Tom and Bud hopped into a jeep at the hangar and sped to the Administration Building, where Tom shared a double office with his father. Bud sank down into one of the deep-cushioned leather chairs, while Tom adjusted the Venetian blinds to let in the afternoon sunshine.
The spacious office was furnished with twin modern desks, conference table, and drawing
22 THE ELECTRONIC HYDROLUNG
boards which swung out from wall slots at the press of a button. At one end of the room were the video screen and control board of the Swifts’ private TV
network. Here and there stood scale models of their inventions, a huge relief globe of the earth, and a replica of the planet Mars.
“What are your plans for our search expedition, skipper?” Bud asked.
Tom ran his fingers through his crew cut. “Let’s see. We’d better take the Sky Queen, I think, and also-”
Tom broke off as the desk intercom buzzed. Miss Trent, the Swifts’ secretary, was on the wire.
“Your father’s calling over the radio, Tom.”
“Swell!” Tom flicked a switch to cut in the signal of his private telephone. “Hi, Dad! We just got back. Any news?”
“Yes, son. We have the computer results,” Mr. Swift replied. “Got a pencil handy?”
Tom copied down the latitude and longitude figures as his father dictated.
“According to the latest hydrographic maps, based on IGY findings,” Mr.
Swift went on, “this area is a high plateau of the Atlantic Ridge-it’s near the St.
Paul Rocks.”
“What about the depth?”
“It averages between a hundred and three hundred feet,” said the elder scientist.
Page: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118