by John Blaine
The upper row of four and the center row of two were the tanks they had noticed yesterday. On closer look, they seemed to be lined with silver, but it was probably nickel or chrome plating. On the lower side of the imaginary ten-spot, fronting on thesea, was another row of four units. The two on the left were the domes, the two on the right were square, concrete buildings.
And to carry out the playing card picture completely, in the upper right-hand corner was a Quonset hut, right where the numeral 10 would be. In the lower left-hand cornerwas a small concrete and wooden structure, and a small pier that extended into the water. A motorboat was tied to the pier.
Spoiling the symmetry of the ten-spot design was a solitary building, also of concrete, that nestled against the high board fence on the right-hand side.
The only other important feature was a huge conduit of some sort that extended out into the sea from the Page 15
concrete and wood building in the low?r left-hand corner.
The strip of beach on which they had landed was to the left of the plant, about two hundred yards from the sea mine fence.
Scotty made a smooth landing on the beach and the boys got out.
“We can leave the plane right here,” Rick said. “The tide doesn’t come up this high.” He pointed to the line of seaweed, driftwood, and other flotsam that indicated the high water mark.
“We’d better drag up a couple of logs and tie it down, though,” Scotty suggested. “There’s some driftwood that will do.”
They went to work, pulling the driftwood into place and tying the plane to the logs.
“We’ll have to find an airport where we can refuel,” Rick said. “Let’s do that this afternoon.”
“You talk as though we already had the jobs.” Scotty grinned. He reached in behind the plane seats and brought out the electric alarm.
“They’ll hire us,” Rick said confidentlyas ;hey planted the stakes and strung the alarm wire.
As they started for the road, Rick asked, “Are you nervous?”
“Who, me?”Scotty retorted, and then, surprisingly said, “Yes.”
“Try to look intelligent,” Rick advised, laughing.
They reached the road and walked along by the high board fence toward the gate. They could see that the sea mine plant gate was open, and quickened their stride.
“I’ll tell ‘em how to drill holes in water.” Scotty grinned. “That should convince “em.”
They paused at the gate, looking in curiously. There didn’t seem to be much activity. Then Rick saw the Quonset hut, smoke issuing from a length of pipe in the roof.
“Let’s try there,” he suggested.
They walked in through the gate, and Scotty pointed to two young men who were talking at the opposite end of the hut.
“Looks like our people.”
Rick sized them up and decided that he liked what he saw. They were abouthis own height, and quite young. Somewhere in their early twenties, he guessed. One had dark hair and wore glasses. He was dressed in khaki shorts. The other was blond and wore whipcord breeches. He was smoking a pipe almost as big as a closed fist.
“Good morning,” Rick said when they reached the two young men. “We’re looking for Mr. Chambers.”
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“I’m Chambers,” the dark-haired man replied, “and this is my partner, Tom Blakely.” He indicated the blond man in the whipcord breeches.
Rick introduced himself and Scotty, and they shook hands all around. The partners seemed to be good fellows. Rick took the telegram message from his pocket and handed it to Douglas Chambers.
“This is a wire that was telephoned to me. Did you send it, by any chance, sir?”
Chambers read it and his eyebrows went up. “No.” He handed it to Tom Blakely. “What’s the story?”
Rick rapidly outlined yesterday’s events, and Chambers’s puzzled look deepened. “I can’t imagine who sent the telegram,” he said. “As for the man you saw at the gate, he probably was just curious about what was inside, but I don’t know why he should have run away.”
“So you boys v/ant to work here?”Tom Blakely asked.
“We’re pretty handy with tools,” Rick replied. “We might be able to make ourselves useful.”
“Is that your plane that just buzzed us?”
“Yes.”
“Couple of junior birdmen, Doug.Let’s hire them. Having our hired hands come to work in a mechanized kite will give the place class.”
Rick looked sharply at Blakely and met a pair of twinkling eyes. He grinned back.
Then Tom Blakely’s glance went to Scotty, inspected him carefully and came to rest on the honorable discharge pin in his jacket lapel.
“What service?” askedTom.
“Marines, sir,” Scotty replied.
“An ex-Marine, as I hope to grow old quietly! I always felt kindly toward those seagoing bellhops.
Junior Sea-bees, we used to call ‘em.”
Scotty’s eyes were on the button in Tom’s lapel. “We-always used to say, ‘Neverhit a poor old Seabee.
He might have a son in the Marines!’”
“Those two have made friends,” Douglas Chambers said to Rick dryly. “Come into our humble parlor, fellows, and we’ll sign the deal.”
The interior of the Quonset hut was set up as a combination office, bedroom, and kitchen. Coffee was perking on an oil stove, and the place had a rough but homelike air.
“Do you live here?” Rick asked in amazement.
“For the time being,” Chambers answered. “You must have come yesterday while we were off getting a decent meal inNew Haven . Tom is a worse cook than I am, and I’m terrible.”
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“Amen,” Tom said. He winked at Rick. “I only give him heartburn, but he gives me acute frammus of the slabenglaben . Incidentally, where do you boys come from?”
“SpindriftIsland,” Scotty answered. “That’s inNew Jersey , just south of . . .”
“I know where it is,” Chambers said quickly. He looked at Rick. “You said your name was Brant. And you come from Spindrift. That makes you some relative of Hartson Brant’s.”
“He’s my father,” Rick said.
“Someday,” Chambers said, “I want to meet your father. Do you ever help out in the lab? I mean, can you handle a soldering iron and stuff like that?”
“Dad lets me help with the wiring.”
“Swell!” Chambers gave the kitchen table a resounding smack. “That takes a big headache off my shoulders.
Tom, here, doesn’t know a triode tube from aTripoli pirate. I’vebeen needing someone to help me with wiring.”
“What can I do,” Scotty asked.
“Can you keep books?” Tom queried.
Scotty shook his head.
“No help from me,” Tom sighed, then explained: “Doug is the technical brains. I’m just the hired hand who keeps the books. Anyway, we’ll find plenty for you to do, Scotty. Can you run a motorboat? Drive a truck? Swing a shovel?”
“Yes to all except the shovel.” Scotty grinned. “I’m not very good at complicated tools.”
“You’re not operating yet?” Rick commented. It was more statement than question.
“We will be,” Tom replied, “in about two weeks, if all goes well.”
“If,” Doug echoed. “There are a lot of ifs.Workmen, for one thing. We’ve found it harder and harder to get Crayville people to work for us. Now we know why, thanks to your visit yesterday. Of course it’s a lot of hoopla about poisoning the fish. We won’t have any poisonous wastes.”
A shadow blocked the doorway. Rick looked up to see a dark-complexioned man staring at him and Scotty. The newcomer was of medium build, with a look of hardness about him. He had a tight mouth and piercing black eves.
“Oh, Tony,” Doug said. “Come in and meet our two new men, Rick Brant and Don Scott. Boys, this is Tony Larzo, our foreman.”
“How do,” Tony said shortly. He had an odd habit of squinting when he talked
, and Rick got the impression that he wasn’t particularly pleased to see them. But perhaps he just had a sour disposition.
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“You’ll want to get squared away before you go to work,” Tom Blakely remarked. “If you’re in need of a place to live, I can recommend the Mansion House.”
“We’ll try it,” Rick nodded.
“Come back this afternoon and look the plant over. You can start on the payroll in the morning. As for salary . . .” Doug named a figure that suited the boys perfectly. They shook hands all around,then hiked back to the Cub.
“We’re in,” Scotty exulted.“Easy as pie!”
“I like both of them,” Rick said. “We should have a lot of fun working here.”
“Unless whoever doesn’t want us around decides to make things tough.”
That had been at the back of Rick’s mind, too. “Check,” he said. “But let’s not borrow trouble.”
In a little while they were pushing open the door of the Mansion House, bags in hand. They stepped into a clean but threadbare lobby, in which the principal decorations seemed to be sea shells.
“I hope the beds are more modern than that,” Scotty said, pointing to a stiff ladder-back chair.
Rick did not hear him. He was staring at the clerk’s desk. Standing behind the desk was the old man who had come to their rescue, Mr. Gait!
“So you weren’t scared away after all,” he greeted them cordially.
“No, sir,” Rick said and added, “We didn’t have a chance to thank you yesterday.”
“My pleasure,” Mr. Gait said. “I never did care much for Gunner Stoles. What can I do for you lads?”
“We’d like a room, sir.”
“Call me Cap’n , lad. Cap’n Ben Gait, it used to be.” He pointed to a painting of a square-rigged ship that hung behind him. “ Cap’nof the Connie B, best sealer ever left the port o’ Crayville, if I do say it who shouldn’t.”
The boys inspected the painting,then looked at Cap’n Gait with new respect.
“A sealer?”Rick asked.
“Aye.”The old man sighed and ran a hand through his sparse gray hair. “Them was the days, lads.
Crayville was a town then, I’ll tell you!Sealers and whalers comin ’ and goin ’, outbound for the antarctic or the Par Pacific, or headin ’ up the channel with full loads of skins or oil. Times surehas changed.”
“How do you happen to be working here, sir?” Scotty asked.
Cap’nGait’s surprisingly youthful eyes twinkled. “This here hotel is the curse of the Gaits. I own it.” He turned to his desk and riffled through some filing cards
“Just seein ’ if I have a room for you.”In u moment he turned back. “Course I have. I always go through Page 19
the motions just to make it look businesslike.”
He took a key and led the way to the stairs, talking over his shoulder. “I take it you young’uns are goin ’
to work at the plant. Reckon you’ll like it?”
“Yes, sir.”Rick hesitated. “What was all that business at the restaurant yesterday?”
“That was Gunner Stoles soundin ’ off. He always was a sea lawyer. Now he’s takin ’ it on himself to make trouble for the sea mine.”
“Why?” Rick asked quickly.
“Sheer meanness is my guess. One thing’s sure: Hedon’t care a hoot for the fishin ’ grounds. If Gunner ever did a day’s honest trawlin ’ in his life I ain’t heard of it.”
“Gunner,” Scotty repeated. “That’s an odd name.”
“His nickname.A cunner is a kind of nuisance fish that steals bait. It suits him.”
They had reached the second floor and Cap’n Gait opened the door into a room at the rear of the hotel.
Rick looked around, pleased. It was spacious, with twin beds, and it was very clean. Scotty was already testing the mattresses.
“Guess you’ll be comfortable. The restaurant is right downstairs. Not fancy, but good.The vittles ’ll stick to your ribs.”
Rick found the crumpled telegraph message in his pocket, smoothed it out and handed it to the old man.
“There’s something we’ve wondered about, Cap’n . Would you know anything about this?”
Mr. Gait produced steel-rimmed spectacles and read the note through. Then he shook his head emphatically.“News to me. Who do you think sent this?”
“Gunner Stoles?”Scotty suggested.
“Not likely. He ain’t got that much imagination.Can’t guess who it might be. Shucks, I didn’t even know you came ina airyplane .”
When Cap’n Gait had gone, the boys unpacked and stowed their clothes in the ample closets. Then Rick sat down on the bed and grinned at Scotty.
“Well,” he said, “we’re in it.For better or worse.”
Scotty nodded. “I hope we don’t regret it.”
“We won’t,” Rick assured him. “Listen,there must be some way to check up on that telegram.” He went to the old-fashioned telephone on a corner table and picked it up.
“ Cap’nGait,” he said, when the old man answered, “where is theWestern Union office in town?”
“Ain’tnone ,” was the crisp reply. “Nearest is Mil-ford. You want to send atelegram, you have to Page 20
phone-Want me to connect you?”
“Please,” Rick said.
When the Milford Western Union office answered.Rick dictated a wire toSpindriftIsland , telling the Brants the good news about the jobs. Then he asked the clerk:
“Can you give me some information on a telegram sent to that address last night? It was signed by Mr.
Douglas Chambers.”
The clerk told him to hold the wire, but it was only a moment before Rick got the answer he expected.
“Well,” Scotty prompted as he hung up, “what’s the dope?”
“It was telephoned in, from Crayville,” Rick replied.
“No help.” Scotty shrugged. “We don’t know any more now than we did before.”
“Which is nothing,” Rick said, “except that someone would rather not have us around.”
CHAPTER IV
Pressure: Ten Atmospheres
Rick Brant turned over on his back and a ray of early morning sunlight lanced into his eyes. He awoke, blinking, and turned away from the light. In the bed next to him he saw Scotty, a sleeping cocoon wound in a sheet. The alarm clock on the bureau told him it washalf past six .
Today would be their first full day of work at the sea mine. Again he felt the stir of excitement.
Yesterday’s tour of the plant with Doug Chambers had fired his enthusiasm. Already he was eager to pitch in. He wanted to see salt water pouring in through the sea inlet, to be reduced ultimately to valuable minerals.
He had met an old friend yesterday, too. The Cub needed gas and oil, and their first step after lunch had been to find a near-by airport. He knew there was one nearMilford , although he had never landed there.
He and Scotty took off and headed inland, and in a few moments the parallel concrete ribbons of theMerritt Parkway , the great express highway fromNew Haven toNew York , unrolled below them. A mile away from the parkway, on the seaward side, they found the airport and landed-to discover that it was run by Steve Hollis, who had taught Rick to fly when he was an instructor for the Civil Air Authority program. It had been fun, talking over old times, and Steve had invited him to drop over any time and get in a few hours flying in the beautiful Fairchild four-seater biplane that was the airport’s special pride.
Then, with everything “squared away,” as Scotty put it, they returned to the plant. Doug Chambers, the serious young engineer, took them on an inspection tour, pridefully showing them his brain child.
The sea mine started some distance out at sea, with a bell-shaped pipe opening six feet in diameter.
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From the “sea inlet,” as it was called, a four-foot pipe ran back to the pump house.
From the pump, the water ran through a maze of pipes to the several places
where the processing was done. There were three clearly defined processes. One was electrolysis, to be done in the square concrete buildings called fractionators.
The second process, called “destructive distillation,” was done in the two concrete domes. The third part was chemical treatment. Addition of chemicals to the treated water in the tanks would precipitate certain products.
pressure: ten atmospheres 43
The tanks, each thirty feet long, fifteen wide and ten feet high, were set above ground on platforms of concrete blocks. They were out in the open at present, but later sheds would be built over them.
But the heart of the plant was a guarded secret. It was the building of concrete set off by itself. It was locked in the same manner as a bank vault. Within the building was the nucleus of Doug’s process. Only Doug knew what was in there. Tom had been told, of course, but in his whimsical way he had said: “It’s too complicated for a simple soul like me to understand. Shucks, I can’t even figure out the chemistry of a cup of coffee.”
Rick gathered that Tom was the business end. He had put his own money into the plant and had scouted up more. With Doug’s technical brains and Tom’s business ability, they had started on a shoestring.
They were completely different. Doug was dark, serious, and all business. Tom was blond, carefree, and perpetually smiling. But both of them were fighters. Rick saw that at once. They’d make a go of the plant or else!
A fly buzzed in through the open bedroom window, did a half loop and landed on a lighting fixture. Rick watched it sleepily, and thought about the man with the strangely white face they had seen at the gate on Sunday.
They had seen him again, last night. When they came into the hotel to go to bed, he was in the lobby, reading a letter. It was the first time Rick had gotten a good look at his face. The impression of startling whiteness hadn’t been wrong. The man’s face had no color in it; the skin was like parchment, thinly stretched over the bones of his face. And from it, two dark eyes blazed at him.
Rick and Scotty stopped short. The man glanced up, his lips moved soundlessly,then he jumped to his feet and walked swiftly toward the stairs, dropping an envelope. Rick picked it up, the names on it half registering, and hurried after him.