Tom Swift and His Deep Sea Hydrodome (8 page)

Bud nodded, turned, and exited in silence.

Tom waited until he was gone to get some affectionate laughter out of his system, then grabbed up the phone from the wall. He dialed Harlan Ames.

"It’s Tom, Harlan," he said. "Any clues yet on yesterday’s ski-mask saboteur?"

"None so far," the security boss admitted glumly. He continued: "Looks like an inside job, all right. I’ve had your lab locked up until we could go over it together. Care to meet me there?"

"Be there right away!" Tom promised.

Outside, taking the wheel of a midget electric nanocar, Tom sped past the large Enterprises airfield toward the isolated immersion dynamics laboratory building, where a guard had been posted. Harlan Ames was awaiting him outside the door. "Glad you’re okay, skipper," he greeted Tom. "I was afraid you’d be in mourning over the loss of your invention."

"Its rebirth is going along swiftly, Harlan. But we’ve got to identify the saboteur before anything else happens." Tom keyed open the door and they went inside.

The smashed repelatron was still lying on and about its framework tower, along with Tom’s scribbled calculations and hasty sketches strewn about a work-table nearby.

"Apparently the, er,
assailant
didn’t take anything," Ames remarked.

"This stuff wouldn’t do him much good," Tom replied. "What I’m worried about are the original plans."

Taking an electronic key from his pocket, Tom flicked a combination and beamed it at a steel wall cabinet. As the door slid open, he reached in and drew out a sheaf of blueprints.

"Still here!" the young inventor exclaimed in relief. "He either didn’t have the time to search out the blueprints—or maybe his only intention was to do damage."

Satisfied that the secret of Tom’s new invention was safe, Ames began to dust the laboratory for fingerprints. Unfortunately it soon became apparent that the intruder had worn gloves. Even the discarded length of pipe revealed nothing useful.

Suddenly the security chief heard a cry of excitement from the young inventor.

"Find something?" he inquired.

Tom held out a small wad of tangled threads that looked as if they might have been torn from a piece of fabric.

"Where did you find this?" Ames asked.

"Right here, dangling from the workbench where the two strips of molding corner together," Tom replied. "Probably got ripped off when he was rooting around among the loose papers. Wait a second. I’ll put it under a microscope!"

Going over to another table, Tom slipped the strands into place under the lens, then peered through the eyepiece and twirled the adjusting knob.

"Take a look," he said a moment later.

Both Harlan Ames and Tom examined the find with minute care. Apparently the fabric had been woven from dark blue and white cotton threads, with artificial fibers intertwined.

"Any idea where they might have come from?" Tom asked.

Ames frowned. "Yes. A pretty good one. This looks like the kind of material worn by the maintenance tech teams—anti-shock, anti-fire, chemical-resistant and easy to clean."

"Maintenance tech teams," repeated Tom thoughtfully. "Like Wes Beale’s crew, the guys who worked on the pressure-test tank!"

Beale was off for the day, but Tom and Ames were able to locate the three senior technicians by consulting the work-assignment schedules at the main building. Their names were Smith, Tonas, and Niffman. Their present team assignment was at Hangar E, where several experimental aircraft were berthed between test flights.

"I hate this," Tom confessed. "Wes Beale vouched for these guys—they’re his friends."

"I’m afraid that puts Wes under suspicion himself. Want me to haul ’em in for questioning?" Ames asked.

The young inventor shook his head thoughtfully. "Better not. If one of them’s guilty, he’ll bolt when he gets the message that you want to see him. Let’s head over to the hangar right now and catch them before they leave for lunch. I doubt the intruder will get too frisky in the face of both of us."

They drove over to Hangar E. As they walked in, their manner casual and unalarming, Doke Smith, a sandy-haired, husky young fellow of twenty-three, was tinkering with the afterburner of a sleek racing jet.

"Hi, Tom!" he greeted Tom cheerfully. Catching sight of Harlan Ames, he grinned. "What’re you doin’ here, Mr. Ames? Planning a little flyin’ spree? This one here’s a real beauty."

"That she is. Planes—I can’t keep away from ’em," Ames bantered, somewhat unconvincingly. "Say, where’d you get that rip in your work suit?"

"What rip?" Smith looked surprised as he noticed a tear along one leg, high up. "Oh, that. Search me. Caught it on an engine cowling, 1 guess."

The other two mechanics were busy in different parts of the hangar. Tom and Harlan quizzed each of the three men in turn, keeping their questions casual and friendly.

It was hard to believe that any of them might be guilty of the brutal acts that had endangered Tom and the girls. But the fact remained that none could provide a complete alibi for the previous day, at the critical time. The big hangar was crowded with planes and equipment, with the result that most of the time the men were not even in sight of each other.

Dropping the attempt to appear casual, Ames proceeded with a search of their lockers, which revealed no trace of a ski-mask or torn work togs. The first was not surprising, but Tom and Harlan hoped the intruder had not noticed the tearing of the fabric, as the piece had been left hanging. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed even yet.

Acting on a sudden hunch, Ames asked Milt Tonas if the planes now in the hangar had been there the previous afternoon and night.

"Far as I know," said Milt, a quiet-spoken. middle-aged man. "Are we suspected of something?"

Ames shook his head but ignored the question. "Were any planes taken out at all?"

"Don’t think so. But you can check the flight sheet over there on the wall."

With Tom helping, the security chief began checking every aircraft in the hangar. A few minutes later he stuck his head out the hatch of a newly designed cargo jet.

"Eureka!" Ames hissed, holding up a standard-issue work garment. A small hole had been ripped along a seam in the back, at exactly the right height! Ames quietly explained to Tom that the garment had been tucked out of sight under the engineer’s seat. Evidently its wearer had discovered the new rip and hidden the garb, fearful that it might identify him as the violent intruder.

"Now for the kill," whispered Ames, after examining the suit and passing it to Tom. He hurried back to check the posted test flight schedule, and returned a moment later, his face grim.

"This job’s due for a test flight at two P.M., and Reuben Niffman’s put himself down as flight engineer."

There was a tense, uneasy silence as the young inventor and the security chief looked at one another. Was Niffman their man? On the test flight, he could easily dispose of the telltale work suit by jettisoning it through the cargo hatch.

"Well, let’s get it over with," said Tom quietly. He had little relish for the prospect of having a once-trusted employee arrested.

Niffman looked up from his work as the two approached, regarding them with dull, sleepy eyes. He was a tall, slender man in his late twenties.

"Ever seen this before?" Ames asked him, holding up the garment.

The instant change in Niffman was startling! The technician’s face went ashen. His eyes seemed to glaze with fear as he stared at the telltale garment. Before anyone could stop him, he jerked a pistol from the deep pocket of his coveralls.

"Stop!" he screamed. "You’re not gonna take me alive! You
maniacs!
Back off or I’ll shoot!"

TOM and his companion fell back in horror as Niffman waved the pistol wildly. The trusted technician had suddenly morphed into an armed madman!

"Put that gun down!" Harlan Ames commanded. "Hurry! Drop it!’

"You can’t bluff me!" Niffman shrilled in a high-pitched voice. "This gun’s loaded, I tell you! Try anything and I’ll kill everyone in this hangar—Doke, Milt—
everyone!"

Hearing his screams, Doke Smith and Milt Tonas dropped their work and came rushing to see what was happening. But at sight of the threatening weapon, they froze in their tracks.

"Now look, Rube," Tom spoke quietly. "You have nothing to be afraid of. We want to talk to you. We know something serious has happened; we just want to clear the air. Hand over the gun and let’s just talk."

Casually Tom took a step forward, holding out his hand.

But Niffman again brandished the pistol. "I’m warning you. Don’t come any closer," he screeched, "or I’ll shoot you dead! I’m not afraid of shooting the great Tom Swift!"

Determined to show no fear, Tom advanced another step, then another. So far Niffman had not taken aim at him. Ames and the others held their breath but did not try to interfere.

"You had your warning!" Niffman yelled. He was waving the gun around, his finger on the trigger.

Crack!
One shot, then a series of them! Bullets sprayed wildly about the hangar.

Tom ducked for cover behind the nearest plane, then hurled himself at the crazed mechanic, grabbing for his gun hand.

Niffman fought back, trying to wrench his wrist from Tom’s steely grasp. The other technicians and Harlan leaped to Tom’s assistance. In a few seconds their combined strength brought Niffman to his knees. Plucking away his gun, Tom and Doke Smith forced his arms together and Ames snapped on a pair of handcuffs.

Realizing he was now helpless, Reuben Niffman broke down completely and began weeping hysterically. Then he babbled wildly: "Tom Swift, you’re trying to wreck the laws of nature! Your helium bomb will set the world on fire! Human life will be wiped out!" He twisted his face toward the other team members. "Don’t you understand, I’m doing it for all of you!
Stop this man! Destroy his machines!"

As Niffman glared at the inventor, shaking violently, his captors realized that he was beyond all reasoning and made no attempt to reply to his bizarre accusation.

"What do you want to do with him, Tom?" Harlan Ames asked.

Shaken, Tom replied, "No sense having him arrested while he’s in this condition. We’d better take him over to the infirmary—restrain him, let him calm down."

He and Ames carried the employee, who now had fallen silent and seemed too weak to walk, to the nanocar and drove to the Enterprises infirmary. Here Doc Simpson took charge and injected a tranquilizing drug for Niffman’s own good, as his pulse was racing dangerously.

Out of the patient’s hearing, Tom asked the medic, "Do you think we’ll be able to get any sensible answers from him?"

Doc Simpson shook his head. "I doubt it. He’ll probably fall into a deep sleep soon. The shock of being discovered has evidently unbalanced his mind. Could be days before he’s able to talk lucidly." Simpson added: "At least you know now who’s behind your recent problems here."

"Do we?" asked Tom quietly, half to himself.

In glum silence Tom left the infirmary alone while Harlan headed upstairs to his office. Tom’s brain, meanwhile, had been dwelling on a new worry. Niffman had spoken about a "helium bomb," which implied that he knew the purpose of Tom’s latest project, tapping the subocean helium site. But how had he found out? Besides the two government chemists and a few highly trusted employees working on the project with Tom, only the young inventor’s family and closest friends knew the details of the secret operation! Most of the Enterprises work force still assumed Tom was perfecting his hydrodome for use in the submarine city of gold.

Who had leaked the secret to Niffman?

Discussing the matter over the family dinner table that evening, Tom’s father noted that Niffman must have been working with an accomplice. "Though he was in a good position to sabotage the pressure tank and smash your test repelatron, I can’t see how he could have been involved in fouling the valve on Bob Anchor’s Fat Man. It was stored in the seacopter on Fearing."

"You’re right," Tom said with a nod. "And his extreme reaction—the things he was saying—it sure sounded to me as though someone else were manipulating him. He’s now been hospitalized under police guard, and blood samples have been drawn for testing."

"Do you think this Mr. Niffman might have been drugged?" asked Tom’s mother.

"Or hypnotized!" Sandy suggested excitedly, fork suspended in mid-flight. "Hypnosis is very popular among the evil-fiend set!"

Tom chuckled, but added: "I might be jumping to conclusions—we don’t really know that the air-valve problem was deliberate. But the
Mad Moby
is real enough. And someone
did
move the buoy anchor."

The following morning Tom went to check up on the testing of the new repelatron prototype he had designed with the help of Dr. Kupp. He was pleased to learn that Arv Hanson had already completed the working model, and ongoing tests by Hank Sterling were entirely positive thus far. "That’s wonderful!" Tom told Hank. "As soon as I can test-out the prototype in the ocean, as I explained yesterday, we can start building the giant repelatron to be used at the helium wells."

"I’m almost ready to have my guys install the model on the cable platform," Hank said. "How about tomorrow for your ‘field test’ in the Atlantic?" Tom gave the plan an enthusiastic OK.

Next, Tom went to see Art Wiltessa, a young project engineer for Swift Enterprises, who had been assigned the task of transforming Tom’s new design for his hydrodome into reality. His strange new idea was now coming to fruition. With the force of the master repelatron holding back the tremendous pressure of the surrounding waters, this deep-sea hydrodome would be the simplest, lightest version yet—a completely transparent hemisphere of Tomasite plastic composed of long, curving pieces, triangular in shape, that could be seamlessly cemented together down at the well site on the ocean floor.

Wiltessa’s report was as positive as Sterling’s, and Tom exited "the Barn," as the big hangarlike assembly building was called, with a broad smile on his face.

Since the return to Shopton Bud had seen little of his chum. But later in the day, looking for Tom, he strolled into the small machine shop on the ground floor of the materials science building. Complete with forge, casting equipment, and machine tools, the shop was often used by Tom when he was constructing the "flint" models of new inventions. Right now the young scientist was hard at work on the concept that would have its oceanic debut the next day. As big across as two office desks pushed together, it sat in the middle of the shop floor.