“Let’s get back to square dancing,” snapped Bud. As he and Sandy finished planning the program, Len Unger continued to drop remarks and questions about “The Great Tom Swift” and his inventions. All prying queries were side-stepped.
As soon as possible Sandy and Bud cut short the conversation and left the yacht club. Unger’s face wore an angry sneer as they walked out.
“What a creep!” Bud said, when he and Sandy were driving back in his red convertible.
Meanwhile, in his private laboratory at Enterprises, Tom was somewhat discouraged. He had tried several different experimental attacks on the problem of an undetectable submarine. None had worked out successfully.
“I thought that idea of a sonar-wave baffle might lead somewhere,” he murmured, “but it looks as though I’m wrong.”
Flopping down on a stool at his workbench,
88 THE ELECTRONIC HYDROLUNG
Tom cupped his chin in his hands. He was frowning, deep in thought, as the pudgy figure of Chow Winkler came into the laboratory.
” ‘Smatter, boss?” the cook inquired cheerfully. “Ain’t your ole think box workin’ today?”
“Doesn’t seem to be,” Tom confessed.
“Give it time, son. Tomorrow’s another day,” Chow said philosophically.
“What you need is a haircut for the square dance.”
Tom laughed in spite of himself. “Maybe you’re right, Chow. Might help me think better.”
Tom got off the stool and stretched out the kinks in his legs. He strolled outside with Chow, then scootered to the parking lot and hopped into his sleek, silver sports car.
A moment later he was whizzing off in the direction of Shopton. Nearing town, Tom turned off on a side-road short cut. He noticed in his mirror that a truck behind him also turned off.