“Let’s go, Tom,” said Ames. “We’ve learned the information we came for.”
The prisoners could only glare in baffled rage through the cell bars as Tom and the security chief turned their backs and walked away.
“Nice going, Tom,” Ames murmured. “Your hunch certainly paid off.” Chief Slater added his congratulations when he heard how Tom had trapped Mirov into disclosing his identity.
Both Tom and Ames were grave as they drove back to the plant. Neither took Mirov’s threats lightly.
Tom pondered another angle. Were the Brungarian rebels perhaps responsible for the attempted theft of the Jupiter-circling missile?
58 THE ELECTRONIC HYDROLUNG
Ames was inclined to think so. “Moreover,” he forecast, “it’s a cinch they haven’t thrown their last punch. I’ll pass the word to the FBI and Central Intelligence.”
After lunch Tom flew to Fearing Island with Bud, eager to tackle their interrupted job of rooting the space plants into the undersea silt beds. Zimby Cox, a sandy-haired, freckle-faced jetmariner, volunteered to pilot a motor launch for them.
They sped across the water, then dropped anchor at the farm site. Tom and Bud donned their hydrolung gear and went over the side, each clutching containers of the space plants.
Reaching bottom, they glided about in the shadowy green water, embedding the plants at far-spaced intervals. The Tomasite-producing plants had been almost completely devoured. A few fish were darting about, but they swam off quickly at the boys’ approach. To Tom’s delight, they showed no sign of returning.
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