Tom Swift and His Deep Sea Hydrodome (4 page)

"It’s a fact," said Dr. Clisby. "And I’m sorry to say—but obliged to inform you—that Bob and I are here to investigate the possibility that your company has been a party to a deliberate hoax targeting the government of the United States!"

DAMON SWIFT flushed with anger. "That’s absolutely absurd! To speak bluntly, the reputation of Swift Enterprises for honesty is a good deal higher than the current—"

"We know, we know," interjected Bob Anchor hastily. "I think Arthur’s tone reflects his, his sheer
disbelief
at this situation we’re in—all of us."

Bud had his familiar thundercloud look, but forced himself to say nothing, backing away. Tom took a calming tone. "Let’s review the facts, shall we?"

"Of course," said Clisby. He had begun to look somewhat abashed. "A Navy cruiser, one of our specialized scientific vessels, arrived at the site roughly twenty hours ago, guided by your floating marker buoy. A small deep-water submersible, a drone, descended to the point where the cable was anchored in the sea floor near the base of the mountain. A stream of bubbles was issuing, just as you had described. The drone took several samples of those bubbles, and returned them to the ship. A preliminary analysis, right on board, was most disturbing; but no firm conclusions were drawn. At the base in Norfolk, we ourselves conducted an independent analysis and the preliminary findings were confirmed."

"What findings, precisely?" asked Mr. Swift.

"The samples tested positive for argon, hydrogen, water vapor, methane, and various sulfides. There was not a trace—not a trace!—of helium gas."

"I can’t understand it," Tom said.

"Nor I," added his father. "Our own analysis was absolutely indubitable."

Tom rubbed his chin. "Is there any possibility that your samples were switched somehow?" he asked Clisby and Anchor.

Bob Anchor shrugged. "If so, we don’t see how it could have been done, or by whom. Everyone involved had a high level of security clearance."

"And besides," noted Clisby, "the containers were marked in code. Damon, I’m sure you know that our department takes as much care in these matters as your own people do."

Tom and his father, utterly dismayed and thoroughly baffled, exchanged frowning glances. Tom broke the leaden silence. "Gentlemen, would you be willing to accompany us back to the site in the seacopter? Using our deep-water suits, you could take fresh samples yourselves, and test them on the spot with your own equipment."

Both visitors smiled. "Actually, that’s precisely what we were hoping for," Dr. Clisby admitted. "We want to give your company every chance to disprove these allegations."

"Much as I would like to accompany you, my doctor has other ideas," Mr. Swift declared. "But my son and his pilot, Bud Barclay here, can handle this without me."

Tom said, "Let’s not wait. It’s only mid-afternoon, and we can have supper on Fearing Island—that’s where the
Sea Hound
is docked." The plan was agreed to with enthusiasm all the way around, and before the next hour struck Tom and Bud were spearing southward in the Flying Lab with their guests.

"I’m afraid I came off rather poorly," remarked Dr. Clisby to Tom and Bud in the control compartment. "There’s no pleasant way to convey to a friend what amounts to an accusation."

"No hard feelings, sir," Tom replied.

"I’ll save
my
hard feelings for whoever’s behind this snafu," muttered Bud.

"Well, at least we’ve found an excuse to ride in this wonderful airship of yours, Tom," Bob Anchor said. "I’ve dreamed of it ever since your Montaguaya trip made the front pages!"

After a smooth vertical landing at thumb-shaped Fearing Island, the four had a light supper and took off immediately for the mid-Atlantic in the
Sea Hound
. Bob Anchor, who had served a post-college hitch in the Air Force, was wide-eyed and impressed. "Tom, if your helium strike pans out half as well as this baby, it’ll be a rip-snorter!" he exclaimed.

"Wait’ll you see this hound dive!" Bud told him with a chuckle.

It was coming on nine PM local time when the seacopter settled down onto the dark blue waves near the buoy with its tossing pennant. Tom reversed the blade pitch and the remarkable craft dove beneath the scalloped carpet of the surface and down into the black depths. Using the aqualamp they followed the cable down to the bottom.

Dr. Clisby marveled at the strange, phosphorescent fishes that darted past the cabin window. "Fantastic scene!" he exclaimed in a voice muffled by awe.

As Bud held the
Sea Hound
steady, Bob Anchor pointed. "There it is, just as it was on the video from the drone." A line of big bubbles issued steadily from the muck at the mountain’s broad base.

Tom did not respond for a moment. When he did, his voice was perplexed—and grim. "Bob—Dr. Clisby—something’s very wrong here. This is not the spot where I planted the buoy cable the other day!"

"I knew it!" yelped Bud.

"Not the spot?" Dr. Clisby was amazed! "How can that be, Tom? The signal from the buoy—"

"The signal’s right, but the location’s wrong," Tom responded. "The anchoring spike has been moved somehow. There was a drop-off next to the real site. It was still there after the seaquake, when we went down to find my father. There’s nothing like that here."

"Maybe we can find the bubbles from the real site," Bud urged. He guided the seacopter along the base of the undersea mountain, slowly and expertly. But as meter after meter of gray-brown sea floor fell away, Tom’s heart sank toward his stomach. There was no sign of the helium well!

Suddenly, as the
Sea Hound
rounded an outcropping, Tom gripped his pal’s shoulder. "Bud—stop! That ledge ahead—I’m
sure
that’s the right spot!"

As Bud played the aqualamp beam over the side of the mountain and the ocean floor, Bob Anchor cried out, "There’s the helium spot! I can see the bubbles!"

Relieved cheers filled the small cabin as the four gazed at the steady upsurge of gas. "Look at the speed of their ascent!" Dr. Clisby murmured in awe. "Nothing like the other stream! And now that I see it, I feel certain it’s helium, Tom, just as you and your father said."

"You’ll have to make sure, Dr. Clisby," Tom responded with a slight twinkle in his eye. "We want no more, er, disputes. There’s a Fat Man suit waiting for you."

"Ah, yes. Well…" He glanced in the direction of his more youthful assistant.

"Not a problem, Arthur," laughed Bob Anchor. After some quick instruction, Anchor and Tom went out and captured fresh samples of the rushing bubbles. Back aboard, Tom invited the scientists to make an immediate preliminary analysis with the portable test equipment they had brought with them. The two chemists eagerly repeated their earlier analysis with their chemical and spectrometric apparatus. When they finished, the visitors’ faces were tense with excitement.

"Incredible!" gasped Dr. Clisby. "This is almost one hundred percent pure helium!"

Bob Anchor ripped off his protective apron and said jubilantly, "The Swifts were right all along!" He added soberly, "Can you and your father ever forgive us for our suspicions, Tom?"

"You had good reason," Tom replied. "What I find unforgivable—and mysterious—is the moving of that line-anchor. It couldn’t possibly have happened by accident."

"But who could have been responsible?" asked Dr. Clisby. "Does Swift Enterprises have enemies?"

Bud threw Clisby a sourly ironic look. "Is the ocean wet?"

"Well," said Clisby, "perhaps we ought to set that issue aside for the present. I must confess that I’m less interested in the practical applications of this discovery than in its genesis. Some very peculiar geochemistry must be occurring beneath this mountain, producing gas pockets in wide variety. Normally, of course, geolithic helium deposits are associated with radioactive decomposition…"

"Yet we’ve detected no sign of radiation," noted Tom thoughtfully. "Not so far, at least. Something may turn up in further exploratory operations."

"You mean to start with a preliminary survey?" Dr. Clisby asked.

Smiling, Tom shook his head negatively. "Why wait? We know
something
’s down there! I’d like to start the main drilling immediately, using my atomic earth blaster."

"Great!" exclaimed Dr. Clisby, and Bob Anchor nodded. Both men were familiar with Tom’s earth blaster, the remarkable tunneling machine which he had invented to tap a new source of iron at the South Pole. "However," the senior chemist went on, "what about capping the flow if the drilling proves successful?"

"I’ve thought of that," Tom replied. "My gadget must be strong enough to stand up against a geyser. Last evening I had Arvid Hanson, my chief modelmaker, put together a prototype of a special well-capping device that I’ve come up with. Here’s the principle."

Pulling out a pencil, he made a quick sketch of his arrangement. Both government chemists gave admiring approval.

"If a chemist’s point of view is of any relevance, your device should work perfectly!" said Dr. Clisby. "Well, I’m certainly in favor of commencing as soon as possible to find out the extent and depth of these wells. I shall so indicate in my report to Assistant Secretary Bronson. Of course the expedition must be kept secret until the United States has staked an official claim."

"So far, no one outside Swift Enterprises and the Bureau of Mines knows about the discovery," Tom assured him. "And we’ll keep it that way!"

Tom turned, about to direct Bud to bring the seacopter to the surface. He stopped himself in mid-breath. "Hmm!"

"What, skipper?" asked Bud.

"Just looking at the automatic spectrometer readout, pal." The young inventor flicked a couple switches on the control board, and used a dial to adjust the display. "Bob—Dr. Clisby—I know you’re familiar with the Swift Spectroscope. Take a look at this."

The chemists approached, gazing intently at the colored bar-lines on the readout screen. "What area is the instrument scanning right now?" inquired Bob Anchor.

"It’s undirected," was the reply. "Just pointing straight out into the water."

Dr. Clisby’s forehead creased with perplexity. "But this—this shouldn’t be, surely. Compounds of this complexity would never develop in open water."

"They’re synthetic," Tom declared. "In fact, correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t these look to you like cholinergic chain disruptors? I’m hardly an expert, but I happen to recall the general form."

"You’re not wrong, Tom," said Bob.

"Excuse me, guys," Bud interjected. "My only contact with chemistry was when I punted a football right through the chem lab window. What are we talking about?"

As Tom took a few steps away, running a hand through his blond crewcut, Dr. Clisby answered Bud’s question.

"What are we talking about? Poison, Bud—some of the deadliest poisons known to man!"

BUD BARCLAY turned pale.
"Poison!
Man-made?"

Tom nodded. "Definitely. These readings indicate the presence of a tremendously potent neurotoxin, a nerve agent absolutely fatal even in very minute quantities, even highly diluted. There was extensive journal coverage of it several years ago. Though the actual formula was kept top secret, a certain amount of identifying data was given out to research companies worldwide, for their own protection and the protection of the public. That’s how I know enough to recognize it."

"Thanavassyn-9-Epsilon—T-9-E! Great God almighty!" breathed Dr. Clisby in dismay. "Imagine the consequences if—"

"But, w-we’re not in danger here in the ship, are we?" Bud asked, eyebrows high.

"No, Bud," said Bob Anchor. "We’re sealed in, as we were in the diving suits. But if just one drop of the seawater out there had managed to get into the cabin and evaporate—"

Tom cut him off with a cry of fear! "The Fat Man suits! We brought in plenty of water clinging to their outer shells!"

"And with the sample container as well!" gasped Bob.

"Don’t panic," counseled Clisby. "We’re showing no signs of a reaction. Let’s look at the data in a bit more detail." He, Tom, and Bob spent several tense minutes poring over the figures produced by the spectroscope computer as Bud watched, alert to every faltering beat of his heart.

Finally the three men nodded at one another and Clisby said: "It appears the complex sulfides in the water—from the other gas geyser, and no doubt many smaller sources yet to be detected—have reduced the compound to a less potent variant. We’re safe."

"But a permanent mining operation would have long-term exposure," Tom pronounced. "It could hardly be helped. We’ve got to figure out the source."

"It may not take all that much figuring," said Bud quietly. "Look at the sonarscope."

A moving electronic shadow showed that a large object was slowly approaching the seacopter!

"What is it, another sub?" asked Bob.

Tom nodded. "A big one. Rounding the mountain at a higher elevation, about… almost two miles distant." Tom switched the sonarscope display to its imaging mode. "Look at that! Anybody recognize it?"

The image, white-on-black like a photo negative, showed a strange, bulbous craft unlike anything the submariners had seen before. The fore part of the ship resembled a football with a snubbed-off nose. This was attached to a longer, much narrower trailing section of cylindrical form.

"Like a whale!" murmured Bud. "A real Mad Moby! It’s huge, Tom."

"The front section alone is more than twice as long as the
Sea Hound,
fore to aft," declared the young inventor. He pressed a button, activating a recorder to preserve the sonarscope data for later study.

"Do you intend to challenge her?" asked Bob Anchor.

"If she’s involved in spreading that neurotoxin, I just want to get us out of here!" Tom took over the controls and the seacopter sped away from the undersea mountain at top speed. The mystery visitor did not give chase, and in minutes the
Sea Hound
had risen to the surface and taken to the air.

"All very disturbing," muttered Arthur Clisby.