Tom Swift and His Deep Sea Hydrodome (9 page)

Bud stared at it and said, "Don’t tell me what this is for. Let me guess. An elephant’s back-scratcher?"

"Not quite, knuck. It’s an undersea elevator."

"Hmm!" Bud’s eyes narrowed.

The object in question consisted of a square, railed metal platform, about one foot thick, with finlike brackets extending out on two opposite sides of it. In the center, inset halfway into a round opening in the deck, was a shiny metal sphere the size of a large beachball.

"If you’ll promise not to call in that Dr. Kupp, I’ll be glad to let you explain to me what it’s for and how it works," said the young pilot as he brushed a lock of black hair off his forehead.

Tom had to chuckle at the baffled—and wary!—look on his friend’s face. "Like I say, Bud—it’s an undersea elevator for hauling things up or down between the hydrodome on the bottom and the surface of the ocean," Tom explained. "It’ll slide on cables that’ll pass between pairs of grooved wheels that will be mounted inside these brackets."

"That’s an elevator, all right." Bud nodded his head in silent amazement, then asked, "What makes it go? A winch motor on a ship up topside?"

"A repelatron. This metal ball in the center is the radiating part of the machine."

Bud said quickly, "I thought you told me, during my brain-recovery period yesterday, that your repelatron was to repel water to create an air space around your hydrodome."

"The main repelatron will do that," Tom said. "This little one will create a bubble space around the elevator on all sides."

"But you just got through saying it would make the elevator go up and down."

"It’ll do that, too, by altering the bubble’s buoyancy.’

"Better draw me a diagram," Bud declared. "A simple one, please, with stick-figures."

"Glad you’re not underestimating yourself, flyboy." Tom rapidly sketched a small ship on a page in his notebook—and put a stick-figure on deck. "Suppose this ship is built out of metal weighing a thousand tons. It floats. But what would happen if you squeezed the ship into a solid hunk of metal—like this?" He crunched the piece of paper into a ball.

"She’d sink."

"Right. The solid hunk of metal wouldn’t weigh any more than the ship, but it would displace a lot less water, and have less surface area for the water to push on. In other words, if you shrink something down so it takes up less space in the water, it also becomes less buoyant—or more sinkable, you might say."

"With you so far, pal." Bud nodded. "So?"

"So we’ll do the same thing with the bubble around the elevator," Tom explained. "By cutting down the force of the repelatron, we make the bubble shrink to a smaller size. Since we’re now displacing less water, the elevator will automatically tend to sink."

"Sure, and then turn the repelatron up full force—the bubble now becomes larger, displacing more water, so the elevator starts to rise."

Tom applauded. "Knew you could do it!"

"Like I told you, I’ve been reading." Bud shook his head in admiration, "Don’t know how
you
do it, genius boy, but it sounds terrific. Nice work, pal!" Bud clapped his friend on the back. "I hereby grant you the official Barclay seal of approval! How soon do we give it a tryout?"

"Tomorrow morning." Tom grinned. "In the middle of the ocean! Want to come along?"

"It’s a date!"

Next morning the elevator device, christened the
bubblevator
by Bud, was loaded aboard the Flying Lab and Tom, Bud, and Hank Sterling took off with it to Fearing Island. Tom had invited Dr. Clisby and Bob Anchor to witness the trial, and Doc Simpson accompanied the small crew on the flight in case extensive exposure to the repelatron during the underwater tests should lead to medical problems for the youths.

"How’s Niffman?" Tom asked Simpson somewhere over Pennsylvania.

"About the same. Sleeps a lot and keeps babbling when he’s awake. Doesn’t make any sense yet," the physician replied. "But I feel his condition is temporary. The bloodwork results should be available when we get back to Shopton."

After landing at the rocket base the sea elevator was transferred to a flat, bargelike vessel outfitted with a crane derrick, and all climbed aboard.

After two hours of travel north of east the barge reached a point where the fathometer showed a depth of about a hundred and fifty feet. Tom quickly performed a careful analysis of the seawater by Swift Spectroscope.

"It’s water, isn’t it?" asked Bob with a laugh.

"Sure is," was the reply. "But the repelatron effect, attuned to basic H2O, can be interfered with by other substances mixed in with it, such as salt. I even have to take trace elements, like chromium, into account in calibrating the machine—otherwise the bubble could collapse on us."

"As a chemist, I’m always glad to be reminded of the importance of my chosen profession," said Dr. Clisby. He lowered his voice so the technical crew could not overhear. "It’s also good to know that this area isn’t infested with any toxins."

The crane boom was swung out to support the elevator cables. These were reeved through pulley blocks and payed out into the water, with a weighted mechanism attached to their ends which would automatically anchor itself to the bottom of the ocean upon contact.

"Okay, let’s rig the elevator platform!" Tom ordered. While this was being done under Hank Sterling’s direction, Bob Anchor begged to go along on the first descent.

"Next time," Tom grinned as Bob’s face fell in evident disappointment. "Let us peasants test it out first—you and Dr. Clisby are valuable government employees!"

As soon as the elevator guides were clamped in place around the cables, Tom and Bud stepped aboard the slowly-rocking platform, dangling from the crane boom a dozen feet above the rounded waves, through a gate in the railing. After a last check of the bank of solar batteries mounted within the waterproofed body of the platform, the bubblevator was lowered by winch until it just touched the surface of the water. With his heart racing nervously, Tom murmured to Bud, "Here goes!" and switched on the repelatron full force.

An awed gasp burst from the watchers on deck. A huge hollow depression, like a giant dimple, had opened up in the surface of the water, directly below and around the elevator! Forming a perfect circle with the repelatron sphere at its center, the inner surface of this hollow was as smooth and shiny as a glass bowl. Beyond lay the translucent green of the sea.

"Cast off the winch lines!" Tom ordered, feeling a thrill of excitement at this first success. He glanced at Bud, and his pal held up crossed fingers.

A moment later the elevator hung poised above the water dimple, sustained entirely by the force of the repelatron as it pushed against the water.

"Going down!"
Tom slowly eased back on the master control lever, cutting down the action of the repelatron. As the repulsion force decreased, the dimple grew smaller and the elevator began to sink. As the two boys descended below the wavery line of the surface, the water gradually closed in on all sides and met above their heads. They were enclosed in an air bubble!

Bud gasped. "Whew! What a weird feeling!" he murmured as they sank down, down through the bright emerald waters.

"Any trouble breathing?" Tom asked.

"Not a bit," his pal replied. "How long can we stay under before we use up our air?"

"The bubble’s still pretty big, even at its descent radius," Tom said. "Just being the two of us, we could easily last an hour or more. When we expand it, the air tanks inside the platform will release more to fill ’er up."

Bud turned for a glance at the repelatron sphere. "It looks funny—like it has a glow around it."

"A corona, a localized photon-resonance effect. There’s a
heck
of a lot of energy surging around the radiator sphere, Bud. Just think of the tremendous weight of water it has to hold back! To withstand the back-pressure the sphere itself is solid; all the hollows and airspaces have been filled with hardened Tomasite under pressure. And this is nothing compared to what the hydrodome repelatron will have to endure."

As the experiment continued Tom switched on some floodlights mounted beneath the platform, and the gathering darkness jumped back. In a short while the ocean floor became visible below, with its tangled mass of green vegetation. Tom could not suppress a pleased grin at the bubblevator’s operation, which he and Bud passed between them.

Suddenly Bud let out a cry of alarm. "Tom! Look!" He pointed through the bubble’s invisible wall, out into the water.

In the distance a whale-shaped craft was heading straight toward them at terrific speed!

"The mystery sub! It’s going to ram us!" Bud yelled.

White-faced, Tom slammed the switch lever to full power and the sides of the air bubble sprung back instantly. The elevator shot up just in time! With a shuddering wake, the huge submarine roared past below them, brushing the cables beneath!

As the elevator charged up through the surface into the open air, pains stabbed through Tom’s chest, and Bud was leaning over and writhing in agony, pale and perspiring.

"Quick! Get them aboard!" Doe Simpson cried to the horrified crew. "They have the bends!"

IN FRANTIC haste Tom and Bud were hauled up onto the deck of the barge. Every crew member realized the boys were suffering the deadly cramps brought on by a too-sudden change of pressure. Doc Simpson at once gave them injections to ease their pain.

"We must get them back to the island!" the medic ordered. "They’ll need treatment immediately!"

"But my invention!" Tom protested in spite of his agony. "We have to disassemble it—stow it away!"

"We’ll stay here and unrig the setup, skipper," Hank promised. "Fearing can send a jetmarine to take you back."

At the head of its formidable hydraulic jet, the atom-powered midget sub arrived in minutes and the boys were helped inside, followed by Doc Simpson. Arriving at Fearing, they found an ambulance waiting on the south dock. From there the boys were rushed to the island infirmary and wheeled into the operating room where the Fearing medical officer, Dr. Carman, was standing by.

"W-what happens now?" gasped Bud weakly, looking askance at huge tubs of ice standing in readiness.

"Hypothermia," said Doc Simpson tersely.

Bud grimaced. "Sounds horrible."

"Relax, flyboy," Tom said in a wisp of a voice. "They’re just going to freeze us, that’s all."

"Freeze us?" echoed Bud.

The physicians nodded as they hastily prepared anesthetizing equipment. "We’ll lower your body temperature to 75 degrees and keep you that way until your circulatory system gets back to normal and the nitrogen bubbles are gone from your blood. You won’t feel a thing."

"I’m numb already!" Bud groaned in half-hearted protest.

Luckily the boys’ condition, though painful, was not gravely serious, since they had not submerged to any great depth. By the following day Tom and his friend were recuperating comfortably in a hospital room with an ocean view.

"I’ve seen enough ocean for awhile," Bud grumbled. "Why didn’t the repelatron protect us from pressure changes, anyway?"

"I thought it would," admitted Tom sheepishly. "But I made the airspace grow so quickly the system couldn’t compensate. As we went up, the bubble got a little too big for its britches, you might say."

"What I
do
say is: When we hunt down that
Mad Moby,
I get to throw the first harpoon! They were out to kill us, genius boy!"

"Yes," Tom agreed. "Or at least to scare us—maybe set back our testing schedule. It’s pretty clear they know all about the repelatron and the hydrodome project." He again was compelled to face the ugly fact that someone with an "in" at Swift Enterprises was providing a determined enemy with inside information.

"Some visitors just flew in," Doc Simpson told them when he dropped by to check their progress. "By
Sky Queen
express, direct from Shopton. Like to see them? Or shall I tell them to turn ’er around and head back home?"

"Bring them in!" said Tom, who was growing restless at inactivity.

"Hold on!" warned Bud jokingly. "If it’s Dr. Kupp or some other high-domed experts, don’t start flinging chemical equations around or I’ll have a relapse!"

Doc chuckled. Opening the door, he ushered in Sandy, Bashalli, and Chow Winkler.

"Wow! I feel better already!" Bud exclaimed, beaming at Sandy.

"Well, don’t get
too
lively," she warned, her eyes dancing, "or I’ll tell the doctor to put you back in deep freeze!"

The lighthearted banter cheered everyone. Bashalli said, with a special smile for Tom, "You boys look fully recovered, thank goodness! How in the world do you find so many ways to damage yourselves?"

"What counts is that these two hombres has mighty tough hides betwixt ’em!" Chow exclaimed. He and the girls distributed fruit and cookies they had brought from Shopton.

Chow held up a cookie. "New recipe! Salmon and seaweed!" As Bud’s jaw dropped comically, the Texan guffawed. "Jest joshin’ ya, Buddy Boy."

Tom, meanwhile, was saying to his sister, "How’re Mom and Dad?"

"Besides frantic with worry over you two? Just fine," Sandy retorted. "Daddy’s at the Citadel right now on a special research problem—something urgent." The Citadel was the Swifts’ atomic energy plant in the Southwest. "He said you’ll have to carry on with the helium project pretty much on your own. If you live! And Mother sends her love—and her sternest admonition."

They talked and joked for a time. Then a serious expression crossed Tom’s face. "Sandy, Bash, since you’re here—I have a favor to ask."

"If this involves being guinea pigs for your next repelatron test, please find two other friends," Bashalli declared. "Gullible ones!"

"What is it, Tom?" Sandy asked.

"It has to do with our new hire, Amelia Foger."

"Esquire!" Bud chirped in.

"You wish us to spy on her?" inquired Bashalli in polite tones. "History shows our spying techniques to be inadequate; even, perhaps, embarrassing."

"Oh, Bashi,
that
could have happened to
anyone!"
Sandy remonstrated. "Go on, Tom."