Tom Swift and the Electronic Hydrolung

by II Victor Appleton

  CHAPTER IX

  A MAGNETIC KIDNAPING

  "The space people or some enemy's invadin' us!" Chow shouted. "Take asquint through your telescope, boss! Brand my bazooka, they may belandin' any second!"

  More people came streaming in, attracted by the chef's cries andgesticulations. Some were bewildered, a few frightened. Others werelaughing, thinking the whole thing a joke. The scene was rapidly takingon the proportions of a riot!

  "Whoa! Slow down, Chow!" Tom ordered, trying to make himself heard abovethe din.

  "It--it's the truth, boss!" Chow stammered, mopping his brow with a hugered bandanna. "Why, sufferin' rattlesnakes, didn't I hear 'em spoutin'their space lingo with my own ears?"

  "You heard _what_?" Bud said.

  "Spoutin' space talk!" the cook repeated. "It come right over theloud-speaker in the galley! They was chitter-chatterin' plottin' to blowus all to smithereens!"

  "That's a fact! We heard it, too!" one of the workmen chimed in.

  Tom and Bud looked at each other blankly. Then suddenly Tom's eyeskindled with a dawning suspicion. Whirling around, he rushed over toinspect the public-address outlet on the wall.

  Meanwhile, Mr. Swift had just driven in through the main gate ofEnterprises. "What's going on?" he asked the guard at the gate, notingthe excited hubbub around Tom's laboratory.

  "Don't rightly know, sir," the guard replied. "I was wondering myself. Iknow it sounds crazy, but I thought I heard someone yelling there wasgoing to be a space attack."

  Mr. Swift's eyebrows lifted in amazement. Without further discussion, hestepped on the accelerator and sped off along the paved drive. Secondslater, his car braked to a stop near Tom Jr.'s private laboratory. Thescientist jumped out and made his way through the milling crowd.

  "What's going on?" Mr. Swift stared in astonishment at Tom and Bud, whowere both doubled up with laughter.

  "A scrambled radio alert, Dad," Tom gasped between chuckles. "Chowthought some Martian monsters were invading us, and sort of pushed thepanic button."

  The Texan blushed as Tom explained what had happened. Realizing Chow'sembarrassment, Tom tried to make his mistake sound understandable.

  Apparently the power line to the ion-drive control board had somehowpicked up the boys' scrambled conversation underwater. The signal hadbeen transferred by inductance in the wall wiring and amplified over thepublic-address system.

  "Our wall mike was on," Tom added, "and it probably picked up some ofthe sound waves from the tank. Anyhow," he concluded, slapping the cookaffectionately on the back, "I'm sure glad we have a wide-awake hombrelike Chow in the outfit. It wouldn't be the first time he's saved ournecks!"

  Chow perked up, and the employees, reassured, returned to their jobs.

  "I have some news of my own," Mr. Swift announced with a smile as theroom cleared. "But I'm afraid it'll sound pretty tame compared to aspace attack."

  "Let's hear it, Dad," Tom said eagerly.

  "I've been conducting some experiments with those space plants," theelder scientist said. "It looks as though they may prove to be avaluable nutritional source."

  The plants, Mr. Swift went on, showed promise of producing enormousamounts of protein quickly and cheaply--enough to increase the world'sfood supply by a sizable margin. Moreover, he had isolated a vitamin inthis protein not found in any of man's present foods.

  "Doc Simpson has been working with me," Mr. Swift concluded. "He hasbeen doing some experiments of his own with a vitamin extract from thespace plants. He thinks it may prove highly beneficial to human beings."

  Tom was thrilled, and even Bud realized that Mr. Swift's cautious reportcould well turn out to be of history-making importance.

  "I'd say your news makes a phony space attack look pretty tame, Dad,"Tom said, his eyes flashing enthusiastically. "With the earth'spopulation increasing, this could be the answer to the food problem."

  "Don't tell Chow," Bud added, "or we may find spaceburgers on the nextmenu!"

  The Swifts chuckled. Chow's hobby of concocting weird dishes was astanding joke at Enterprises, and already had led to such dubioustriumphs as armadillo stew and rattlesnake soup.

  Monday morning Tom buckled down seriously to the job of designing anundetectable sub. His drawing board was littered with sketches anddiagrams when the phone rang, breaking in on his thoughts. Tom answeredit with a scowl of impatience. The caller was Lester Morris.

  "Could you meet me at the yacht club to talk over the dance program?"Morris asked.

  Tom hesitated. For Sandy's and Phyl's sakes he was eager to doeverything possible to make the square dance a success. But on the otherhand....

  "I'm pretty busy today," Tom said. "But my sister and my friend BudBarclay can tell you what we want--probably better than I can. Suppose Iask them to meet you there after lunch?"

  There was a slight pause. "Very well," Morris agreed, although hesounded a bit annoyed.

  After hanging up, Tom phoned Bud and asked him to keep the appointment.Bud was only too happy to oblige, jumping at the chance to take Sandyout to lunch beforehand.

  At one o'clock the husky young pilot and his date strolled into theyacht club lounge. Lester Morris was nowhere in sight, so they sat downto wait. Twenty minutes later the musician still had not appeared.

  "I hope he hasn't forgotten," Sandy said, glancing at her wrist watch.

  "If he's a square-dance caller, his memory ought to be extra good," Budjoked. "Fine thing if he can't even remember the time of day!"

  After waiting a while longer, Bud decided to telephone Morris's home.But at that moment a thin, seedy-looking man came into the lounge. Hisclose-set eyes and loudly striped suit combined to give him a somewhatdisreputable appearance.

  "Good grief! Len Unger!" Sandy whispered. "What does he want with us?"

  Unger was walking straight toward them. Both Bud and Sandy had met himoccasionally around town and found him obnoxious.

  "Sorry, but Morris got tied up," Unger informed them. "He sent me totalk to you."

  Sandy's blue eyes met Bud's in a flicker of distaste, but she tried toconceal her feelings. "Please sit down," she invited Unger politely."What square-dance numbers does Mr. Morris do?"

  Len Unger shrugged. "You name 'em."

  "But, my goodness," Sandy said, puzzled, "how do we know he'll have thesquares I name?"

  Unger stared at her as if he did not quite understand. "You mean, can hecall off the dances you want? If he can't, I'll let you know."

  "Does he do patter calls or singing calls?" Bud put in.

  Again Unger hesitated, then said, "Both."

  "Wonderful!" Sandy exclaimed gleefully. "I thought he only did singingcalls." After a moment's thought, she went on, "Well, let's see. Whatabout 'Birdie in the Cage'?... And 'The Gal from Arkansas' ... 'Uptownand Downtown'...."

  Unger jotted the names on the back of an envelope. Pausing a moment, heremarked, "Guess your brother was too busy to make it today, eh, MissSwift? What kind of ex-spearmints is he working on now?"

  "I really couldn't say," Sandy replied coldly. She always made it apoint not to discuss Tom Jr.'s or her father's research work withoutsiders.

  Unger persisted chattily, "I read where he handled that Jupiter probeshoot for the Navy."

  "Let's get back to square dancing," snapped Bud. As he and Sandyfinished planning the program, Len Unger continued to drop remarks andquestions about "The Great Tom Swift" and his inventions. All pryingqueries were side-stepped.

  As soon as possible Sandy and Bud cut short the conversation and leftthe yacht club. Unger's face wore an angry sneer as they walked out.

  "What a creep!" Bud said, when he and Sandy were driving back in his redconvertible.

  Meanwhile, in his private laboratory at Enterprises, Tom was somewhatdiscouraged. He had tried several different experimental attacks on theproblem of an undetectable submarine. None had worked out successfully.

  "I thought that idea of a sonar-wave baffle might lead somewhere," hemurmured, "but it lo
oks as though I'm wrong."

  Flopping down on a stool at his workbench, Tom cupped his chin in hishands. He was frowning, deep in thought, as the pudgy figure of ChowWinkler came into the laboratory.

  "'Smatter, boss?" the cook inquired cheerfully. "Ain't your ole thinkbox workin' today?"

  "Doesn't seem to be," Tom confessed.

  "Give it time, son. Tomorrow's another day," Chow said philosophically."What you need is a haircut for the square dance."

  Tom laughed in spite of himself. "Maybe you're right, Chow. Might helpme think better."

  Tom got off the stool and stretched out the kinks in his legs. Hestrolled outside with Chow, then scootered to the parking lot and hoppedinto his sleek, silver sports car.

  A moment later he was whizzing off in the direction of Shopton. Nearingtown, Tom turned off on a side-road short cut. He noticed in his mirrorthat a truck behind him also turned off.

  "Really barreling along!" Tom thought. "If you're in such a hurry, theroad's yours, pal."

  He pulled over sharply, motioning the truck to pass. Instead, to Tom'ssurprise, it closed in straight behind him. The next moment, Tom saw aport open below the truck's hood and a strange-looking device pop out ona springlike steel cable.

  It clamped magnetically to Tom's rear bumper! His car was caught like afish on a line!

  Tom stepped on the accelerator, trying to pull free. The truck at onceswerved off the road, steering around a utility pole. As the cabletautened, there was a sickening screech of metal and the sports car wasbrought to a crashing halt!

  Tom's head slammed against the side window. With a groan, the younginventor blacked out.