Tom Swift and His Deep Sea Hydrodome (16 page)

"In a word, it can no longer support its own weight," added Bob. "It looks to me that the interlinked lattices are reacting to the repelatron waves in an unexpected way."

Tom sank down listlessly into one of the contour control seats. "And without the repelatron, the project’s dead." Bud rested a sympathetic hand on his pal’s slumping shoulder.

Knowing that he would have to come up with an inventive solution to save the helium operation, Tom decided to fly back to Swift Enterprises on one of the Navy’s amphibious patrol jets, Bud at his side. He left Hank in charge of Helium City, urging him to direct the work crews in completing their many remaining tasks. Chow would attend to their sustenance, using the galley on one of the larger supply barges until the one in the hydrodome could be set up.

"Might as well keep moving ahead," Tom commented dully. "We’ve tackled tougher problems. But if we can’t get a dome up in a week or so, we’ll have to abandon the effort—the osmotic air conditioner won’t be able to handle the humidity and chemical gases leaking through the bubble wall into the airspace."

"You’ll figure it out, chief," Hank responded with warm confidence.

That night Tom managed a brief and fitful night’s sleep at home in Shopton, then drove to the plant early in the morning with his father. They discussed the vexing problem on the way, to no conclusion.

Later in the morning Bud dropped in on his pal, who he found sitting listless in one of his labs surrounded by wadded-up scraps of paper—failed ideas. "Here to inspire me?" Tom asked his pal. "I can really use it."

Bud plopped down on a lab stool, trying to look cheerful and hopeful. "The brain doctor is
in!
Look, Tom, I’ve been thinking—why exactly do you need a plastic dome at all? Couldn’t the repelatron bubble act as your hydrodome all by its lonesome?"

Tom shook his head negatively. "Nope. A while back our two chemists came to me with calculations that showed how conditions in the airspace would slowly deteriorate without a solid barrier to contain the air. The repelatron holds back the main body of sea water in all its solutions and mixtures, but water—which we think of as being about the most common thing on earth—is actually sort of a unique substance. Because of the way the molecules adhere, tiny ‘clumps’ of water could be carried into the airspace by piggy-backing on other materials that the repelatron can’t be tuned to affect."

"So there’s the humidity problem. All along I thought the main point of the dome was to keep the fishes from poking their noses in!"

Tom smiled. "Surface tension at the bubble wall helps hold back fish and other floating stuff, like seaweed; and they also experience a slight push due to the sea water in their bodily tissues. But there will always be loose molecules… that…" A far-off expression came to Tom’s eyes.

"There we go!" exulted Bud softly. "Brain at work! What have you come up with?"

Tom stared at his friend in growing excitement. "Maybe the solution! I was remembering how, up on Little Luna, we also had to deal with putting a ‘wall’ around the air created by the atmosphere-making machine."

"Right—so it wouldn’t just leak away into space!"

"This is the opposite problem—but it may have the same solution!" The young inventor began making some calculations. "What if we used activated Inertite filaments—too thin to be seen or touched—to create an invisible barrier-net to keep out any floating molecules that come knocking?"

Bud leapt to his feet. "Sure, genius boy! It’d be just like the barrier up on the satellite. Individual particles would bounce off the Inertite net, but the mesh would just flow around the big, solid stuff. You’d be able to walk right through it—sort of a dome-without-a-dome!"

The young inventor’s eyes gleamed. "And we already have on hand the equipment we’ll need: the prototype models Arv put together for testing! We won’t need the atmos-maker itself, just the Inertite producer and energizer." He grinned at Bud in gratitude. "Chum, I think your inspiration may have just saved the hydrodome project!"

It took several days to make preparations, but by the end of the week the
Sky Queen
was once again winging out over the Atlantic with the "dome-weaver" mechanism aboard. During the course of the flight, Hank Sterling contacted them. "Tom, just about everything is completed down here in Helium City. With your permission, I’d like to dismiss our supply and patrol fleet up topside."

"That’s fine, Hank," Tom replied. "We don’t need the freight planes anymore. But why do you want to dismiss the Navy’s patrol?"

"Because that great big storm we’ve been watching has taken a sharp turn in our direction. It’s already so choppy on the surface that it isn’t safe—we’ve had some near collisions already. We’ll have to pull out most of the bubblevators, but we can leave one active for you to use. One of the unmanned, automated float-platforms can function as its upper terminal." Hank added a warning to the
Sky Queen
crew to be careful in approaching the area and unloading the equipment. "It’s building up to quite a blow, believe me!"

Arriving at the site and descending down through the black, lightning-laced clouds, Tom and Bud saw that Hank’s warning was far from exaggerated. The sea was whipped to frothy peaks for miles around by powerful gusts of storm-wind.

"Good night!" Bud gulped. "We’d better get snug under the waves as quickly as we can!"

The dome-weaver device, about the size of a washing machine, rolled on casters. With help from the Flying Lab’s crew, the youths maneuvered it onto the bubblevator platform and lashed it down securely. Then, bidding a bedraggled farewell to the
Sky Queen,
they headed for the bottom.

In minutes they were approaching the huge air bubble, glowing in its bank of floodlights. But as Tom leaned over the platform rails, gazing down, a worried tone crept into his voice. "Bud, I see the seacopter, the new tanks, the pumping equipment, but—"

The dark-haired young pilot looked over the platform edge for a long moment, then back at Tom. "Yeah, skipper, ‘
but’
is right.
Where are all the people?"

TOM GRABBED the sonophone mike from its cradle.
"Hank, this is Tom. Do you read?"

Silence!

"No static," Bud remarked. "Just no answer!"

The bubblevator came to rest on the concrete pad where its guide cables were anchored, its own airspace protruding into that of Helium City. There was nothing in the air to alert them to danger—no strange odors.

"A little humid," Tom murmured, "as expected."

"I suppose—if there were any of that T-9-E in the air—we’d be dead by now—right?" asked Bud haltingly.

"Yep!" Tom stepped off the platform and Bud followed. Entering the main hydrodome area, they could see many signs of work, completed and ongoing. Clearly Helium City was well on its way to becoming a real city.

But the city was a ghost town!

"You don’t suppose Hank or Chow is just playing a joke on us, do you?" Bud speculated without real conviction. "I’m starting to think all this kidding around is getting out of hand, you know? Look, they’ve got the dorm building up. Maybe that’s where they’re all hiding."

Tom did not respond, but began trudging toward the modular building. "If there were a problem with the equipment—if gas had flooded the area—we’d see bodies lying around, people caught in the middle of work." But there were no traces of living humanity anywhere.

"Chow! Hank! Anybody!" Bud shouted at the top of his lungs. The water-walls of the repelatron bubble gave a weird resonance to his shouts, as if he were inside a big empty barrel.

Suddenly the boys came to an abrupt halt! The door to the dorm building swung open and a figure appeared, gesturing vigorously.

"Good grief!
Lt. Andre!"
Tom cried. The young inventor trotted up to the Navy man. "When did you get here, sir? Where is everybody?"

"Come inside, you two—quickly!" he urged, holding the door wide. As they passed he said: "I arrived just before the storm hit. I found… but you’ll see for yourselves in a second. Go on in."

Tom nudged Bud and the two came to a dead stop, turning to face Andre. "Why don’t you tell us what happened, Lieutenant—before we go any further."

Lt. Andre raised his eyebrows and gave a shrug. "As you like, boys."

He drew out a gun and pointed it at Tom Swift!

"Looks to me like we’ve found one of the Mad Mobys!" Bud growled, muscles tensed for action.

"From where I’m standing," retorted Andre, "it looks more like one of the Mobys has found
you,
Barclay. Now keep walking, please."

Inside the main room they found the citizens of Helium City, about two dozen, crowded together, standing, lying on cots, or seated on the floor. They were watched over by several stone-faced men in military-style uniforms, bearing what appeared to be submachine guns.

Tom paled when he caught sight of Chow and Hank. There were livid bruises across both their faces, and Chow held his big hand up to his cheek, which was swollen.

"Knocked out my new tooth!" moaned the cook. "Hadn’t even paid fer it yet!"

"We tried to rush ’em, skipper," said Hank simply.

"There are some people you just can’t rush," commented Lt. Andre in mocking tones.

In a fury, Bud whirled to face him. "Big man, huh!—picking on somebody twice your size!" With his revolver, Andre calmly motioned for Bud to join the crowd.

Dr. Clisby moved to the front of the group and spoke to Tom. "After the ships and planes up above left the area, these fellows came to pay us a visit. The big submersible dropped them off at the edge of the bubble, then went away again; but first they cut the communications relay link, I gather. We outnumbered them but had no weapons."

"What do they want?" asked Tom, while keeping his angry eyes focused on the Navy lieutenant.

"They haven’t said," answered Pete Elliot.

"Just be a little patient, a little hopeful, Tom, and very soon your questions will be answered," remarked Andre smoothly. "But if anyone loses his patience—listening, Barclay?—I’m authorized to wound. For a start."

"Didn’t I save your life the other day, lieutenant?" declared Tom in disgust.

"Yes, and don’t let this gun put you off— I’m eternally grateful. The T-9-E inoculation isn’t always effective, and there was some risk that I might’ve died along with you. We both walked away from that one, and for that—
half
of that, to be honest—you have my thanks." The Navy man shrugged. "But I have my orders, Tom, and don’t think I won’t carry them out." A pocket communicator buzzed. Without taking his eyes or his gun off Tom, Andre plucked it out of his pocket and carried on a brief conversation.

"Our sub has returned," he said to Tom. "No need for us to hide anymore. The good folks we were hiding from are now chucked safely away. Let’s go say hello, shall we, Tom?" Bud stepped forward to join his friend, but Andre warned him back. "Tom Swift only!"

The officer followed Tom out of the building and directed him across the open area. But it was easy to see where they were heading. The ominous gray bulk of the
Mad Moby
loomed next to the downward curve of the repelatron bubble, an open hatchway extending into the hydrodome airspace.

Despite the situation Tom Swift was ever the scientist. He eyed the strange sub curiously. For the first time he could see details not captured by the sonarscope imager-photo: small portholes, sonar equipment, thick metal coils that evidently had to do with the craft’s propulsion system. But what drew Tom’s attention most strongly was a set of broad-mouthed tubes or pipes extending from the fore-end, with a similar set aft. They reminded him of the water scoops at the front of his jetmarine. Yet he felt sure the
Moby
utilized an entirely different form of propulsion. For the time being he was baffled—yet intrigued.

Lt. Andre marched Tom through the hatch and into the
Moby,
where a short, somewhat heavy-set man awaited them. His oily-looking black hair was streaked with gray, and his face, which seemed cultured and sensitive, bore a thin mustache. He wore, not a uniform, but what Tom realized was an old-fashioned smoking jacket. The man’s eyes crinkled in delight as they rested on the young inventor. To Tom’s surprise, he extended his hand!

They were shaking hands almost before Tom realized it. A rather yellow smile broke out on the man’s face. "How great the privilege, to meet at last, face to face, the justly celebrated Tom Swift!" he exclaimed, his voice marked by a middle-European accent. "My name is Alsemj Fornath." He politely spelled the name. "A Hungarian name, the name of a family well-known in much of Europe, little known in America, I fear. Do come in to our ship. John, lower the gun, please."

Lt. Andre lowered his revolver but said, "It’ll be ready."

The three passed down a long corridor and into a comfortable lounge. "Please have a seat, won’t you? A drink, perhaps?"

"I don’t drink," Tom said.

"Then forgive me, for I do." Mixing the drink, Fornath added: "A table has been set for us in the captain’s dining room further aft. I am rather a good cook; you will enjoy the meal, if you can manage to suspend your judgments and resentments for a time. And why not? What good will they do you?" He eased down in a stuffed chair opposite Tom, sipping his drink, as Andre stood off to the side. "Now then, Tom. I’m sure you have on the tip of your tongue words to the effect of,
What is this all about?
You need not utter them. I will enjoy telling it to you."

Tom interrupted. "While we enjoy good food and nice conversation, Mr. Fornath, my friends are in fear of their lives."

Fornath nodded. "Yes, I know. Regrettable. Soon enough we will be under way, and they will be free."

"Under way where?"

"Ah, let us not get ahead of ourselves, hmm?" He took another sip. "Superb! Well, let us see now—the whats and whys, eh?

"I am a businessman, a builder of ships. Even under the former government, the communists, ships had to be built, and history declares my family to be the best at it. In various ways, we lived rather better than our employees. Why not? If there is to be civilization, some must be allowed to live well.