Tom Swift and His Deep Sea Hydrodome (10 page)

"It’s just that I think it’s time for me to get to know Miss Foger a bit better."

"What do you mean?" asked Bud and Bashalli at the same moment. The young Pakistani added, "Precisely?"

Tom laughed and continued. "Cool down! It struck me that one place at Enterprises that knows all about the helium operation is the legal office. I’d sure like to know if Amelia is carrying out the family grudge against the Swifts—and if she’s acquainted with Reuben Niffman!"

Bashalli said jokingly: "Ah! Do you want us to find where she is living, go over and rough her up a little?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of a social get-together, something relaxed, casual," Tom said.

"Of course!" Sandy exclaimed. "That way she won’t be on the alert when we grill her!"

"Seriously, how about a picnic?" suggested the young inventor. "Maybe on the lake? It’ll seem less threatening if you two take care of organizing it. Do you mind?"

Sandy smiled the smile of a foxhound on the chase. "Leave it to us!"

"She doesn’t mind," Bud commented.

"That’s
what I’m afraid of!" Tom concluded wryly.

"Wa-aal, I think it’s a plumb good idee," Chow contributed. "I’ll make up a right good basket of pic-a-nic victuals, Texas style."

"Now tell us what you girls have been doing," said Bud. "Turning down all other dates, I hope."

"My, what an optimist!" Sandy teased.

Bash laughed, her dark eyes sparkling. "After all, we had you two on ice!"

"You’re licked, boys!" Chow chuckled as the two boys pretended to fume.

Next day, since they were much better, Doc Simpson released them from the facility hospital. Tom and Bud said goodbye to Bob and Dr. Clisby, who needed to take a day to make a report to their boss at the Bureau of Mines in Washington. After they flew off by jet, Sandy, Bashalli, and Chow, who had spent the night on Fearing, took off for Shopton aboard the
Queen
with Tom and Bud as passengers. The bubblevator equipment remained behind on the island.

As they winged over the water toward the mainland, Bud remarked, out of earshot of the others, "Do you suppose that sub was the same one that nosed in on us the other day, or is there a whole fleet of
Mad Moby
s?"

Tom looked grim. "I wish I knew the answer to that one, Bud. Whether it was the same one or not, I wonder if it was carrying T-9-E in the hold."

"Are you suggesting," said Bud, horrified, "that the sub was planning to dump the stuff in
this
area? Around Fearing? Tom!"

The young inventor looked grim and fearful. "They might have been on their way there and just happened to spot us by accident. Now they know we’re on the alert to their presence—I hope that’s stopped them! Anyway, the island sea patrol is pretty efficient, and we’ve got the drones and radar system, too."

"I’d say they’re mighty efficient themselves!" Bud gulped.

As soon as they landed at Enterprises, Tom hurried to his worktable and design flatscreen. A host of problems connected with the prospective helium-site "city" beneath the ocean were pressing—an air-purification plant, the gas-bottling process, and planning for the construction of buildings inside the hydrodome once it had been established.

Under pressure the young inventor’s mind seemed to work at top speed. Hour after hour he hunched over his bench, testing parts and circuit hookups, sketching out ideas, dashing off memos, and taking phone calls. By the end of the day, the youthful scientist-inventor, so recently out of a hospital bed, was exhausted.

But there was good news at home. Sandy announced that she had phoned Amelia Foger at Swift Enterprises. "I made a lot of small-talk, told her how I made a point of greeting new Enterprises employees who are young, single, and female—as I am too!—and in any event, Tom, she took the bait. The picnic is set for early afternoon Saturday!"

"I’d say Amelia Foger never had a chance," commented Tom’s mother.

Midday Saturday, Tom drove Sandy and Bashalli to the yacht club pier on Lake Carlopa, where they were to meet Bud and Amelia. It seemed to Tom that the girls, resplendent in rather chic sundresses and scarves, were not merely dressed to impress, they were dressed to destroy!

"I thought the idea was to
not
set off Amelia’s defense-alert system!" remarked Tom with a whistle.

"The idea is to extract information by whatever means necessary," Bash replied haughtily. "We must wear her down before we go to work on her."

Tom shrugged. "Guess I don’t understand how girls operate."

"That, Thomas,
is
how girls operate!"

The plan was to take the
Mary Nestor
out to Cave Island, a tiny wooded islet at the further end of the lake. As promised, Chow had provided a picnic lunch; as threatened, it had a Texas theme. Yet it looked delicious.

In minutes Bud’s scarlet convertible pulled up and Bud and Amelia Foger waved hello. The attorney was casually dressed in jeans, sweatshirt, sunshades, and a floppy hat. "I’m afraid I’m a little under-dressed," she said apologetically.

"You look fine," Tom responded.
"Oh—
what was that?"

"I think Bashalli dropped the ice chest," Bud said. They clambered aboard the sailboat, and soon the sleek little craft was skipping through the waves toward the north shore. The
Mary Nestor
skimmed across the green expanse of water amid chatter, laughter, and quips from Bud.

"I’ve fallen in love with this town," declared Amelia. "Wonderful atmosphere, friendly people."

"We are extremely friendly here," said Bashalli. "Though if you rub us the wrong way, we are deadly." She smiled. "Ask anyone."

"Isn’t it a beautiful day!" Sandy exclaimed quickly. Her golden hair was flying in the breeze, and she was trailing her hand in the cool waves as they glided along, a picture of unforced feminine poise.

She glanced at Bud. "Careful, San," he warned her. "You look like you’re going to fall out." Sandy’s expression darkened.

After anchoring in the shallows by Cave Island’s bathing beach, they waded ashore, those in pants rolling up their pantlegs while Bashalli and Sandy wrapped their skirts about them. Avoiding the small crowd on the beach, the girls found a pleasant picnic spot some distance away, shaded by overhanging trees. Then they hurried off to change into their swim suits in one of the shallow caves that gave the island its name. But Amelia, like Tom and Bud, simply shed her outer garb to reveal her bathing suit beneath. By the time Sandy and Bash had returned, the boys were cavorting like porpoises in the water, with Amelia Foger giving as good as she got.

"Oh dear," whispered Bashi. "She’s good."

"Very," was Sandy’s reply. "But we’re better!"

"Come on, you scaredy cats!" yelled Bud, as the two girls tested the water delicately.

"Okay," said Sandy, "but don’t you try any—" Her words ended in a shriek as Tom sent a sheet of water flying toward them, splashing both girls from head to foot!

For over an hour they swam, laughed, and sunned themselves. Then when Tom and Bud announced that they had worked up ravenous appetites, they decided it was time to open the picnic baskets.

As the five sprawled about a large tarpaulin bearing the Swift Enterprises logo, the four Shoptonians cautiously tried to draw out Amelia. She was polite, friendly, vivacious—yet somehow their real questions were never quite answered.

"No, I don’t believe I’ve met Mr. Niffman," she said. "Of course his breakdown is all the gossip at the water cooler. I’m preparing a report on liability exposure in such cases, though."

"You’re right on the ball," remarked Tom.

"Like horsehide on a baseball," added Sandy.

Bud tried to bring the conversation around to matters of family background. He talked of his mother’s family, the Newtons, and their long relationship with the Swifts.

"What about your family, Amy? I think Bud said you have relations here in New York," Tom inquired.

"Did he?" She smiled and took a bite of her sandwich. "As a matter of fact, that’s why I’d been thinking of moving to the east coast. I hardly ever have a chance to see that branch of Dad’s family."

"Where do they live?"

"Mansburg."

"Just down the highway. Say, maybe we’ve run into them. What’re their names?"

"I always called them Auntie Nonna and Uncle Bun," she replied unhelpfully. "They’re not really my aunt and uncle—I think they’re second cousins, or something. But they’re very sweet old people."

Just then the growing buzz of a plane caused them all to look up. The tiny prop-job, cream-colored with a bright trim, cast its shadow across them, then looped around for a return.

"If that were a Pigeon Special," Sandy commented, "he’d be able to land right on the beach."

The craft approached lazily, low over the water, the whirling haze of its propeller facing them head-on.

"Y’know, there’s this movie…" began Bud, eyes on the airplane. "A guy’s standing out all alone in a cornfield, and this crop-duster plane zeroes in on him…and…"

Tom suddenly gripped Bud’s wrist as he watched the craft through narrowed eyes. His scalp prickled with a sudden sense of impending danger.

"B-Bud—!" gasped Sandy.

"…It really is…a great movie…" Bud’s face had turned white.

Tom leapt to his feet, trying to pull Amy and Bash up with him. "Run!
Run for the cave!"

But it was now too late to run. As it drew frighteningly near the island, the plane suddenly swooped down, roaring in so low that the picnickers instinctively dived to the sand. The plane circled sharply and, with an ear-splitting whine, buzzed the beach again.

"If I ever get my hands on that rockhead—" Bud stormed as he leapt to his feet.

"Look out! He’s coming back!" cried Bashalli in terror.

THIS TIME, as the plane whipped past, it sprayed the beach with a heavy whitish vapor. In a twinkling, the stifling gas began to diffuse over the corner of the island that the girls had found for them.

"Quick! Into the cave!" Tom yelled. "Don’t bother about your clothes—stay away from that gas!" As they scrambled for the low hill where the caves were located, Tom caught Bud’s eye, and the young inventor’s expression was eloquent.
Could the white vapor be the deadly neurotoxin?

Hands over their faces, the five picnickers crackled across a blanket of brown pine needles and raced up a short incline. When they reached the cave, Tom and Bud hastily barricaded the entrance with whatever torn-off pine boughs and shrub leaves fell within their reach.

"Tom! Something’s happened to Bashi!" Sandy gasped in a panic-stricken voice.

Her brother’s face went pale as he saw that the dark-haired girl had slumped unconscious on the cave floor. He bounded to her side and knelt down, trying to check her pulse and breathing.

"Oh, what’1l we
do?"
cried Sandy fearfully.

Tom racked his brain. Suddenly he recalled that one long, sweeping branch of a giant cedar tree brushed against the hillside next to the cave entrance. "Chafe her wrists, sis! Bud, help me!"

The boys edged aside the barrier they had thrown together and ducked outside, holding their breaths. They frantically stripped handfulls of needles from the branch and hastened back into the gloom of the cave, where they gulped-in the cool air as they crushed the needles in their strong fingers. They held the crude mash under Bashalli’s nostrils. As Tom had hoped, the pungent scent revived her.

"Take deep breaths," urged Amy Foger calmly. "But keep lying flat. Don’t be afraid—you’re all right."

"What happened?" she murmured. "Why is it so dark?"

"You’re in the cave," said Sandy with tears in her voice. "That plane!—Bashi, do you think you breathed in any of the gas?"

"I don’t know," replied the Pakistani. "Maybe a little. There’s a stinging feeling in my throat and nose… a smell like cedar."

Bud called out from the cave entrance, "Tom! The gas is staying low, by the water. And the breeze is thinning it out."

In twenty minutes they were able to venture out again. There was no sign of the plane to be seen as the five made their way cautiously back to the tarp and their picnic basket.

Sandy looked at the limp sandwiches in despair. "It’s ruined—everything’s ruined."

"But once again, we manage to be alive," noted Bashalli, her voice raspy. "I must tell you, Amelia—in the company of these Swift people, to remain alive and healthy is an accomplishment."

Tom pounded an angry fist into the palm of his hand. "They struck right when we were the most vulnerable. We don’t even know what sort of gas Bash inhaled—it’s all dissipated."

Suddenly Bud half-smiled and picked up one of the discarded sandwiches. "Say—maybe not! Doesn’t this good, rich, home-baked bread of Chow’s look sort of like a
sponge?"

Bud’s idea panned out perfectly. Back at Enterprises, the girls safely home, Tom ran a test of the sandwich bread for traces of foreign substances.

As Tom looked up from his instruments, Bud said, "Well, it can’t be that poison, can it? Bash would’ve dropped in her tracks."

"It’s not the neurotoxin," Tom pronounced. "It’s not even poisonous—just a harmless compound used to produce theatrical fog effects."

"Then what was the point, skipper?"

Tom shrugged. "Want a guess? A warning of some kind. Or maybe—" A sudden frown puckered his forehead. "Bud… who was last into the cave? Wasn’t it Amy?"

Bud nodded in abrupt understanding. "Yes! She seemed to hold back a little, almost as if—"

"Almost as if she knew the attack was harmless!" Tom concluded heatedly. "She was cooler than any of us, all the way through. It may be that this little stunt was all about taking our suspicions off her, by making her look like another victim with the rest of us."

Bud’s anger was mixed with apology. "Tom, look what I’ve done, bringing her to Enterprises like that!"

"Don’t blame yourself. She may have been keeping tabs on you in San Francisco, waiting for an opportunity."

"But do you really think…" Bud pushed aside the tenacious dark lock that had flopped across his forehead. "An old grudge against the Swifts—
that
I can believe. But it’s hard to believe she could be behind the
Mad Moby.
Or am I just being old-fashioned?"