Part 1 (1/2)

Tom Swift and the Electronic Hydrolung.

by Victor Appleton.

CHAPTER I

PIRATE MISSILE

Tense, excited men gazed s.p.a.ceward from the s.h.i.+ps and planes of the South Atlantic task force. Other watchers waited breathlessly in the control room of the s.h.i.+p _Recoverer_. Among these was Tom Swift Jr.

”How close to earth is our Jupiter probe missile?” Bud Barclay asked Tom excitedly.

The lanky blond youth beside him, in T s.h.i.+rt and slacks, shot a glance at the dials of the tracking equipment. ”Eight thousand miles from this spot, Bud. It should land here in fifteen minutes!”

Tom Jr., his father, Bud, and a host of scientists, Navy officers, and newsmen were crowded aboard a U.S. Navy missile launching s.h.i.+p.

”Just think!” Bud exulted. ”You'll have data from the planet Jupiter that no one on earth has yet been able to get!”

”_If_ we recover the missile safely,” Mr. Swift spoke up hopefully. The elder scientist's voice was quiet but taut with the strain of waiting.

The two Swifts resembled each other closely--each had deep-set blue eyes and clean-cut features--although Tom was somewhat taller and rangier.

”You're right, Dad,” Tom agreed. ”If we don't snare the missile, our whole project will be a total loss to America's s.p.a.ce program!”

At Tom's words, the watchers and crewmen who were crowded into the _Recoverer_'s control room stirred restlessly. Its bulkheads were banked with radar and telemetering devices. Tension had been mounting throughout the morning aboard the s.h.i.+ps and observation planes of the task force as everyone awaited the return of the planet-circling missile--scientists' deepest penetration into s.p.a.ce so far.

”What do you mean, a total loss?” Bud argued. ”Even if the recovery operation's a flop, the shot will still pay off in valuable information, won't it?”

Tom shook his head grimly. ”The purpose of this unmanned, exploratory flight around Jupiter was to take and record all kinds of data. But none of the info is being radioed back to us.”

”How come?”

”If we had put in radio gear strong enough to relay signals back, it would have cut down the amount of information-gathering equipment aboard,” Tom explained. ”We had to make every ounce count.”

Outwardly calm, Tom was seething with inner excitement. Although only eighteen--the same age as his husky, dark-haired pal and copilot, Bud Barclay--Tom had been given the job of directing the recovery phase of the United States government's Project Jupiter survey. The Swifts and their rocket research staff had built the missile and engineered the s.p.a.ce probe for the government.

”Whew!” Bud gave a nervous whistle. ”I see what you mean, pal. With all our eggs in one basket, we sure can't afford to get b.u.t.ter-fingered with the Jupiter prober.”

Admiral Walter, a tall, distinguished man, graying at the temples, smiled. ”It's what we call in warfare a calculated risk, Bud,” he said.

”But with Tom in charge, I believe we have nothing to worry about.”

Mr. Swift's eyes shone with fatherly pride at the admiral's remark. Tom Jr.'s pioneering rocket flights and inventions had won the youth a top rank in American s.p.a.ce research.

”Guess you're right, sir,” Bud agreed. ”I'll back genius boy here any day!”

Tom winced as Bud whacked him heartily on the shoulder. ”Better save your orchids and keep your fingers crossed, fly boy,” the young inventor advised. ”That rocket's not home yet.”

Radio telescopes, both on land and aboard the s.h.i.+ps of the task force, were following the missile's progress as it drew closer to earth. All were feeding a steady stream of information to the s.h.i.+ps' computers.

”How soon will you fire the retro-rockets, Tom?” Admiral Walter inquired presently.

”In about ten seconds, sir,” Tom replied, eying the sweep second hand of the clock.