As the two hydronauts started into the one-room apartment adjoining the laboratory, a red light flashed on the control panel of the Swifts’ private TV
network. Ames flicked on the videophone.
“Hold it, Tom!” he exclaimed as Blake, their Washington telecaster, appeared on the screen.
Tom and Bud hurried back into the laboratory.
“This may be important, skipper,” Blake said. “John Thurston has something to show you.”
Thurston, a calm-faced, balding official of the United States Central Intelligence Agency, stepped into view before the camera. “Hi, Tom.
THE DROWNING ROMAN 5
All set to leave on your transoceanic marathon?”
“Bud and I were just about to get into our hydrolung outfits.” Tom smiled.
“What’s up?”
“Take a look at this.” Thurston held up a photographic print, and Blake switched to a close-up so that it filled the video screen. The print showed a crude drawing of a Roman soldier sinking head downward into water. Below was a row of hieroglyphic symbols.
“What the dickens is it?” Bud asked.
“A radiophoto containing some sort of code message,” Thurston explained.
“The FCC monitored this on an unidentified broadcast last night and turned it over to us.”
Tom frowned. “Have you doped it out yet?”
“We’re not sure. Our cryptographers have been working all night to crack the code. The message is too short to yield a positive solution, but they think it means-Stop Tom Swift.”
“Great Scottl” Ames exploded. “Have you any idea who or what’s behind the message?”
“Not a clue,” Thurston replied. “We were hoping you fellows at Enterprises might know.”