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 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.
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