Tom Swift and His Diving Seacopter (12 page)

"I’d dangle my feet in the water, but some poor fish might think they were bait," Bud chuckled. Noting that Tom was staring moodily at the horizon, Bud threw a muscular arm around his shoulders. "What’s the matter, mariner?"

"Just thinking about Munson Wickliffe and his two pals," Tom replied. "Hang it all, while we’re drifting around helplessly, just because we stopped to see that city of gold, they may be salvaging that rocket!"

"Stop worrying, Tom," said Bud firmly. "We’ll be picked up soon and still beat Wickliffe to the punch!" But secretly he wondered if Tom were not right.

When Ham and George finally relieved the boys, they went below. Chow was rummaging in the tool locker. "What’re you looking for?" Tom asked him.

"I’ll show you later," said the old Texan. He paused and held up a slender, long-shanked screw driver. "Hmmm, reckon this’ll do. Tom, could you grind a sharp point an’ a barb on this thingumabob?"

"Can’t run a lathe without power," replied Tom, "But maybe I could do it with one of the magtritanium files in the toolkit." Glad of a distraction to take his mind off their troubles, Tom set to work industriously. Soon he had the flat edge of the screwdriver fashioned into the required shape.

"Brand my cookstove, that’s jest what I need!" Chow beamed. "An’ now how about puttin’ a hole through the handle?"

Tom complied. Then Chow got a coil of stout cord, threaded it through the hole, and tied a knot to keep it from slipping out. When he climbed outdoors, Tom and Bud followed, curious to see what he was going to do.

First, Chow belayed the free end of his line to a mooring ring on the side of the seacopter. Holding the screwdriver poised in one hand like a spear, he looked down into the water. When a fish swam into range, he let fly but missed. Chow’s initial throws were all failures, but after half an hour of trying, he finally landed a fair-sized, golden colored fish.

"Sea bream," remarked Ham Teller, as the others clustered around to marvel at Chow’s prize. "How’d you manage to do that?"

"Useta be a game we’d play agin’ each other, back when I ’as a young sprout. Got purty good at it, too."

Bud examined the fish. "Good eating when it’s cooked. But I don’t care for any raw, thank you."

"You jest let me worry about that," said the cook smugly. "Ole Chow’s not goin’ to let Bud Barclay throw him when it comes to grub. I gotta make up fer usin’ up all our victuals."

Resuming his efforts, Chow soon hauled in two more catches—both hogfish.

"Okay, so you’re a fine spear fisherman," said Bud. "Now what happens?"

"Watch an’ see, Bud boy. Jest watch an’ see!"

Chow cleaned the three fish carefully with his jackknife, split them in halves, and laid the fillets on the hot Tomasite-glazed hull. Soon the flaky meat began to dry out and an aroma of fish filled the air.

"Well, I’ll be a scootin’ sky ghost!" exclaimed Bud admiringly.

Chow now scooped some floating seaweed out of the water, hanging on to the extended boarding ladder. "Chock full o’ good minerals an’ vitamins!" he remarked as he soaked the greens in the oil oozing out of the fish. When the meal was ready, he announced proudly, "Come an’ get it! Fried fish an’ seaweed salad! Reckon you may have to eat with your fingers, but that ain’t spoiled a hungry man’s appetite yet!"

The others grinned and ate it with relish, despite the fact that the seaweed tasted rank and the fish was half raw. After eating every scrap, everyone felt much better.

"Chow, you’re worth your weight in gold!" Tom praised him.

"All that much?" The grizzled chef blushed. "Aw shucks, boss!" he muttered. "Jest payin’ my debt to this here expedition."

Later that afternoon, when George and Ham were topside and Tom was napping below, Bud shook him vigorously. "Wake up, skipper! The fellows have just sighted a ship to the west!"

Sliding off his chair, Tom followed his friend up through the hatch. Ham and George had ripped off their shirts and were waving them wildly in the air. Far off in the turquoise waves a speck was visible. It soon became clear that the craft was approaching them.

"They see us!" Bud yelled.

"We’re goin’ to be saved!" Chow chortled.

The throb of the ship’s engines could be heard as it drew nearer. Sure of rescue now, the shipwrecked five waved happily.

"Wait a sec!" murmured Tom abruptly.

"What?" asked George.

Tom turned to Bud. "Flyboy, take a good look at that boat. Look a little familiar?"

Bud squinted into the glare and groaned loudly. "Aw, no way! It’s Taclos’s research ship!"

Their hearts sank as the craft turned aside. To add insult to injury, it gave a toot over its loudspeaker-siren. Revving its engines, it sped off on a curving course to the southeast and quickly disappeared from view.

"Didn’t they see us?" gasped Chow.

"They saw us all right," said Tom grimly. "And did you notice that gadget trailing out in its wake? Looked to me like a magnetometer for detecting metal."

"Those sneaking, cold-blooded rats!" Bud cried angrily. "I’ll bet they’re laughing themselves sick at the mess we’re in!"

Tom shook his head dejectedly, but said, "Maybe they’ll radio somebody to come for us—eventually."

George was glumly silent, but Ham took the situation philosophically. "Listen," he said cheerfully, "if they’re still searching, it means they haven’t found the rocket yet!"

"That’s right," said Bud.

Tom took what comfort he could from this point of view. To keep his mind occupied, he spent the rest of the daylight hours trying to rig up a hand-crank generator to supply power for the radio. But in spite of the gear train he used to obtain a high mechanical advantage, he could not work up speed enough to produce any sizable output of current.

As darkness fell over the sea—their second night adrift—the spirits of the group reached a low ebb. All five of the mariners sat on the hull, brooding and listening to the dark waters lap at the sides of the sad remains of Tom’s
Ocean Arrow
.

Paying no attention to the brilliant display of stars overhead, the young inventor wondered despairingly when he would see his home and family again. He looked up, startled, as Chow cried out and grabbed his shoulder.

"More bad luck! Look at all that choppy, fiery water we’re a-comin’ to!" the cook groaned.

NOT FAR from the stranded mariners was a broad phosphorescent lane of water leading to the north. The glowing waves were rougher and more turbulent than the rest of the sea.

Tom gave a joyful shout. "That’s not bad luck, Chow—it’s good luck! In fact it’s wonderful!"

"What?" The cook stared in amazement. "How you figure that?"

"The fiery water will lead us straight to an island! It’s like a signpost in the sea—all we have to do is follow it!"

"Tom’s right," George nodded. "Often happens in the Pacific. That’s how the South Sea natives find their way from island to island in their outrigger canoes."

"What causes it?" Bud asked.

"Well, you might say the ocean swells stub their toes on an island," George explained. "That causes a long line of turbulent water all along the front of the swell, which is what we’re looking at right now. And the water’s glowing because all the tiny phosphorescent organisms in it have been stirred up close to the surface."

"I get it." Bud grinned. "Following that line of glowing water is like walking down Main Street in the middle of the ocean—with street lamps to guide the way! Mighty convenient, I call it!"

"If we’re lucky," Tom exulted, "we may find help on the island. We might even be able to get the radio fixed so we can send a message!"

"Or even make a telephone call, depending on the long-distance rates," added Ham wryly.

Chow was dubious. "We got to reach the island first. What I want to know is, how we goin’ to get there? We’re jest floatin’ free."

"Well now," replied Tom Swift, "why don’t we make like a sailboat and let the wind do our work for us?"

Bud snorted. "Great idea, joker. What’s your plan for a sail, weave it out of seaweed?" Then he noticed that Tom was grinning broadly and pointing downward toward the hull upon which they were standing. "Right, I
suppose
we
could
use the tarp, huh."

"Just have to find a way to rig it up." Tom clambered down the hatch. "Come on!" he called. "Let’s see what we can dig up for a mast."

There was enough moonlight shining in through the windows to illuminate the cabin. The five mariners scurried around, rummaging through the stowage lockers and examining every piece of equipment. But nothing turned up that seemed to answer the purpose.

"We’re out of luck again," groaned Ham in disgust.

Tom snapped his fingers. "I have it! We can just unscrew that long handle from the mop!"

"But won’t you need a crosspiece?" asked Ham Teller.

George whacked him on the shoulder. "You think Tom Swift doesn’t know what he’s doing?"

Working steadily by a combination of flashlight, moonlight, and starlight, Tom used lengths of strong cord, looped through the upper hull’s pull-out mooring rings, to steady the mop handle into a vertical position near the empty rotor-well. He spread the tarpaulin over this and tied it in place, creating a crude triangular sail.

"Genius boy, you’re wonderful. I knew you’d come through!" exclaimed Bud, adding sheepishly: "I just had to be convinced!" An avid amateur sailboater, he could appreciate the utility of Tom’s makeshift creation.

The sail flapped and fluttered in the evening breeze—but limply.

"Don’t look to me like it’s doin’ a blamed bit o’ good," said Chow in frustration after an hour had gone by. "T’ my way o’ thinkin’ we’re still jest driftin’ along like a log."

"Hold on to some optimism, Chow," Tom urged. "We’re making headway, and the wind should pick up after daybreak."

Tom was correct. By the time the sun was halfway above the horizon a spanking breeze was filling the sail, and the "mast" was straining against the cords that held it upright. But a new problem presented itself. The keelless seacopter section began to rotate lazily in the water, rendering the sail unsteady. Tom disappeared into the cabin and emerged minutes later with a large aluminum stewpot tied to the end of a long doubled cord.

"You plannin’ to fish with that thing?" Chow asked skeptically. Tom did not reply but tied down the free end of the rope and hurled the stewpot into the ocean on the side of the craft opposite their desired direction of motion. "Not exactly a keel or a rudder," Tom admitted. "But the drag will steady us." The oceannauts gave their young captain a cheer.

"What island do you suppose we’ll hit?" mused George Braun presently, looking ahead over the barren ocean.

"Search me," said Tom. "It’s a mystery. As far as the charts show, there’s not a speck of land in these parts.

All day long the
Ocean Arrow
glided forward in a steady, if sedate, motion. At the first orange streaks of sunset, Bud spotted a stark, mist-shrouded clump of rock rising out of the ocean about a half-mile ahead.

"Oh, no!" he moaned. "Don’t tell me we’ve been pressing our going-ashore outfits for
that!"

Ham and George looked at each other frowning but said nothing.

Chow, trying to hide his disappointment, offered bravely, "Reckon it’s better than nothin’. Least-ways, it’s dry land."

"Just barely," Bud said gloomily. Disheartened, they reached the shore of the tiny, steep-sided islet, which was only a couple hundred feet wide and very low in the water. Tom lowered the extensible boarding ladder to the beach. The seacopter’s passengers jumped down onto the sharp black rocks.

"No wonder this place isn’t on the map," remarked Bud in disgust as the group strolled about to stretch their legs. "It’s too small even for the seagulls to bother with!"

"Now that you mention gulls," said Tom, "it’s rather odd there are no sea birds around. What do you make of it?" he asked the oceanographers.

"Looks to me like a temporary island," said Ham Teller, "judging by the erosion patterns."

George Braun nodded. "Probably part of the Madeira Plateau, thrown up by an undersea earthquake."

"What do you mean,
temporary?"
asked Bud.

"Just what it sounds like," Ham answered. "In case you didn’t know it, islands sometimes do a disappearing act."

"You mean like Falcon Island in the Pacific? I’ve read how that has appeared and disappeared two or three times."

"That’s right. And Bogoslof Island up in the Aleutians does the same thing," added George. "There’s one that not only changed shape and vanished several times, but it has even been known to change position."

"Jumpin’ horse wranglers!" Chow put in. "If this here rock pile’s goin’ to start playin’ tricks like that, mebbe we’d better hop back on the
Arrow."

Chuckling, George patted the cook soothingly on the shoulder. "This whole region of the Atlantic
is
volcanically active and quake-prone. But don’t worry, Chow. Chances are that this island will stay put for a while."

While there was still light enough to see by, Tom brought a handful of electronics parts out onto the islet, along with a metal carton to sit on.

"Just being a busy bee, or are you maybe building us an atomic reactor from scratch?" asked Bud.

"I’ve decided I’m tired of stewing about how to get us rescued," replied the young inventor. "Vacation over! So I’m building us a radio!"

Bud was amazed—and then amused by his amazement. "Okay, genius boy, a radio! Windmill powered?"

"Nope—solar. By the time the sun gets bright tomorrow, I expect to be tapping the rays for at least a few volts."

"Solar
power? You wouldn’t be planning to recharge the battery, would you?" asked Bud as Tom squinted in the fading light.

"That’s exactly what I’m planning to do."

"But how can you?" objected the young pilot. "We’re not up in your space station—we’re not above the stratosphere. How can you get an intense enough dose of radiation?"

"I’ll show you," Tom said, and vanished through the hatch of Compartment B. In the cabin he opened up the deck panel and removed the solar battery. Taking it out on the rocks, he began to disassemble it under Bud’s watchful eye. He opened the catalium case so as to expose the rolled. up sheets of sol-alloy foil. This metal foil, which he had invented, was used to absorb and store the concentrated energy of the sun’s rays.