Tom Swift and the Electronic Hydrolung | Page 6

its place.
Bud's eyes glowed with gratitude.
"We'll have to get topside fast," Tom thought, "even though it means
risking the bends."
He stroked upward and they shot toward the surface. Bud assisted to
some extent, partly revived by the gulp of air.
As they rose, fathom by fathom, their progress seemed to grow
maddeningly slower. Tom had to let air bubbles escape constantly from
his mouth. As the pressure decreased, due to the lessening depth of the
water, the air in his lungs expanded and he was forced to breathe out.
Tom noticed with dismay that Bud was not responding very well, his
feeble strokes were jerky and uncoordinated. "Must've lost pressure too
fast when his tank was hit," Tom realized.
The water was growing greener and brighter now as they neared the
sunshine. The Sea Hound's shadowy outline loomed just above. With a
last desperate burst of strength, Tom lunged upward and they broke
water.
"H-h-help!" Tom gasped.
There was no need for the cry. Hank and his crew, on the seacopter's
forward deck, had already grasped the situation. Strong arms reached
out and hauled the two boys aboard.
Both of them were shivering and writhing in pain, only half conscious.

"They have the bends!" Arv Hanson cried in alarm. "Signal the Sky
Queen to drop a sling!"
The boys' masks were ripped off. Within moments, Bud had been
tightly secured to the sling, which was reeled back up into the plane.
Tom followed in a few minutes. Doc Simpson took charge of the
patients immediately. After a quick examination, he had the boys
placed in a small decompression chamber in the Sky Queen's sick bay.
"How are they?" Hank asked anxiously as he peered through the
window of the chamber. The medic had given Bud a sedative and he
was already fast asleep. Tom remained awake.
"Aside from the pain, not in too bad shape," Doc Simpson replied.
It turned out that Tom's case was not so serious, but Bud had to stay in
bed. With Tom, it was only a matter of decompression and he soon was
up and about.
Chow, in a chef's cap, with an apron around his paunchy stomach, had
come stomping in hastily from the galley. "Pore lil ole boys," he fussed.
"Brand my snorkel, I never should've let you young'uns go pokin'
around down below there without me around to keep an eye on things!"
Tom slapped the loyal old Texan on the back. "If you want a dive,
come along."
"You're goin' back down?" Chow asked.
"In the seacopter," Tom replied. "To find out, if possible, who fired that
projectile at us."
"Then count me in!" Chow declared, stripping off his apron. "I just
hope I get my hands on them sneakin' polecats!"
Slim Davis would pilot the Sky Queen back to Shopton at once,
because of Bud. Tom and Chow, meanwhile, would join Hank and his
crew aboard the Sea Hound.

Ten minutes later the sleek seacopter, its searchlight off to avoid
detection, was plummeting downward through water that changed
before their eyes from greenish blue to a deep-gray gloom. Iridescent
fish darted past the cabin window.
"Think the enemy sub was searching for our Jupiter prober?" Hank
asked.
"It must have been," Tom reasoned.
Hank frowned. "Which means they must have figured out the missile's
position as fast as our side did."
"And they'll play rough to stop us from finding it," Arv added
forebodingly.
Within moments, the group clustered in the pilot's cabin felt a gentle
bump as the Sea Hound settled on the submerged plateau. Tom relaxed
at the controls but kept the rotors going so the craft would remain
submerged. Meanwhile, the sonarman was probing the surrounding
waters.
"Any pings?" Tom asked.
The man shook his head without taking his eyes from the sonarscope.
"Nothing yet."
Hank Sterling donned a hydrophone headset and listened intently. The
silence deepened in the Sea Hound's cabin. Suddenly Hank stiffened
and the sonarman cried out:
"A blip, skipper! At two o'clock!"
It was moving rapidly on the scope--something streaking toward their
starboard beam!
"Good night! It's another missile!" Tom gasped.
He darted back to the controls and gunned the reverse jets just in time!

The missile flashed across their bow.
"Great bellowin' longhorns!" Chow gasped weakly. His leathery face
had gone pale under its tan. "The yellow-livered drygulchers!"
"I don't get it," Arv Hanson spoke up. "If they're in firing range, we
should have detected them, shouldn't we?"
Tom nodded grimly. "Whoever our enemies are, they must have
perfected a way to make themselves invisible to underwater detection.
"And we'll have to do the same!" he vowed inwardly. Aloud, Tom said,
"I hate to run from those sneaks, but if we stick around, we'll be asking
for trouble."
Slowing the rotors to