Suddenly a gravelly Western voice reached him, singing “Home on the Range.” It drew closer, swelling into a foghorn drone as the lab door swung open.
“Good old Chow!” Tom thought. “Thank heavens!”
The grizzled, bowlegged cook ambled cheer-64
66 THE ELECTRONIC HYDROLUNG
fully into the laboratory, pushing a lunch cart. But, to Tom’s dismay, he cast only a passing glance at the figure in the tank.
“Soup’s on, son!” Chow announced loudly. He began to ladle out a bowl of oyster stew from a steaming pot. Evidently he had not realized the young inventor’s dilemma!
“Extra good today too, if I do say so myself!” the old Texan went on, setting out the rest of the lunch. “Well, come on, buckaroo! Break away from them chores an’ dive in! Brand my cactus salad, if there’s one thing that riles a cook-”
Summoning all his strength, Tom croaked out weakly, “Chow! … Get help!”
At the strange sound of Tom’s voice, Chow jerked around. His eyes bugged out at the look on the young inventor’s face. Then he dashed to the public-address outlet on the wall and switched on the mike.
“Help! Help!” Chowyelled. “Tom Jr.‘s trapped in his lab!”
The roly-poly chef was quivering in panic. He dashed across the room and paced helplessly about the tank. Within moments, excited men were crowding into the laboratory.
Mr. Swift, among the first to arrive, took in the situation at a glance. He dashed to the control board and slammed shut the main switch, thus cutting off power to the ion-drive jet.
PORPOISE TAG 67
“Whew! Th-thanks, Dad!” Tom’s chest was heaving as he gulped in air to relieve his tortured lungs.