Tom Swift and the Electronic Hydrolung | Page 3

scientists called out.
Admiral Walter, grim-faced, flashed a questioning look at Tom. "Then
recovery has failed?"
"I'm afraid so, sir."
The fused blip was still visible on screen as the radar dishes tracked it,
moving in a way that indicated a steep downward plunge.
For a moment Tom felt numb with despair. But he set his jaw firmly
and turned to the admiral.
"Sir, I'd like helicopters readied for take-off immediately," Tom said.
"As soon as the tracking instruments lose contact, have the recording
tapes picked up from every ship in the task force and brought here to
the Recoverer."
Admiral Walter nodded tersely. "Very well. Then what?"
"I'll get to work right now," Tom replied, "and lay out a computer
program to process the readings."
The data--consisting of millions of information "bits" from the
shipboard instrument tapes--would be fed to an electronic brain. The
brain would then calculate the probable location in latitude and
longitude of the sunken missile.
As the admiral snapped out orders, Tom exchanged a brief worried
glance with his father. Each was pondering the same thought.
Could Tom find the lost Jupiter probe missile? Or would their enemy
locate it first?
CHAPTER II

UNDERSEA SURVEY
With an effort, Tom forced all thoughts of failure out of his mind and
concentrated on the job at hand. In an hour he had the computer
program blocked out.
Mr. Swift and several of the other scientists checked his work. Each
nodded approval. By this time, the fused blip had long since
disappeared from the radarscopes, indicating that the Jupiter probe
missile--or what was left of it--had plunged to the ocean bottom.
"What's your next move, Tom?" Admiral Walter asked.
"No point in wasting time waiting for the computer results," Tom
decided. "Suppose Bud and I fly back to Swift Enterprises and organize
a search party."
"Good idea." As Admiral Walter extended a hand, his weather-beaten
face softened. "And don't feel downhearted, son. You rate a Navy 'E'
for the way you handled this operation. It would have succeeded if it
hadn't been for that confounded enemy missile!"
"Thank you, sir." Tom managed a grateful grin, in spite of his
discouragement.
Minutes later, the two boys embarked in a motor launch that took them
to an aircraft carrier standing by in the vicinity. From the flattop they
took off in a Navy jet for Shopton.
Meanwhile, Mr. Swift remained aboard the Recoverer to supervise the
data processing. Tom, looking back from the soaring jet, could see one
of the helicopters on its way to the missile ship to deliver the first batch
of tapes.
It was late afternoon when the Navy jet touched down on the
Enterprises airfield. The Swifts' sprawling experimental station was a
walled, four-mile-square enclosure with landing strips, work-shops, and
laboratories, near the town of Shopton. Here Tom Jr. and his father

developed their amazing inventions.
Tom and Bud hopped into a jeep at the hangar and sped to the
Administration Building, where Tom shared a double office with his
father. Bud sank down into one of the deep-cushioned leather chairs,
while Tom adjusted the Venetian blinds to let in the afternoon
sunshine.
The spacious office was furnished with twin modern desks, conference
table, and drawing boards which swung out from wall slots at the press
of a button. At one end of the room were the video screen and control
board of the Swifts' private TV network. Here and there stood scale
models of their inventions, a huge relief globe of the earth, and a
replica of the planet Mars.
"What are your plans for our search expedition, skipper?" Bud asked.
Tom ran his fingers through his crew cut. "Let's see. We'd better take
the Sky Queen, I think, and also--"
Tom broke off as the desk intercom buzzed. Miss Trent, the Swifts'
secretary, was on the wire.
"Your father's calling over the radio, Tom."
"Swell!" Tom flicked a switch to cut in the signal of his private
telephone. "Hi, Dad! We just got back. Any news?"
"Yes, son. We have the computer results," Mr. Swift replied. "Got a
pencil handy?"
Tom copied down the latitude and longitude figures as his father
dictated.
"According to the latest hydrographic maps, based on IGY findings,"
Mr. Swift went on, "this area is a high plateau of the Atlantic
Ridge--it's near the St. Paul Rocks."
"What about the depth?"

"It averages between a hundred and three hundred feet," said the elder
scientist.
Tom gave a whistle. "Lucky break, eh?"
"Maybe and maybe not," Mr. Swift said cautiously. "The bottom there
is heavily silted."
"Oh--oh." Tom made a wry face. "In that case, we may have some
digging to do."
"I'm afraid so. However, no use borrowing trouble." After a short
discussion, the elder scientist added, "I'll probably fly home tomorrow,
son.