Tom Swift and His Spectromarine Selector by Victor Appleton II

Author:Victor Appleton II
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2013-03-11T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 12

MID-OCEAN ATTACKERS

HANK seemed unable to respond to Tom’s command. But fortunately Arv Hanson, watching from the crowd, was not yet affected by the slowly spreading gas. Holding his breath inside his big-chested body he leapt onto the platform and switched off the spectromarine selector.

Like a flash, Tom sprinted toward the air machine and purifying equipment next to the mantacopter and sped up both devices. Their droning hum rose to a high-pitched whine. Without pausing, Tom circled the temple on a dead run, shepherding everyone to safety.

"All hands, back to the manta!" he shouted.

"Tom, we’ve got to help the people on the platform!" shouted Zimby Cox. Panting, his heart thudding, Tom saw that everyone—Bud, Hank, Chow, Miss Gabardine—had collapsed to the deck, helpless and struggling to breathe!

Tom didn’t need to call for volunteers; a number of the men yet unaffected sprang forward to help carry their friends to safety. Fortunately the deadly wisps were already dissipating. Bud, Chow, and Hank all managed to regain their feet and stagger along once away from the platform. Only Miss Gabardine was completely unconscious. She was lain down on top of a squishy mass of seaweed, several shirts serving as a mat beneath her.

Even Professor Centas helped, rushing up with an emergency oxygen mask and portable tank from the Fathomer. As Gabardine began to regain consciousness, Doc and Mordo came trotting over to render further aid.

Doc administered a stimulant, and the woman moaned. "She’s coming around."

"Thank goodness!" gulped Tom earnestly. "Bud and the others look all right, too."

As soon as all were finally aboard the Fathomer, Tom ordered an immediate muster on the 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.

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