Tom Swift and His Aquatomic Tracker (14 page)

"The concept is certainly intriguing," Tom responded, politely and opaquely.

"Imagine it, an undersea television device capable of revealing objects at any depth," Carlow resumed in a loud, confident voice. "You realize what this means?"

"I’m not sure I do," Tom said, keeping his face a blank. "Suppose you tell me."

"Why, the device will be invaluable in ship salvage work! With my invention, it will be possible to pinpoint any wreck in any ocean of the world!" Carlow’s pale, bulging eyes shone with excitement. "There’s not a sunken treasure anywhere on the sea floor that can stay hidden from my underwater camera!"

"And where do I come in?" Tom asked.

"Tom—Mr. Swift—I’m proposing that Swift Enterprises form a partnership with me to exploit this amazing device. I’ve been trying to arouse governmnent interest in Washington, but the fools are too blind to realize its full possibilities. You’re different—you have
vision
."

"Now now, Mr. Carlow. If Tom has such
vision
, he wouldn’t need your camera to see all the way down," Bud gibed.

Carlow glared but was momentarily silent, as if pausing to let his words sink in. Then he added impressively, "At a conservative estimate, our profits should run into the hundreds of millions!"

"I see." Tom took out the photograph from the Quel Fromage and slapped it down on the tablecloth in front of Carlow’s eviscerated grapefruit. "Since you’re inviting Swift Enterprises into a partnership, maybe you can explain why you tried to ruin our reputation by accusing Bud and me and my associates of faking our sea account."

Carlow’s face went sickly pale, then flamed as he examined the photograph.

Tom continued with controlled ferocity, "You don’t deny that you were the source of that ‘whisper in the ear’ to Scotland Yard, do you?"

"I—I realize wh-what you must think," Carlow stammered. "But at the time I felt my actions were justified. You see, I was in Shopton and saw you in that restaurant—even as the very newspaper I was reading reported that you were on your ship in Scandinavia. Since there was no news that the sea-tunnel project had bcen canceled, I jumped to the conclusion that you were trying to deceive the public for some reason. When your disappearance and dramatic rescue was reported, I—I suppose I jumped to some unwarranted conclusions."

"I returned to Shopton briefly on a private matter, then flew back to the
Sea Charger
when I was told of the SMB collapse," grated Tom. "Not that I owe you an explanation."

"Please, Tom. Now I realize I misjudged you. I should have admitted all this to you from the first. I do apologize."

"Very well, Mr. Carlow. I accept your apology," Tom said, but secretly he mistrusted the man. In his mind he was tallying up
many
reasons why.

"Wonderful! Then we can get down to business. Now if you’ll just look over these drawings― " Carlow held out his sheaf of blueprints eagerly.

But Tom shook his head. "Sorry, I’m afraid we’re not interested. Swift Enterprises already has ample equipment for probing the ocean floor.
And
to avoid any risk of a patent infringement suit later, I’d prefer not to see your plans."

"A patent infringement suit?" Carlow looked shocked. "But that’s unthinkable! I can trust you not to steal my idea!"

"Thanks, but I’m still not― " Tom broke off. He seemed to be staring at Tristan Carlow’s face, intently. "Actually, though... perhaps I’m being hasty, sir. There may be some extra funds available right now. Just a second, let me work over a few figures."

"Of course!" harrumphed Carlow.

Tom pulled out a pad and pen and wrote for a moment. Suddenly Bud felt a nudge against his foot, unseen. Looking at his chum, he noticed a flick of his friend’s eyes, directing Bud to glance at what Tom had written down.

ACT COOL BUT GET POLICE PRONTO. CARLOW IS THE MAN WHO GASSED ME IN LONDON!

BUD was slow to grasp the notion of "
act cool
."

"Jetz, Tom! Are you
sure
― " The young pilot gulped down his next words, finishing with: "—sure we told the girls not to wait for us upstairs? I’ll give them a call—excuse me. Right back."

In Bud’s absence, Tom forestalled any conversation with Carlow, pretending that he needed to complete his calculations.

At last Bud returned and plopped down. "Got ’em," he told his chum, backing it up with a tap of the foot, unseen.

Tom began to converse on the subject of deepwater salvage, avoiding mention of Carlow’s supposed invention and politely ignoring the man’s drawings and papers. As if sensing something, the Tristan Carlow seemed to be becoming nervous and suspicious. "All right, Tom, let’s get somewhere and not waste each other’s valuable time. What’s the bottom line? Are you interested or not?"

The young inventor shook his head. "Sorry, afraid not."

Carlow got to his feet, trembling with anger as he stuffed his drawings back into his attache case. "So that’s your attitude!" he snarled. "I might have known the great Tom Swift was too fatheaded and egotistical to admit that anyone else might come up with a worthy invention!"

"Sit down, Mr. Carlow," Tom said quietly.

"I’ve had enough."

"I said
sit down
. Or do you plan outrunning two healthy guys half your age—one of whom has plenty of experience in football tackling?"

Carlow’s face contorted with rage. He clenched his fist as if he might punch one of the boys—but after noting Bud’s impressive build, the older man appeared to think better of such a move.

"You’ll regret treating me this way, Swift!" he rasped as he sank back down into his chair. "I’m warning you—you’ll regret it!"

"Whatever happened to
This is an outrage
!" gibed Bud.

"You’re going to sit there calmly, Carlow, and chat with us as Bud and I peck away at our breakfast," Tom pronounced coldly. "And we’re going to see just how much trouble you’d like to save yourself, by telling the truth
now
. But first off, I’ll tell
you
a truth, sir. If you’re going to bother buying a hairpiece, spend some money on it. It didn’t take me long to realize that I was sitting across from the bald man who faced me in London—in a gas mask."

"You’re insane," grated the self-proclaimed inventor.

"Not a good start for our truth session," needled Tom.

"I called the cops," Bud stated. "They’re flanking the exits even as we speak. When we give the signal, talk time will be over."

Carlow leaned back in his chair, calm but sullen. "Just out of curiosity, Swift, what is it you’d like to know?"

"Why did you try to kidnap me? Who are you working for? Or try this—what’s the real connection between the
Centurion
and Los Mercados Quiveres, Spain?"

The man’s glare took on a gleam of white. Evidently he hadn’t realized how much Tom Swift already knew. "I have nothing to say on any of that, Swift. As you insist on knowing, I’ll admit I set up the business with Scotland Yard deliberately. I followed that fat cook of yours around Shopton, knowing you’d join him eventually in a public place. I saw an opportunity at the restaurant and asked the girl to take some pictures for me."

"Why target me?"

"Professional envy—business rivalry—you figure it out. Maybe I’m crazy."

"Maybe you are. You’d
have
to be, to think I’m buying what you’re selling," stated the young inventor. "If you were following Chow in Shopton, that means you knew I was there, not on the ship as the media were reporting. Which means somebody—maybe a turncoat involved in the SMB project—slipped you the word. I suppose he passed along information about the tunnel repelatrons, too, so you and your organization could arrange to foul them. Where did you get the substance you used, the water colloid?
Oberjuerge
?"

The man looked startled at the word—and afraid. "I’m not saying any more. Call your men in if you want. I’m
done
."

Standing, Bud waved the officers in, and they did their duty. Carlow and his briefcase were led away. As he watched, Bud said: "What was he after here, do you think?"

Tom shrugged. "What was he after in London? Or Shopton? I suppose he would have offered to take me somewhere to inspect his invention—and I’d be gone."

The young inventor was now more determined than ever to travel to Spain to seek clues in Quiveres. He told his father: "I need to get ahold of a much larger, more varied sample of this ‘water X’ if I’m to find ways to immunize the repelatrons against it."

"And that’s a necessity," Mr. Swift concurred. "We can’t risk the possibility that some enemy will use it to collapse Helium City, or the Atlantis hydrodome. If only the people on our own side—John Thurston’s group—would be more cooperative."

"I’d thought of trying to go back to the guyot to collect a barrel-f, but it’s clear the whole place is heavily protected. I don’t care to run afoul of the electrotaxis system again. So—on to Spain."

His father’s sigh PER’ed across an ocean. "You have to do it. Risk-taking runs in the family, Tom. Do you plan to fly down to Huelva in the
Sky Queen
?"

"No," Tom answered. "I’ve gotten a lot of press attention lately. It’d be best if I could sort’ve come in ‘under the radar.’ I’ve been thinking about renting a car..."

"I wouldn’t advise that, son. Seems to me it would be too tempting a target for kidnappers." Damon Swift thought for a moment. "I have a notion. Do you recall meeting Professor Legron three years ago, at the Princeton conference?"

"The physicist from the Sorbonne? Sure."

"He and I are in regular contact, and it happens he is a sailing enthusiast—ocean sailing. He has a cabin sailboat, the
Moiralene
, docked at his summer home in Royan on the bay of the Gironde river. I’m quite sure he’d allow you and Bud to sail to this town in Spain you’re interested in."

"What a great idea, Dad—perfect!" Tom exclaimed with enthusiasm.

Mr. Swift added: "But Tom—he may ask you to promise that you’ll return the boat in seaworthy shape. Not sunk by your enemies!"

"We’ll do our level best!"

Tom and Bud traveled south to Limoges by train, then westward to the seacoast by bus. By noon of the following day they were scudding along a glittering sea under the paper-white Biscay sun.

Trained and experienced sailboaters, the youths found the tasks easy, trading back and forth. Tom spent time in the sun frowing over his notebook, face in half-lumined shadow.

"Figuring it all out, Skipper?" Bud called over.

Tom looked up. "Solving this mystery may require a new invention or two."

"Whoa!—no surprise there. What do you have in mind?"

Tom rose and joined Bud. "I’ve come to think that everything depends on finding that purloined supertanker. So I’m designing an underwater bloodhound to sniff her out and track her down."

"Sounds handy."

Tom responded with a grin. "Hope so! It’ll work on a principle similar to the aquatometers, but much more sensitive and sophisticated. I’ll mount it on a special submersible designed for that specific purpose. The whole setup will be called an aquatomic tracker."

"About time you got around to building another sub," Bud joked. "But just how will your new approach lead you to the sunken ship? We passed pretty near the place she went down on our ill-fated sea safari, and the aquatometers didn’t give us a clue."

"I know," his chum nodded, squinting at the scattery glare from the sea. "But there was a complicating circumstance—that big storm. It may have interfered with the usual subsea currents, scrambling and diluting any useful traces that we might have picked up. If I’m not just sea-dreaming, flyboy, the aquatomic tracker will be able to follow just about any trail underwater, however faint, even after a long time has passed."

"You mean you’re
serious
about that underwater bloodhound stuff?" exclaimed the black-haired youth.

"Sure. I think it can be worked out."

"Something that can actually sniff out an underwater trail?" Bud repeated with half-joking skepticism.

"Let’s say it would be able to
detect
such a trail. You see," Tom explained, "the aquatometers work on the principle that practically any object which passes through water will leave faint chemical traces—a few scattered molecules—which will register on a highly sensitive detector. Nature already does it, you know. For instance, a salmon can smell and taste the silt of its home spawning grounds even after it’s been flushed along for many miles in streams and over waterfalls. That’s how it finds its way upriver to the stream where it hatched. I’ve read it can detect its home silt even in strengths of only one part silt to a million parts of ocean water!"

"Wow!
That’s
pretty keen sniffing," Bud murmured with eyebrows up. "Though I can’t quite see us running around on the seafloor with a fish on a leash."

"I’m sure I can make a salmon’s nose look pretty crude, pal. I’ll be glad to get back home to work it up—once we get done hunting up clues in Quiveres."

"Speaking of nosing around!"

Like the drifting sun, the conversation passed along to other topics, one after another. Tom admitted that he was completely puzzled by the motive behind the events that had happened since Mr. Thurston had first contacted him about the image of the drowning Roman. "If we’re dealing with some kind of terrorist cell, just what
is
their target? The guyot operation? Some kind of machinery the
Centurion
was carrying—maybe a weapon that makes use of the water colloid, somehow?"

"Maybe they just wanted that statue, Tom—the Delian Apollo. It’d sure buy a lot of those black trenchcoats."

The scientist-inventor frowned. "Then why drag an entire supertanker across the seven seas? They could have lifted the statue right there! No, this is all big and complicated."

Bud laughed. "Same ol’, same ol’! Don’t leave off the other items from your lift. There’s also the little episode of the smashed SubMoBahn. As well as our slithery friend the Conqueror Worm."