Tom Swift and His Deep Sea Hydrodome by Victor Appleton II Page A

a stinging feeling in my throat and nose… a smell like cedar."
    Bud called out from the cave entrance, "Tom! The gas is staying low, by the water. And the breeze is thinning it out."
    In twenty minutes they were able to venture out again. There was no sign of the plane to be seen as the five made their way cautiously back to the tarp and their picnic basket.
    Sandy looked at the limp sandwiches in despair. "It’s ruined—everything’s ruined."
    "But once again, we manage to be alive," noted Bashalli, her voice raspy. "I must tell you, Amelia—in the company of these Swift people, to remain alive and healthy is an accomplishment."
    Tom pounded an angry fist into the palm of his hand. "They struck right when we were the most vulnerable. We don’t even know what sort of gas Bash inhaled—it’s all dissipated."
    Suddenly Bud half-smiled and picked up one of the discarded sandwiches. "Say—maybe not! Doesn’t this good, rich, home-baked bread of Chow’s look sort of like a sponge?"
    Bud’s idea panned out perfectly. Back at Enterprises, the girls safely home, Tom ran a test of the sandwich bread for traces of foreign substances.
    As Tom looked up from his instruments, Bud said, "Well, it can’t be that poison, can it? Bash would’ve dropped in her tracks."
    "It’s not the neurotoxin," Tom pronounced. "It’s not even poisonous—just a harmless compound used to produce theatrical fog effects."
    "Then what was the point, skipper?"
    Tom shrugged. "Want a guess? A warning of some kind. Or maybe—" A sudden frown puckered his forehead. "Bud… who was last into the cave? Wasn’t it Amy?"
    Bud nodded in abrupt understanding. "Yes! She seemed to hold back a little, almost as if—"
    "Almost as if she knew the attack was harmless!" Tom concluded heatedly. "She was cooler than any of us, all the way through. It may be that this little stunt was all about taking our suspicions off her, by making her look like another victim with the rest of us."
    Bud’s anger was mixed with apology. "Tom, look what I’ve done, bringing her to Enterprises like that!"
    "Don’t blame yourself. She may have been keeping tabs on you in San Francisco, waiting for an opportunity."
    "But do you really think…" Bud pushed aside the tenacious dark lock that had flopped across his forehead. "An old grudge against the Swifts— that I can believe. But it’s hard to believe she could be behind the Mad Moby. Or am I just being old-fashioned?"
    "She’s hardly likely to be the mastermind," Tom declared. "But she could be acting as their agent here in the plant, the one who leaked information to Niffman and got him stirred up."
    He told Bud that he would discuss the matter with his father and with Harlan Ames, to work out a scheme to keep watch on her until the suspicions could be confirmed.
    After saying goodbye to Bud, Tom showered and changed in his office, then phoned Harlan Ames at home and reported the incident.
    "Any idea where the plane came from?" asked the security chief.
    "None at all," Tom replied. "It had no marks of identification, and we couldn’t see the pilot."
    "Okay, I’ll notify the authorities. Maybe the Air Patrol can spot it."
    No word came, but the next morning Tom and his father received a long-distance call from Admiral Hopkins, who had previously acted as Swift Enterprises’ contact person for scientific work involving the U.S. Navy. In tones that bespoke deep concern the officer reported that a patrolling Navy sub had found a cache of sealed titanium containers in a crevice on the ocean floor near Bermuda. "The men made jokes about ’em first-off—said they looked like pirate treasure chests, that sort of thing. We didn’t open them. But we did x-ray them. And then, gentlemen—then we didn’t want to open them!"
    "What do you mean?" asked Damon Swift.
    "The chests contained round, reinforced high-pressure tanks. You and I know what that could signify in the present circumstance."
    Tom and his father exchanged