ted looks. Then Mr. Swift remarked evenly:

"The game's never lost till it's over, son."

"You're right, Dad!" Tom exclaimed. Turning back to the telephone, he
said, "Admiral, I'm not quitting. We'll take off as soon as I can get
back to the base!"

With a hasty good-by to his father, and farewells to his mother, Sandy,
and Phyl by phone, Tom dashed out of the building. He sped to Arv
Hanson's workshop, and the new hydrolung suits were loaded onto a small
pickup truck and taken to the airfield. While flying back to Fearing
Island in a helijet, Tom received a radio flash from his father.

"Another message from Bud. He says the object dug up by the Brungarians
was _not_ the missile. It appeared to be the metal section of a ship's
prow, from some hulk buried in the silt!"

Tom was jubilant. "Terrific news, Dad! Our luck may be turning!"

At the rocket base Tom detailed crews for the three undersea craft which
were to take off on the expedition. Arv Hanson would captain one
seacopter, Mel Flagler the jetmarine, while Zimby Cox, Chow, and four
crewmen would accompany Tom in the _Sea Hound_.

Because of their sonar-blinding systems, Tom realized there was a chance
of the ships losing contact with one another--especially if their
analyzer sonars developed trouble. He therefore plotted their course to
the South Atlantic carefully, and issued orders for the antidetection
circuits to be switched off every half-hour for a position check.

"Report to your ships," he now ordered.

As Tom was about to leave base headquarters, Harlan Ames telephoned from
Shopton. "Bad news, Tom. Dimitri Mirov has broken jail!"

"Good night!" Tom stifled a groan of dismay. "How did it happen?"

Ames said the Brungarian had somehow fashioned a crude weapon and
overpowered the turnkey. Disguising himself in the guard's uniform, he
had slipped out before his victim was discovered.

"He must have had outside help within close call," Ames ended, "because
he seems to have made a clean getaway. The State Police have spread a
dragnet, but it doesn't look hopeful."

"He'll probably duck out of the country pronto," Tom surmised. "Anyhow,
this won't stop us, Harlan."

By nightfall the little fleet of three undersea craft was speeding
southward at periscope depth. Tom alternated at the controls with Zimby,
two hours on and two hours off. Sleep came in snatches, the crewmen
flopping on their bunks as the chance offered. Chow's tasty meals helped
bre