Gently he made Sandy lie down and pillowed her head on a folded tarpaulin provided by the sympathetic boatman.  Phyl, though wan and white-faced, was in somewhat better shape.

“Tom, we must get these girls home as soon as possible,” Bud declared.

This, however, was not easily accomplished.  The tidal wave had caused devastation along the entire shore front.  Many docks had been wrecked, boats splintered like matchsticks, and buildings along the water smashed.

When Tom’s group reached Bud’s convertible, parked near the yacht club pier, they found the car completely waterlogged.  Its electrical system gave not even a faint sputter or spark.

“Oh, fine!” Bud groaned.  “The crowning touch!”

Eventually ambulances and private cars began to arrive to transport the injured.  Tom, Bud, and the two girls were given a lift to the Swift home where Sandy and Phyl were immediately put to bed by a worried Mrs. Swift.

Downstairs, Tom switched on the TV set.  A mobile camera crew from the local station was scanning the water front and interviewing witnesses of the disaster.  To the two boys, the most interesting note came in a statement by the announcer that a very slight earth tremor had been felt in Shopton.

“But no damage occurred except along the water front,” the announcer explained.

Tom gave a snort of anger, jumped up from his chair, and began pacing about the living room.  “Bud, I feel sure that wall of water was caused by a minor earthquake!” the young inventor declared.  “What’s more, I’ll bet it was man-made!”

Bud stared at his friend, appalled but feeling a hot surge of anger himself.  “If you’re right, pal, it’s the most fiendish sabotage I’ve ever heard of!  Think of all the lives that were endangered!”

Tom nodded grimly.  “I am thinking!”

Both boys jerked around to look at the TV set again as a studio announcer’s voice suddenly broke into the telecast: 

“Flash!  A severe quake has occurred at the headquarters of the American Archives Foundation, a hundred miles from Shopton.  The Foundation’s buildings, containing many priceless government and scientific documents, were badly damaged, and an underground microfilm vault was utterly destroyed.  Apparently this quake was part of the tremor felt here at Shopton.”

Within minutes the Swifts’ home phone began jangling constantly.  Some calls were from friends, others from strangers.  Many of the calls were routed through from the Enterprises switchboard.

One was from Dan Perkins of the Shopton Bulletin.  “What about it, Tom?” the editor demanded.  “I guess you know by now the public’s aroused and in a state of near panic over all these quakes.  What they all want to know is this:  are you, Tom Swift, going to find a way to stop all this destruction?”

Tom’s jaw jutted out angrily.  “Yes, I am!” he snapped.  “And you can quote me on that!”