Tom Swift and His Spectromarine Selector by Victor Appleton II

three submarines. Mel Flagler reported that none of those few who had been working near the Supermanta had been affected, and Slim Davis made the same report from the Deepwing.
    Presently Doc Simpson came from the Fathomer ’s small sickbay to report on the victims. "They’re okay," he informed Tom. "The ones next to the machine were the only ones who inhaled a significant amount, but I’ve administered oxygen and a heart stimulant. They should be back on their feet soon with no ill effects other than a scratchy throat."
    Tom, sweating with anxiety and exertion, wiped his arm across his brow. "Whew!" he muttered thankfully. "That was a close call, Doc!"
    " Close is the only kind of call he has, Doc!" came the wavering voice of Bud from the sickbay.
    "No worries about ‘Buddy Boy’!" Simpson chuckled. "Tom, where did that cyanogen come from?"
    "I don’t know for sure yet," Tom admitted. "But obviously it must have been formed by the action of the cannon. I’d say the moleculetron system is our main suspect."
    As soon as the hydrodome atmosphere was fully purified, Tom checked the device. His suspicions seemed to be borne out after careful testing. "The moleculetron was processing carbon and nitrogen too slowly," Tom explained to Bud, woozily by his side. "Kind of a molecular traffic jam. They combined to form the cyanogen gas."
    "Any way to fix it?" Bud asked.
    Tom ran his fingers through his crewcut hair, while his forehead puckered in a worried frown. "For the moment I’m stumped, pal. But I’d better come up with an answer fast, or our whole project here will be stopped cold!"
    Returning to the Deepwing , where Tom had established a tiny lab-workshop compartment for use by the science team, the young inventor worked on the problem steadily for several hours, not even pausing for the evening meal. At midnight Bud and Doc Simpson found him slumped over his work counter.
    "Poor guy! He’s passed out from sheer exhaustion," Doc commented.
    "Come on! Let’s put him to bed," Bud said. When Tom awoke in a Deepwing bunk the next morning, his brain held a clear answer to his problem. "I’ll simply alter the compounder so that the hydrogen and nitrogen from the organic waste can be combined to form fuel gas," he told himself. "The carbon can be combined with oxygen to form carbon dioxide and pumped off into the ocean when the tank is filled!"
    Elated by the simple solution, Tom leapt from his bunk and began to dress.
    "Hi, Doc!" he exclaimed with a grin a moment later as the medic walked into the compartment. "Guess I conked out last night, but I feel fine!"
    "That’s good. You’ll need to be in sound shape to deal with our Miss Gabardine," Doc Simpson replied. "She’s up and around and threatening to shut down the project."
    "Aw no!" Tom winced. "I’ll head over to the Fathomer and ask her to speak with me privately, in my cabin."
    "Better have some of Chow’s breakfast first," advised Doc.
    "Guess I need to keep up my strength."
    "Yes, but my real concern is to calm Chow down—he’ll fret himself to death until he sees that blond genius head of yours!"
    Tom waited patiently in his cabin for some time before Julienne Gabardine knocked and entered, notebook in hand. "We have that in common, Julienne," Tom said with a smile. "I carry a notebook with me almost always."
    She glared at him. "Please don’t attempt to sweet-talk me, Mr. Swift."
    "I understand you have some concerns?"
    "Very grave ones, I must say," she responded. "It has become abundantly clear that this project compromises the standards of my office with respect to the use of human subjects in experimentation."
    Tom was flabbergasted. "Human subjects? We’re not experimenting on—"
    "Call it what you like," she snapped. "I am willing to push the regulatory definition a bit if it will shut down this dangerous operation of yours. Can you deny that we have met with one threat to life after another, completely unanticipated? This is entirely inconsistent