They sped across the water, then dropped anchor at the farm site. Tom
and Bud donned their hydrolung gear and went over the side, each
clutching containers of the space plants.
Reaching bottom, they glided about in the shadowy green water, embedding
the plants at far-spaced intervals. The Tomasite-producing plants had
been almost completely devoured. A few fish were darting about, but they
swam off quickly at the boys' approach. To Tom's delight, they showed no
sign of returning.
"Looks as if our keep-off signs are working," Tom said with a pleased
chuckle when the boys finally surfaced and climbed back aboard the boat.
Bud nodded. "Smart idea, all right." Then he scowled thoughtfully. "But
if you ask me, skipper, fishes aren't the only thieves you'll have to
guard against."
"Meaning?"
"Mirov's pals," Bud replied. "If it's the space plants they were after
when they pulled that aerial hijack attempt, they could take them easily
from these silt beds."
Tom sobered. "You have a point there. I'd better have an audio screen
set up around this whole area. That'll act as a burglar alarm--and help
discourage the fish, too."
Twenty minutes later the boys were winging back to the mainland. When
Tom reached his office, he called in Gib Brownell, an Enterprises
engineer.
"Got a job for me, skipper?"
Tom handed him a hastily scribbled diagram of the audio-screen setup.
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