"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.

Tom gave a whistle. "Lucky break, eh?"

"Maybe and maybe not," Mr. Swift said cautiously. "The bottom there is
heavily silted."

"Oh--oh." Tom made a wry face. "In that case, we may have some digging
to do."

"I'm afraid so. However, no use borrowing trouble." After a short
discussion, the elder scientist added, "I'll probably fly home tomorrow,
son. Give my love to Mother and Sandy."

"Right, Dad. So long!" Tom hung up and reported the news to Bud.

"What kind of underwater gear will we use?" Bud inquired.

"I'm not sure myself," Tom admitted. "Guess we'll have to take along a
variety of equipment and play it by ear."

Before proceeding with his search plans, Tom phoned home to inform his
mother of his arrival. Mrs. Swift was sympathetic when she heard of the
failure to recover the probe missile.

"I'm sure you'll locate it," she said encouragingly.

"Some of your cooking will sure help brighten the picture," Tom replied
with a grin. As he put down the receiver a moment later, he told Bud,
"You're having dinner with us tonight, pal. Fried chicken and biscuits."

Bud licked his lips. "Lead me to it!"

Chuckling, Tom began drawing up a list of supplies for the expedition.
Bud helped with the details, after which Tom phoned the underground
hangar and the Swifts' rocket base at Fearing Island to give the orders
for the next day. Crewmen were also detailed for the trip.

It was six o'clock when the two boys finally piled into Tom's low-slung
sports car and drove to the Swifts' big, pleasant house on the outskirts
of Shopton. Sandra, Tom's blond, vivacious sister, greeted them at the
door.

"About time!" she teased. "We were beginning to think you two had taken
off somewhere."

"Think I'd leave town while you and that fried chicken are in Shopton?"
Bud grinned.

"What a line!" Sandy's blue eyes twinkled. "I know it's the fried
chicken you're really interested in."

"Where's the rest of that 'we' you were referring to?" Tom inquired.

"I'm sorry, Tom," Sandy said in a mournful voice. "Phyl couldn't make
it."

As Tom's face fell, she burst out giggling and a second later Phyllis
Newton emerged from the kitchen. Brown-eyed, wi