said enthusiastically. "How soon do we start?"
. "Slowdown, space cadet!" laughed the young inventor. "A space station is still the first step in conquering interplanetary space. Besides, even a trip to a Martian satellite would take a little too long for my taste."
"How long?" queried Bud.
Tom thought for a moment. "The round trip would take over two and a half years right now. Even ageless types like us can’t stay eighteen that long!" Bud’s face fell as Tom added, "And almost half that time would be spent waiting for the right moment to take off on our return trip."
Bud shook his head glumly. "Well, there goes a dream—with a dull thud."
"Don’t take it so hard," Tom said with an understanding smile. "We’ll beat the problem yet, somehow. In the meantime, if those Martians can travel faster than we can in our old-fashioned chemical rockets, there’s no reason why they can’t pay a visit to us at the space outpost!"
"Now there’s a thought!"
After Bud left, his mood somewhat lightened, Tom sat himself at the lab’s air tank setup, eager to carry out a few more tests on the oxygen-helium mixture. To his surprise, he found that his empty tank of oxygen had been replaced by a new one bearing the label of the Aer-Cel Company. Picking up the phone, Tom contacted the supply department. "What happened to our own tanks of oxygen, Luisa?" he asked. "I notice this new cylinder is from the Aer-Cel Company."
"Oh, that’s one they gave us free," explained the plant’s chief purchaser. "Seems they’ve designed a new regulator for their tanks and they’d like you to try it out. I figured you wouldn’t mind."
"Not a bit. Just wondered, that’s all."
Tom hung up and examined the device which Luisa Perez had referred to. It was wired to the cap nut on the tank, and included a pressure gauge, stopcock, and the necessary threaded fittings for attachment.
Tom unwired the gadget and screwed it into place on the tank. Then he adjusted the tank valve to a suitable pressure and opened the stopcock, to draw off a small amount of oxygen.
The young inventor was puzzled. The device seemed to work in the usual way. Yet there was, after all, something queer about the design. And the hissing air seemed to have a slight odor.
Tom tried to shut off the flow, but the stopcock would not turn. He tried the tank valve. This, too, refused to budge!
Suddenly Tom felt ill. A strange paralysis seemed to be numbing his arms and legs. In a flash, he realized that he had been duped by a trick. Instead of oxygen, there was a deadly gas in the tank!
CHAPTER 12
ISLAND INTRIGUE
TOM KNEW that he must get out of the room before he was overcome. But as he tried to go forward, he staggered—it seemed as though his legs just wouldn’t move! Groggy from the deadly gas filling the room, Tom lurched toward the door of his laboratory. With one hand, he pulled out his handkerchief and held it to his nose. But his legs dragged as though weighted down with lead.
"I’ll never make it!" he thought.
Then Tom remembered the wall switch for the exhaust fans. It was just a few steps away. If he could only reach it!
He stumbled forward. One hand groped up and dragged down the lever. The exhaust blowers whirred into life and Tom felt a surge of air. But the gas from the tank had already engulfed the room. Tom’s head was splitting, his eyesight hazy. Swaying blindly, he lurched on, two steps, three steps—one more now and he could reach the door!
It seemed like a lifetime before his hand closed on the knob. With a superhuman effort, Tom opened the door and managed one final staggering lunge out into the underground hangar. He was just in time—shadow was descending all around him. As the heavy steel door swung shut behind him, the youthful scientist slumped to the floor!
A hangar workman raised a shout of alarm. Men came running from all directions. Mr. Swift was the first to reach his son’s side.
"Tom! What happened?" his father cried, cradling
. "Slowdown, space cadet!" laughed the young inventor. "A space station is still the first step in conquering interplanetary space. Besides, even a trip to a Martian satellite would take a little too long for my taste."
"How long?" queried Bud.
Tom thought for a moment. "The round trip would take over two and a half years right now. Even ageless types like us can’t stay eighteen that long!" Bud’s face fell as Tom added, "And almost half that time would be spent waiting for the right moment to take off on our return trip."
Bud shook his head glumly. "Well, there goes a dream—with a dull thud."
"Don’t take it so hard," Tom said with an understanding smile. "We’ll beat the problem yet, somehow. In the meantime, if those Martians can travel faster than we can in our old-fashioned chemical rockets, there’s no reason why they can’t pay a visit to us at the space outpost!"
"Now there’s a thought!"
After Bud left, his mood somewhat lightened, Tom sat himself at the lab’s air tank setup, eager to carry out a few more tests on the oxygen-helium mixture. To his surprise, he found that his empty tank of oxygen had been replaced by a new one bearing the label of the Aer-Cel Company. Picking up the phone, Tom contacted the supply department. "What happened to our own tanks of oxygen, Luisa?" he asked. "I notice this new cylinder is from the Aer-Cel Company."
"Oh, that’s one they gave us free," explained the plant’s chief purchaser. "Seems they’ve designed a new regulator for their tanks and they’d like you to try it out. I figured you wouldn’t mind."
"Not a bit. Just wondered, that’s all."
Tom hung up and examined the device which Luisa Perez had referred to. It was wired to the cap nut on the tank, and included a pressure gauge, stopcock, and the necessary threaded fittings for attachment.
Tom unwired the gadget and screwed it into place on the tank. Then he adjusted the tank valve to a suitable pressure and opened the stopcock, to draw off a small amount of oxygen.
The young inventor was puzzled. The device seemed to work in the usual way. Yet there was, after all, something queer about the design. And the hissing air seemed to have a slight odor.
Tom tried to shut off the flow, but the stopcock would not turn. He tried the tank valve. This, too, refused to budge!
Suddenly Tom felt ill. A strange paralysis seemed to be numbing his arms and legs. In a flash, he realized that he had been duped by a trick. Instead of oxygen, there was a deadly gas in the tank!
CHAPTER 12
ISLAND INTRIGUE
TOM KNEW that he must get out of the room before he was overcome. But as he tried to go forward, he staggered—it seemed as though his legs just wouldn’t move! Groggy from the deadly gas filling the room, Tom lurched toward the door of his laboratory. With one hand, he pulled out his handkerchief and held it to his nose. But his legs dragged as though weighted down with lead.
"I’ll never make it!" he thought.
Then Tom remembered the wall switch for the exhaust fans. It was just a few steps away. If he could only reach it!
He stumbled forward. One hand groped up and dragged down the lever. The exhaust blowers whirred into life and Tom felt a surge of air. But the gas from the tank had already engulfed the room. Tom’s head was splitting, his eyesight hazy. Swaying blindly, he lurched on, two steps, three steps—one more now and he could reach the door!
It seemed like a lifetime before his hand closed on the knob. With a superhuman effort, Tom opened the door and managed one final staggering lunge out into the underground hangar. He was just in time—shadow was descending all around him. As the heavy steel door swung shut behind him, the youthful scientist slumped to the floor!
A hangar workman raised a shout of alarm. Men came running from all directions. Mr. Swift was the first to reach his son’s side.
"Tom! What happened?" his father cried, cradling
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