Tom Swift and His Subocean Geotron (11 page)

"I’m sure you’d have come up with something daring, Nee, if you’d been lucky enough to get captured," Tom murmured. He then added with a trace of concealed suspicion, "But you were off with your business contacts."

"Mm-hmm. Fate strikes, and I wasn’t there."

"They say location is everything," remarked Bud.

"Moreno and the police say a man they believe was Breeman Halspeth—he went by a phony name, of course—left Easter yesterday afternoon by jet seaplane, the same one he arrived in on his flight from Mexico," Ed recounted. "The governor’s pressing the search for these masked kidnappers, but― "

"But they key word is
masked
," said Tom with grim humor. "The mention of the old ‘Birdman’ cult—it was a big deal in the 19th century—was just a joke. But there may be some link between Li Ching and native religionists."

Ruykendahl nodded. "That possibility can’t be sloughed off, friends. There have been revivals of the old customs now and then, an expression of pride and, alas, resentment against the horrors done to the original Rapanuians. Moreno thinks this Cobra of yours might have been manipulating one of these underground groups to get them to do his work."

"Professor Tyburn said something similar when he phoned this morning," Tom noted.

Still bandaged, but re-hydrated and smeared with ointments, Tom and Bud were released from the hospital by mid-afternoon. Within the hour they were back in the safety of the
Sky Queen
and high in the sky.

"I suppose I’ve earned some of my modest pay by guiding you to Las Mambritas," remarked Nee Ruykendahl. "But not much has been accomplished, hie? Even providing you with the course of the
Wascala
on our Pacific cruises..."

"You know, Tom, he does have a point," declared Bud innocently. "Just flying around over a big bunch of water doesn’t seem like anything major. Maybe we should just let Nee off and go on our way."

As Nee frowned, Ed said hastily, "C’mon, this is just the start, isn’t it Tom?"

"A preliminary survey," stated Tom. "Unless we have some incredible luck, we’ll be coming back with one of the submersibles."

"And that is where Ruykendahl proves his worth," noted said Ruykendahl. "I not only know the precise coordinates of our anchorage, but also certain facts of the underwater terrain that may constitute clues."

"What facts?" asked Bud.

"Now, now—you must allow me to earn my pay."

Arriving at Nee’s coordinates—a spot of blank ocean encompassing hundreds of square miles overall—they hovered for a time as Tom actuated and calibrated the Flying Lab’s probe instruments. He then had Bud commence a low-flying search pattern. But by sunset there had been no result.

They flew back to Easter Island, landing on the same barren clearing as before and sleeping the night aboard.

Next morning, they—and the
Sky Queen
—rose early. "We can spend another day on the search," Tom decided. "Then we’d better head up to Loonaui for refueling, and to get going on the subocean phase. I just wish we could narrow things down."

"Maybe your dad has got more info from space," Bud suggested hopefully.

As the skyship circled broadly, sensor instruments operating automatically, Tom called Shopton on the Private Ear Radio. "Nothing significant from the space beings, son," reported Mr. Swift. "They seem to think they won’t make any further progress without being able to use data from the other half of Ruykendahl’s object as a ‘key’."

"What about Ed’s artifact? Do they want us to try to activate it?"

"They ask us to wait until they can study how to release the data signal without causing the other effects."

Tom responded ruefully. "Probably a good idea, Dad. We don’t know
what
Ed’s object might do."

Damon Swift had further news before ending the contact. "Yesterday evening we received a call at Enterprises that was rather unusual. The man said he was calling from a ship in the Pacific near Easter Island!"

Tom’s eyebrows flew up. "That can’t be a coincidence! What did he want?"

"To speak to the famous Tom Swift! He said he’d learned that you were in the area, and wanted to know how to call up to the
Sky Queen
. His name is Cyrus Springthorpe."

"Did he say why he needed to contact me?"

"Only that it was most important that he speak to you while you were still close by. I’ll give you the information he left—I have no idea whether it’d be worthwhile to call him."

"Might as well," sighed the young inventor. "We’re sure not making any progress on the memory crypt business."

Before placing the radio call to Springthorpe, Tom extended the search for a few hours more. He applied the advanced craft’s full armamentarium of detection devices—the radiation-sensitive Damonscope, his father’s metal detector, a telespectrometer, the gravity-gradient mapper nicknamed the gravy-scope, and "MAD"—a magnetic anomaly detecting device. None gave any clue to more of the beacon-objects or the space cache itself.

Tired and discouraged from the fruitless search, Tom joined Bud in the command compartment. "Look, Skipper," Bud said with apologetic reluctance, "how do we know the crypt is still here? If it was planted millions of years ago, the ocean floor might have shifted, or the cache could have been washed away by undersea currents. The recorded info the beacons spew out might be aeons out of date—the crypt might have been destroyed!"

Tom frowned thoughtfully and shook his head. "No, I doubt that, Bud. The beings who left the crypt and the beacons surely knew it might be a great span of time before anyone could activate the data transmissions—the ‘pirate’s treasure map’. My hunch is that technologically advanced beings would program the beacons to stay continuously linked to the crypt and monitor its status. We have no choice but to take as current whatever data we get, even if it isn’t very specific."

Bud said gloomily, "Maybe the rival space creatures, the X-ians’ mystery competitors, have already beat us to the punch and grabbed the cache. They’re supposed to have picked up that transmission too." He added as an afterthought, "And if you want even worse, pal—maybe the Cobra’s already snapped it up."

Tom looked worried. "We can’t rule it out. But it makes a bigger mystery out of why those masked riders kidnapped us. They wanted the objects badly, and that means to me that they hadn’t yet doped out the location data."

Suddenly Tom grasped his chum’s wide shoulder as a thought struck him. "Bud!—that fellow Springthorpe is here in this area, in a ship! He might be trying to contact me because he saw something unusual going on at sea!"

"
Jetz
!" Bud exclaimed. "Such as—
someone trying to raise a space cache from the sea floor!
Er—not that I have any idea what that’d look like."

There was no more hesitation. Tom immediately radioed the man, as instructed.

"I’m so gratified to receive your call, Tom," said the man who identified himself as Cyrus Springthorpe. "It makes things so much more convenient. My friend on Rapa Nui, Rogerio Moreno, happened to mention your visit and your search plans when he radioed the other day, so I directed the
Luciente
toward that area."

Bud saw disappointment flash across Tom’s face. Whatever Springthorpe had in mind, it didn’t seem to be urgent after all. "Well," Tom replied, "my father said you wanted to speak with me."

"Yes, Tom, face to face if possible. Would it be possible for your Flying Lab to land you on our ship?"

Tom expressed surprise and said in response, "Unless the
Luciente
is an aircraft carrier, I doubt you could accommodate a landing by the
Sky Queen
. But we do have smaller craft aboard."

After assuring the young inventor that the proposed meeting could be quickly concluded, Springthorpe provided the necessary coordinates. As Bud piloted the skyship further to the northeast, Tom brought up an oceanic map on the monitor.

"Where exactly are we headed, Skipper?" Bud asked.

"Empty ocean. It’s over a seafloor feature called the Yupanqui Basin. And you know," Tom continued thoughtfully, "this is the region Professor Tyburn mentioned, where Rapanuian lore says that underwater ‘ghost-man’ lives."

"Right, the guy who wants to rope the sun."

Presently the majestic
Sky Queen
was hovering on its jet lifters high above the
Luciente
. It was the size of a large yacht, but its hull conformation was unusual. Broad, flat, and low to the water, the craft resembled a sort of barge.

After discreetly urging Ed Longstreet to keep a wary eye on Nee Ruykendahl, Tom set the Flying Lab’s autopilot system, called a cybertron, and descended with Bud down to the hangar-hold with its extensible launching deck. Moments later they were dropping toward the
Luciente
in the skyship’s baby aircraft, Tom’s ultrasonic cycloplane.

They set down on the wide deck and Tom killed the
SwiftStorm
’s whirling cyclocyls. One figure, a distinguished-looking older man with a trim white mustache, stepped forward out of the knot of watching crewmen. Instead of typical nautical garb, Cyrus Springthorpe wore a crisp business suit and was topped with a Homberg hat. Yet one thing spoiled the dignified image—he was wearing white canvas deck shoes.

They shook hands and exchanged introductions and pleasantries. Then Springthorpe said to Tom, "Now then, let’s get out of this sun and get down to business. I have to show you my precious pet, who I’ve named Bertie. He’s dead—stuffed, in fact—but fascinating nonetheless. You see, he’s a three-legged fish!"

Bud gave a skeptical snort. "Sounds like a real conversation piece!"

Metal stairs led down to a large room, outfitted like a laboratory. Tom and Bud noticed photographic and video equipment, and many large glass-walled tanks—aquariums. Some were occupied. "Very impressive," Tom remarked.

"Yes, I think so," said Springthorpe. "That is,
we
think so—the Animata Institute of Pacific Research, based on Molokai, Hawaii. They own this ship, our mobile aquatic laboratory. As for me, I have a background in marine biology and ichthyology; they hired me to head up the Marmor Marine Laboratory, a division of the Institute with its own dedicated endowment."

"I’m not familiar with the
Luciente
, but I’ve read about the Institute and its work," Tom commented.

The man nodded and took a plastic case from beneath one of the workbenches. "Time to introduce Bertie." He unsnapped the lid and took out a grotesque stuffed specimen.

Bud’s eyes bulged. "Good grief! It
is
a three-legged fish!"

"Bertie always causes a sensation," Springthorpe said with a chuckle.

"
Benthosaurus
, isn’t it? A kind of ray fin," Tom said, examining the fish with interest. "These aren’t legs, Bud—although this guy does use them to balance on. They’re actually extensions of his pelvic fins and tail."

"Aha!" Cyrus Springthorpe rubbed his hands together. "I can see that you know your deep-sea fishes, Mr. Swift. I wasn’t sure you had specific ichthyological training in your impressive resume. Have you seen any Benthosauri alive?"

"Yes, I’ve seen them on several dives. But is that what you wanted to discuss, sir?"

Putting Bertie away, the scientist became serious. "Have you ever heard of a man named Niklos Marmor?"

"He was the man who endowed the Marmor Marine Laboratory, wasn’t he?" Tom responded.

"That’s right," Springthorpe nodded. "Niklos Marmor came to the United States as a poor immigrant boy. He went to work as a seaman on a fishing trawler. In time he built up a fishing fleet of his own and grew wealthy. Over the years he developed a keen interest in marine biology. Before his death some years ago, he arranged the enormous continuing endowment that the laboratory bearing his name depends upon. But there was a certain—detail. Mr. Marmor envisioned a new type of aquarium—one for the study and live display of deep-sea fishes and other creatures which exist at great depths—specifically including a ray fin. Of course, such an aquarium would present great technical problems."

"It sure would," said Bud. "The aquarium would have to be strong enough to sustain the same tremendous pressure as a submarine a couple of miles down. Isn’t that so, Tom?"

The young inventor nodded and said, "Or even more. They’ve started discovering living creatures as deep down as
seven
miles below, at the bottom of the Mariana Trench! Just bringing the specimens up alive to stock the aquarium would be a scientific feat."

"Exactly," said Springthorpe. "But Marmor believed it could be done. In his will, he set up a sizable trust fund to establish and maintain such an aquarium." The attorney named a figure large enough to make both boys gasp.

"The will stated certain conditions," Springthorpe went on. "And there’s the catch. Mr. Marmor was afraid the scientific establishment would ignore his special dream, and so he made not only the specific bequest, but the entire endowment, conditional upon the Institute’s completion of such an aquarium by a certain date. Otherwise the monies are redirected to other scientific purposes, to be spent in the country of his birth."

"Is the ‘drop dead’ date near?" inquired Tom.

"The end of this year, I’m afraid."

The young scientist-inventor whistled. "I hope the Institute has the project close to completion!"

"We shared that hope, Tom, but we may have made some poor choices. Several American firms with an expertise in aquatic engineering made an attempt. All failed and withdrew. At last we turned, reluctantly, to a large engineering team in Indonesia.

"They reported impressive progress, but our trust may have been misplaced. Various sources have told us that the firm has a reputation for fakery and deception."

"I see," Tom said.

The scientist motioned the youths over to a large television screen. "The attorneys who represent the Marmor Trust are very scrupulous, and it’s vital that we at the Institute determine the truth as soon as humanly possible." Springthorpe pressed a button and the screen came to life. "The Indonesians provided us with a video that purports to show deep-sea fish in the prototype high-pressure tank they’ve designed, which by contract they can withhold from external inspection until they’ve completed the entire project. We suspect the possibility of fraud. I’d like to show a copy of the video to you."