His flashlight was buried in the debris and he stumbled along the black passageway, feeling his way inch by inch to avoid any pitfalls.
A hundred thoughts filled his mind at once. What had caused the blast? All detonating had been completed months earlier when foundations for the plant were being dug. Surely no workman could have been carrying dynamite at this late date. But then, what?
A dim light ahead indicated that he was approach-119
120 TOM SWIFT AND HIS GIANT ROBOT
ing the basement floor of the building that housed the pile. He broke into a run and presently found himself in the vast underground room. It was well lighted.
At its center concrete pillars, twelve feet square and looking even larger because of the low ceiling, supported the framework of the pile on the floor above.
Tom looked around for an exit, found a door, and hastened upstairs. He was between the double walls in the section known as the “hot” corridor because of its nearness to the pile. He started running again, first to the left and then, remembering that the exit was in the other direction, to the right. At last he came to the familiar sight of the relay board and the exit.
Outside, the scene that greeted his eyes was one of disorder. Planks and bricks from piles of construction material had been scattered all over. Nurses and doctors were administering to the injured. Two ambulances were parked near the tunnel entrance. Tom hurried toward the scene of confusion.
“Dad!” he cried. Mr. Swift was seated on an ambulance cot, holding a gauze compress to his head. He called excitedly to his son: “Tom, Tom! Are you all right?”