom angrily. "Copied by your agent at the plant—Amelia Foger!"

"That name, I do not know." Fornath held out a hand and Tom turned the model over to him. The Hungarian adjusted the repelatron’s control dials, then suddenly aimed the device at Tom. The young inventor flinched back. "What would it do to the wonderful gray matter within that famous head of yours?" He handed it back to Tom. "But no, this model only affects solutions in water, as you know—otherwise, perhaps I should not be so foolish as to hand it to you. Try it, if you like."

He indicated a pitcher of clear water sitting on the elegant tablecloth. Tom aimed the repelatron and thumbed the switch. The pitcher instantly slid along the table as the water within strained to escape the force beam. The young inventor switched it off and set the machine down on the table. "I’m impressed," he said.

They sat down at the table—even Lt. Andre, warily, at Fornath’s insistence. A servant entered with the first course of the meal, a rich salad. "We must take care not to drink too much water, eh John?" joked their host. "Lest Tom Swift’s machine get its claws into us." Fornath took a bite of his salad. "Mm, no—I recommend a bit of salt, gentlemen." As Lt. Andre passed Tom the salt shaker after salting his dish, it fumbled out of their fingers and fell to the table top.

"Dear me, spilled salt!" cried Fornath jokingly. "An omen of bad luck for our venture to come, do you suppose?"

Tom threw a pinch over his shoulder. "There, the traditional remedy. I want all the luck I can get until the others are safe."

Fornath smiled. "They will be, quite soon—should you chose the way of genial cooperation, Tom." He salted his salad again.

"First, Mr. Fornath, tell me something, please."

"Of course, Tom."

"Did you say—Amy Foger was
not
your agent at Swift Enterprises?"

He shook his head. "That name—unfamiliar. The man we used is named Klevalog."

"He goes under a more American-sounding name than that," put in Andre. "He calls himself David March."

Tom reacted to the name. David March—a respected senior mathematician at Enterprises! "Then he’s the one who—"

"Yes, yes, sabotage, drugs on the envelopes, the airplane—all those little jokes of mine," declared Fornath. "We recruited him about a year ago. It was easily done, for we discovered that he already harbored a grudge against your family, Tom—some ridiculous slight against his father. What silliness!"

I wonder if I’ll ever be able to give Amy the apology she deserves,
Tom thought. "Tell me," he asked. "What was your reason for hanging around the helium site in your ship? Why did you try to wreck my project?—ever since you moved that marker buoy."

"The gentle beginning to an escalating situation," responded Fornath musingly. "We were here because here is where we need to be—the water is full of the trace chemicals we require. I’m told it has something to do with the odd geological condition beneath the mountain, which also causes the gas pockets. Your quest after that useless chemical nonentity
helium
threatened my activities with exposure. Incidentally, I do hope this charming meal attests to the fact that we have no desire to manufacture that terrible poison for any military use. A shocking idea."

"Possibly lucrative," Tom said, not smiling.

"Possibly—now that you mention it! But now, Tom, let us talk turkey."

Tom waited.

"At some point, the same impulse that led me to take back this ship affected my attitude toward
you,
Tom. I decided that I would like to own you. And so, here you are."

"What do you mean—
own
me?"

"Nothing subtle," was the jovial reply. "From now on, you shall be my personal possession—call yourself an employee, if it will salve your ego. You will invent what I wish you to invent, and put your extraordinary genius at my service. Not a difficult life for you—and you may live in the hope of an eventual freedom. Agree to this, and all is well."

The outrageous proposal shocked the young inventor! "And what’s to prevent me from going back on my word to you?"

"There, Tom, you see the regrettable value of the poison called T-9-E." Fornath rose from his chair, his demeanor no longer that of host, but of jailer. "This ship will continue to produce the chemical, and I will continue to bottle it up as a good citizen of the world. Betray me and your own honor, and nothing will hold me back—nothing!" Andre moved to stand next to his employer, drawing his revolver. Tom also stood, facing the enemy boldly, calmly. "And now you shall give your answer," Fornath demanded.

Tom smiled. "Do you mind if I make my reply a little melodramatic?"

"Perhaps I would enjoy it."

"Then—
this is my answer!"

Even as he spoke, Tom had swept the small repelatron off the table and aimed it at his foes, its beam at a wide setting. The two men lurched backwards, thrown off balance, and fell against the wall behind them. Lt. Andre’s revolver clattered to the deck.

The men’s faces were contorted in pain, their muscles bulging as they struggled to make headway against the invisible force. Their eyes bulged as well.

"Your—machine—
only water!
How—" rasped Fornath, barely audible.

"Well," said Tom coolly, "since you asked, the repelatron can be tuned to work on anything, not
just
water—but only one substance
at a time.
I guess you fellows didn’t know about the sampler-sensor built into it. I didn’t toss that pinch of salt over my shoulder, I—"

"Salt!" grated Andre through clenched teeth. "In our bodies—Fornath, you idiot, you had us salt everything we ate!"

"No, not salt," Tom corrected him. "Iodide. The salt was
iodized—
and your bloodstreams carried it just about everywhere. As you can feel, I guess." Tom himself was under a muscular strain from the back-pressure of the repelatron in his hands. Bracing it for a moment against a shelf behind him, he ducked beneath its beam and recovered the revolver. Then, covering the two with the gun, he flicked off the repelatron.

Minutes later, having locked his two foes in a sturdy-walled compartment with Fornath’s servant, Tom exited the submersible and made his secret way back to the dormitory building. He now carried, not a revolver, but one of the submachine guns from the
Mad Moby.

Sneaking inside the building Tom was able to get the drop on Fornath’s men. Disheartened by the capture of their employer, fearful for their lives and trapped beneath an ocean of water, they quickly surrendered and were themselves imprisoned.

The men of the hydrodome crew crowded around Tom, cheering and expressing their gratitude as he briefly told the tale.

"I think I can work up an alternate relay for contacting the outside world," Hank Sterling said. "I’ll get to work on it."

"And there’s no reason now why we can’t go ahead and start setting up that invisible dome of yours, Tom," added Pete Elliot. "It’s getting a tad sticky in here."

"Brand my molars, you’re gonna be—
owww!
—pumpin’ that there helium gas afore you know it!" exclaimed a foghorn voice.

The men started to disperse. "Wait a sec, Tom," said Bud. "There’s one thing left—something that doesn’t add up. What about the valve on—"

"I know, Bud," Tom interrupted. "David March—Klevalog—never got anywhere near Fearing, where the seacopter was based. But that air valve didn’t get fouled up on its own." He turned his gaze to where Dr. Clisby and Bob Anchor stood nearby. "How about that, Bob?"