Tom Swift and His Jetmarine Read Online Free PDF Page A

sausages was hard enough, but the real trial came when he had to grasp and pull down the lever behind the protective panel. There seemed to be no way to curl his hand around it. Finally, releasing the tension in his leg muscles, he allowed himself to fall forward against the hull. As hoped the action crunched his fingers against his open palm, with the lever in between.
    That’ll have to do, he thought desperately. Now the make-or-break test!
    With the last of his fading strength, he wrenched his slumping body into a turn. It wasn’t much of a turn, but it managed to pry the hatch lever down and away from its holding clasp. The reward was immediate as a dark, inch-wide strip appeared at the edge of the secondary hatchway, next to the lever mechanism.
    It seemed like a journey of a thousand years and a thousand miles to reach that strip of darkness. Tom was able to squeeze his right elbow into it, forcing the hatch to open further. Then came his shoulder; then his chest.
    I’m blacking out! he thought. But just at that moment he realized that his whole body was now within the emergency airlock. The controls were near his faceplate, and he could nudge the system into operation with small movements of his head.
    If he didn’t lose consciousness first.
    Topside, Bud Barclay forced his eyelids open. His drifting thoughts slowly congealed: That’s the test complex ceiling. He groaned and sat upright, the back of his head throbbing from its rendezvous with the concrete floor. Staggering to his feet, he saw Wes Beale leaning against a pylon nearby, barely conscious. The others were littered about the floor like discarded manikins—Damon Swift, Arv Hanson, Chow Winkler, Sid Baker, and several other Swift workers.
    "Wha—what happened?" gasped Wes, almost inaudible. "Bud?"
    "Dunno—" He took a step toward Wes, then stopped dead in his tracks. "Tom! Tom’s down in the tank!" Bud ran unsteadily to the tank control panel, and his face turned white. "The pressure! It’s—"
    Bud frantically began to work the controls as Wes joined him. "We can’t lower the pressure too rapidly or Tom will get the bends," Wes said, putting a hand on Bud’s shoulder.
    Bud shook him off. "Just tell me how to work this thing!"
    Sid Baker joined them. Everyone was now regaining consciousness. "Listen to me, Bud. Even if we reduce the pressure now…" Sid didn’t finish his thought.
    "I’m not giving up," said Bud. "Tom Swift wouldn’t give up on me."
    "No," came another voice, softly. "He wouldn’t." It was Tom’s father.
    They lowered the tank pressure as rapidly as the machinery would permit, meanwhile informing plant security of the strange blackout. The phenomenon appeared to have affected everyone throughout a large fan-shaped area at the north end of the plant, which included the warehouse-like test complex. But persons in the control tower and administrative offices had not been affected. The plant infirmary team was already beginning to treat those who had been injured while collapsing during the siege, which seemed to have produced about twelve minutes of unconsciousness.
    "I’d give anything to see inside that there tank!" Chow muttered, rubbing the swelling bruise on the side of his forehead. "But what I really want is a ding-dang miracle."
    Mr. Swift squeezed Chow’s arm. "We’ll know soon."
    Just then the speaker mounted on the control panel crackled to life. "Is…is anyone there?"
    "Tom!" cried Bud, so overcome that he couldn’t speak for several moments.
    Mr. Swift took the microphone. "Son, how are you doing?"
    "Not bad—now. I’m inside the jetmarine. My brain is a little fuzzed out, but it looks like the pressure’s close to normal out there."
    "You stay where you are," commanded Damon Swift. "We’re going to completely drain the tank."
    Within five minutes the pressure tank was empty and its lid removed. Dripping and surrounded by shallow puddles, the sub waited to be boarded. She showed not a sign of her