"TOM, if anyone can solve the problem we’re having with the new gyrostabilizer, we figure it’s you," said Mark Faber, gray-haired president of the Faber Electronics division of Wickliffe Laboratories.

"Now that’s a mighty easy bet," said Hank Sterling. The young chief engineer from Swift Enterprises suavely raised an eyebrow. "This kid’s been to the moon and back, you know."

Tom Swift gave a becomingly modest smile, his face reddening slightly beneath the ragged line of his spiky blond crewcut. "You have to understand, Mr. Faber—Hank is moonlighting as my personal image maker!"

Faber gave a sharp nod. "The informal, easy-going relations between management and workforce over at TSE is well known throughout the industry. My own people envy it. Just between us, so do I. The Old M—er, that is, Dr. Wickliffe—can be rather stiff-necked at times."

"He’s very focused on his work, that I know," responded Tom noncommittally.

Tom and his father had long ago realized that Munson Wickliffe, the brilliant head of Wickliffe Laboratories of Thessaly, New York, regarded himself as something of a rival to the famous Swift invention factory in Shopton. The relationship was cordial enough and thoroughly professional, yet tinged with a degree of personal tension. Wickliffe had adopted ethically questionable tactics in competing with Tom Swift Enterprises while Tom had been engaged in searching the floor of the Atlantic for a lost space capsule. Though forgiven, the incident had colored his subsequent dealings with the two Swifts, who presumed he was embarrassed—which he had ample reason to be.

Hoping to smooth over relations with Faber’s employer, Tom had been anxious to come to the aid of Faber’s division. Faber Electronics, which specialized in aerospace technology, had contacted Tom in hopes that the young scientist-inventor and his chief engineer could analyze and fix a performance shortfall affecting their new gyro system. Tom knew the greater challenge would be to provide the requested assistance without appearing to be flaunting Enterprises’ prowess.

Mr. Faber led Tom and Hank through his high-ceilinged assembly building. Rocket nose-cones and jetcraft fuselages hung from chains or rested in cradling lift-derricks all around and above them, gleaming in the hazy columns of sun from a line of skylights at the peak of the curved ceiling. "The people from Deeming Intercoast are on my neck," commented Faber. "But until the GS is up to snuff, their ‘penetrator’ aerospace-plane can’t even be—"

He broke off with a gasp of astonishment as the whole building suddenly shook. A low rumble thudded through the concrete floor—once, twice.

"Holy Moe!" Hank muttered. "This isn’t part of your testing routine, is it?"

"Definitely not," replied Mark Faber, troubled and slightly alarmed. He leaned back, looking upward, and Tom and Hank followed his gaze. The hanging equipment was swaying ominously, the chains clinking.

Scattered workmen stood about nervously. One took a step toward Faber. "What was that, anyway? Sonic boom?"

His question was drowned out by cries of alarm and the sound of cracking glass. The rumbling and shaking returned with a vengeance. This time it didn’t stop! The walls and roof were shuddering and creaking, and the concrete floor was heaving under their feet.

"Look out! The test stand’s breaking loose!" Tom warned.

Mr. Faber and two of his men tried frantically to brace the heavy test stand which held the malfunctioning gyrostabilizer device. Another engineer rushed toward the door to see what was happening outside. Before he reached it, a new and more powerful shock knocked all of them off their feet.

The concrete floor erupted with jagged cracks. Electronic apparatus cascaded from the wall shelves, and a heavy-duty chain hoist came loose from its overhead track, plunging to the floor with a terrifying crash.

"An earthquake!" Tom gasped. A shrill cry alerted him and he flung himself backwards as a dangling nose-cone the size of a sofa swung down like a pendulum at one end of a chain and shattered against a missile fuselage.

Hank, meanwhile, clawed a handhold on a wire screen enclosing an air compressor and pulled himself to his feet. But the next moment yet another, more violent tremor rocked the building, knocking him over. "The roof! It’s caving in!" he heard someone scream.

As his eyes flashed upward in panic, Hank caught a brief glimpse of the ponderous test stand with the priceless gyro tilting to one side. An instant later it crashed over, pinning Mark Faber beneath it!

Hank threw up his arms to protect himself and turned away, but too late! A fragment of metal shielding from the device came whirling through the air and caught him on the back of the head. Knocked flat, the young engineer blacked out.

The tremor ebbed. For minutes, no one stirred amidst the wreckage. Then Tom, who had been stunned by some falling debris, raised himself to a sitting position.

"Good night!" Tom’s eyes focused in horror on the wreckage enveloped by still-billowing dust.

The sky was visible through several gaping holes in the roof, which was sagging dangerously on its supporting trusses. The twisted skylight frames were empty and useless. Only two thirds of the walls were still standing. Faint moans of pain and fear rose from every side.

Suddenly Tom stiffened. "Hank!" The young inventor had just noticed his friend lying pinned nearby beneath a heavy air circulation duct that had toppled over from a wall. Was he still breathing?

Disregarding his own injuries, Tom hastily freed himself from the debris and groped his way to Hank’s side. With a desperate heave, he shoved the duct away, then cradled Hank’s head in his arm. His friend’s eyelids flickered.

"Are you all right?" Tom asked fearfully.

The answer came in a groan. "Guess that depends, boss. Oo-oh! Wow! What hit me?"

"You got conked pretty bad. Or grazed, at least," Tom added thankfully. "If that metal ductwork had landed square on your noggin, even a rockhead like you couldn’t have survived!"

Hank managed to grin. "We grow ’em tough out where I come from!" he joked. But his voice was woozy and faint, and the back of his head was streaked with red.

Somewhat shakily, Hank got to his feet with Tom’s assistance. Both were heartsick as they surveyed the damaged work building, wondering where to begin rescue operations.

"It was a quake all right," Hank stated grimly. "Ma Nature in action."

Just then Tom glimpsed a body protruding from under the wreckage of the gyrostabilizer stand.

"Mr. Faber!" he gasped.

The scientist responded to Tom’s cry with a slight tremble of his hand, but uttered no sound, eyes shut. The two from Shopton scrambled through the clutter of debris toward the spot where the test stand had been erected. Hank seized a slender I-beam of lightweight magtritanium and managed to pry up the wreckage while Tom carefully extricated Mr. Faber. He knew it was dangerous to move the injured man, but he also knew that leaving him beneath an unstable pile of wreckage would be even a greater risk.

The scientist seemed to be badly injured. "We’d better not try to move him any further," Tom decided. "We’ll get an ambulance."

"I’m making the call," said Hank, holding up his cellphone. Then he grimaced in frustration. "But the lines are jammed, naturally. Or maybe some of the cell towers are down."

Of the other company engineers and technicians, two were now on their feet, but innumerably more were only partly conscious. Some showed no signs of life at all. Tom and Hank found a first-aid cabinet and gave what help they could to the injured, and recruited the least affected among them to stabilize some of the equipment. Then Tom insisted on wrapping a bandage over Hank’s scalp wound. "I need you, Engineer Sterling."

"Yeah. Guess I need Engineer Sterling as much as you do."

"Let’s hotfoot back to the airfield," Tom urged. "We can use the radio in the Pigeon Special to summon help."

"Right!" Hank responded. "If nothing else, we can route the call through the Enterprises switchboard." But his mind added a dismaying thought. What if Swift Enterprises, many miles distant across the county line, had also been knocked out by the earthquake?

They picked their way through the wreckage and emerged from the ruined building onto a scene of frightful destruction. The main administration building of Wickliffe Laboratories had been partially demolished by the quake. Every window seemed to have shattered—and one entire side of the modern structure was nothing but windows! Power lines were down, light poles toppled, and an outlying storage hangar was ablaze. Dazed and panic-stricken survivors were wandering around aimlessly or rushing about to assist the injured.

"Good thing the main shift of workers knocked off before this happened," Hank observed with a shudder, checking his wristwatch. "There would’ve been a lot more casualties."

"Look at the airstrip!" Tom pointed to a long, uneven crevice in the rumpled tarmac and concrete. "Right in front of the plane!" They exchanged rueful glances as they realized that the craft which had brought them to Faber Electronics—one of the unique commuter mini-planes produced by Enterprises’ affiliate, the Swift Construction Company—had almost been swallowed up in the gaping chasm. As it was, one wheel was over the edge. The plane listed dangerously, leaning on the starboard wing as on an elbow.

"No use fussing about it now," Tom pronounced. "Come on, Hank! Let’s see if we can climb aboard."

As they swung up onto the slanted deck the Special rocked precariously, but seemed otherwise undamaged. In moments Tom had contacted the operator on duty at the Enterprises communications center.

"Is everything all right there at the plant, Jilly?" Tom asked. "Did the quake do any damage?"

"What do you mean, Mr. Swift?" she came back in surprise. "Was there a quake?"

"You mean you didn’t feel it there?"

"No, but—there’s Mr. Dilling. Just a moment." The operator spoke to George Dilling, the plant’s chief communications officer, for a moment, then returned to the line. "Mr. Dilling says news reports are just coming in right now, on TV. They say the earthquake only affected a small area near Thessaly."

"A very small area, apparently," muttered Hank.

Nodding, Tom said, "Jilly, we’re okay, but Hank will have to see Doc Simpson when we get back—please let him know. Ask Mr. Dilling to send a chopper to pick us up. The airfield’s too broken up for us to take off in the plane. George can use his own judgment about alerting the local medical and emergency authorities. I guess they’re already aware of the quake, but they may not realize how serious the injuries are here at Wickliffe."

Despite the chaotic confusion, the two managed to locate the plant superintendent—a harried, middle-aged man named Simkins—who was doing his best to restore order. Simkins, who had not been injured, informed them that electricians were rigging an emergency cellphone relay unit to get through to the nearby town. "But the radio says ambulances are on the way," he noted.

"Mr. Faber is badly injured," Tom said. "Why not send a car to the hospital? The town’s only a few miles away, isn’t it?"

"I’ll send the plant nurse to him," Simkins said. "As for going to town, take a look at the parking lot." He pointed with a jerk of his thumb. The cars on the lot had been smashed into junk by cinderblocks from a collapsing wall of one of the tall buildings. "And our truck fleet is either out on the road or in the plant garage getting burned down to fireplace andirons," the superintendent added bitterly.

"Tough break," Tom sympathized. "Anyhow, we want to help. Got a job for us? Maybe Dr. Wickliffe would like us to—"

"Dr. Wickliffe is in critical condition," interrupted Simkins with a deep frown creasing his face. "We think he had a heart attack during the incident. He’s being treated in the infirmary, but frankly I’m not sure he’ll last long enough to get to the hospital."

"Here’s a hopeful sign, anyhow," said Hank, pointing. To the wavering blare of sirens, several ambulances were now approaching by the main road, dodging cracks and fallen trees.

Simkins was only too glad to put Tom’s quick mind and keen technical knowhow to use. Within minutes, Tom was in charge of clearing away rubble and extricating anyone who might be trapped inside the buildings. Hank organized a fire-fighting crew to keep the several blazes from spreading. A steady stream of rescue vehicles began arriving from Thessaly and another nearby town, Harkness—fire trucks, police vehicles, three more ambulances, and private cars driven by volunteers or frantic family members.

Soon there was nothing more Tom and Hank could do at the disaster scene but get in the way. Pausing to catch his breath, Tom suddenly broke into a faint grin. "Hey, here comes our ride back to Shopton."

A high-sided, strange object, glinting in the setting sun, was approaching rapidly at a height of about one hundred yards, slowly descending. "The paraplane!" Hank exclaimed happily. This was a combination jet and helium dirigible that Tom had developed to test and perfect a balloon-bag safety system.

In minutes the compact passenger cabin, dwarfed beneath the big liftbag, was bumping gently along the broken runway. The door-hatch swung open and Slim Davis, an experienced Enterprises pilot, leaned out with a nod. "Limo for Swift and Sterling!" he announced humorously.

Tom was pleased and grateful. "We’ll be back home in minutes."

It took eight jet-driven minutes, in fact, before they set down on the airfield at the four-mile-square experimental station where Tom and his father developed their many amazing inventions. After thanking George Dilling and Jilly Lamm for their prompt assistance, Tom accompanied Hank to the plant medical office and infirmary where the Enterprises physician examined them both.

"Fine way to greet me back after my vacation," gibed Doc Simpson, the young medico who was a good friend to both. "But as usual we’re only dealing with a mere head injury, which we Swiftonians just shrug off—over and over." He exchanged Hank’s hasty bandage for a better one, then pronounced both fit.

At Tom’s urging Hank immediately called his wife to assure her that he was safe, then handed the phone to Tom. The young inventor called home and spoke to his sister, Sandra.

"What a relief!" Sandy gasped. "We heard a bulletin about the quake over the TV!"

"Don’t worry, sis. Tell Mom and Dad that Hank Sterling and I are fine," Tom said. "Doc even cleared me to drive. I’ll be home in a jiffy—with a big post-quake appetite!"

In the late, dimming twilight, Tom drove his two-seater sports car to the pleasant, tree-shaded Swift home on the outskirts of Shopton, only minutes from the Enterprises main gate.

Mrs. Swift, a slender, petite woman, tried not to show concern when she saw her adventure-prone young son, bruised and disheveled. "I’m so thankful you and Hank are both safe!" she murmured as Tom greeted her with a kiss that contained a hint of apology.

Blond, blue-eyed Sandy, who was a year younger than Tom, had invited her friend—and Tom’s—Bashalli Prandit to the house for dinner. Bashalli, a pretty, dark-haired girl born in Pakistan, was as much upset as Tom’s mother.

Tom laughed. "I’m not a stretcher case, Bash," he said. "Doc Simpson checked me out."

Bashalli looked very relieved, but groaned teasingly. "Why did you have to go and spoil it? I was preparing my cool soothing touch for your fevered brow!"

"You got away this time without getting conked, but I feel like conking you for always getting yourself in trouble," declared Sandy with a mock frown. "Honestly, big brother!—if it isn’t a meteorite or a hurricane or a torpedo attack, it’s a gosh-darn earthquake! And who ever heard of a quake around here, anyhow?"

Tom’s face lost its apologetic smile. "Actually, San, that’s a big question. The whole event was odd in many ways." It was obvious to Sandy that her talented brother had something on his mind.

Mr. Swift came into the living room just then and told Tom, with a wink, how worried Mrs. Swift and Sandy had been. "Of course I tried to assure them that you and Hank can take care of yourselves in any crisis." He smiled guiltily as he added, "But I must admit I was more than a little concerned myself."

As Tom grinned, the resemblance between him and his father was very evident. Both had the same clean-cut features and deep-set blue eyes, although Tom was lankier and taller.

After Tom had showered and changed his ripped and soiled clothes, Mrs. Swift served them a delicious hot meal. While they ate, Mr. Swift managed after some difficulty to get a call through to the central hospital in Utica, where the worse-off earthquake victims had been rushed after initial treatment in Thessaly. Damon Swift’s face was grave as he hung up.

"Mark Faber is not expected to live," the elder inventor reported. "And the prognosis for Munson Wickliffe is discouraging as well. A pity. Munson has his human flaws, but he’s a great scientist and technical engineer."

Tom nodded unhappily. Sandy, to take her brother’s mind off the disaster, glanced at her father and said, "Daddy, tell Tom about the visitor who’s coming."

Bashalli smiled. "And this time, representing the Pakistani branch of the extended family of Swifts, I know this news even before you do, Thomas."

"A visitor?" Tom looked at his father. "Who? Is Cousin Ed back from some corner of the world?"

"Oh no—our guest is coming a much greater distance than that," replied Mr. Swift, as Sandy and Bashalli stifled giggles.

Tom was mystified. "Okay. From where?"

"No place special," answered Tom’s mother, in on the joke. "Just from another planet!"

"A-ANOTHER—!" Tom was so amazed and excited he could barely speak. "Wow! And you’re not kidding?"

Mr. and Mrs. Swift and the two girls all solemnly shook their heads. Tom gasped and his questions tumbled out in a torrent. "Male or female? Human or animal?"

Mr. Swift’s eyes twinkled. "None of those," he replied as his son stared, heart thudding, bursting with unbridled curiosity. Although the astounded world knew that the Swifts had been in radio contact with entities from outer space for many months now, this was the most exciting news yet!

On one occasion, the unknown, never-glimpsed beings had moved a small asteroid—the phantom satellite Nestria—into orbit about the earth in an attempt to study the earthlike environment Tom was able to create there. Seeking to overcome some mysterious factor that prevented their survival upon our world, they had sent samples of the strange plant and animal life of their planet, to be analyzed by the Swifts. These extraterrestrial scientists, dubbed the space friends, had also helped Tom a number of times when his life was at stake while on daring voyages beyond the earth, recently attempting to warn the young space venturer of a dangerous cosmic storm, an event recorded in Tom Swift and The Cosmic Astronauts. What was their latest intention? It was certain to be fantastic!

The telephone rang and Sandy went to answer it as Tom barraged the others with questions, all of them parried with teasingly evasive answers.

"For Pete’s sake, Dad," Tom pleaded, "don’t keep me in suspense! Who or what is this visitor?"

"That was Bud," announced Sandy breezily, re-entering the room. "I told him we were having a family conference and just couldn’t be disturbed."

Bud Barclay was Tom’s closest pal. "What did he want?"

"To make sure you’re all right, and to tell you he plans to beat you to a pulp tomorrow for not calling him at home right away!"

"Oh boy," Tom groaned. "He flew back from Mexico City this afternoon! Forgot all about it. Earthquakes can be a real distraction! But anyway—!" He turned menacingly toward his father, and everyone burst out laughing.

"Don’t be offended, Thomas," commented Bashalli smoothly, "but really, don’t you deserve this? You’ve rather neglected us lately, what with all your running around to Yucatan, to the underwater city, to the Arctic ocean—"

"And almost to Venus, don’t forget," Mr. Swift added. "In a good cause, of course."

Tom held up his hands. "I apologize to everyone for everything I’ve ever done in my entire short life. Now give, before I explode!"

In reply Mr. Swift stepped over to a table and took up a large sheaf of fanfold paper, covered with printing. "Son, all this came through the magnifying antenna just minutes after you and Hank left this afternoon. Omicron Kupp and I, and the rest of the translation team, have been working on it since. This seems to be a fair approximation, though many of the symbols are new—not in the space dictionary. Still, it foretells an astounding event. It will be the biggest scientific challenge we’ve ever faced!"

Quite a pronouncement! With a gulp Tom took the sheet and spread it out flat on the dinner table. It was covered with rows of clustered figures which Tom knew represented mathematical and logical concepts—a universal language the space friends utilized to exchange ideas with the human species. Beneath the array of symbols was the tentative translation into English.

"Good night!" Tom whispered. "I’ll say it’s a challenge!" He looked up at his father. "But Dad, do you realize this message isn’t from our space friends?"

"Huh?" reacted Sandy in surprise. "Do you mean it’s a fake?"

"Not at all," Damon Swift responded. "It’s just not from our usual communicators, the scientists stationed in our solar system."

Tom explained. "Those folks usually begin any initial contact message by using the symbols that we translate as ‘we are friends’. This message doesn’t."

"I’m assuming it comes directly from the X-ians," Mr. Swift pronounced. "That’s a reasonable conclusion at this stage, anyway."

"And who are these X-ians?" Bashalli asked.

"Well," said Tom, "it’s a little complicated, Bash. You already know the basics, of course."

"Yes, for once do skip the part about the first missile with the inscriptions, and how you began using the—what is it? The radio device?"

"The imaging oscilloscope." For some time, as in the present instance, the space beings had sent their symbols to Earth on an established radio frequency, the signal input translated into visual form by computer.

Initial contact had been with a friendly group of scientists who, it was thought, had a scientific base in orbit around the planet Mars. But these beings did not originate on Mars, or even within Earth’s solar system. They were expeditioners from a distant, unidentified world circling another sun somewhere in galactic space. The Swifts had arbitrarily translated the symbol for this home planet as "Planet X," and its inhabitants inevitably became known as the X-ians.

"We’ve always assumed our space friends—the neighborhood crew—are of the same species as those on Planet X," Tom continued. "But the exact relationship between themselves and the X-ians is one of the many things they can’t—or won’t—explain to us."

Mr. Swift now picked up the thread of explanation. "We learned, in connection with the Challenger moon mission, that the space friends regard the X-ians as dominating or controlling them with something like absolute power—the symbol they use can be translated as something like ‘our superiors’ or even ‘our masters’! The local scientists do not always approve of the methods of the Masters in their pursuit of knowledge about our Earth and our human species."

"The X-ians seem to have little regard for what we think of as our own well-being," added Tom soberly. "And that means this new project may involve real danger to Earth."

"But surely you can decline their offer, can you not?" Bashalli objected. "They seem to be giving you that option."

Tom shrugged. "‘Seem’ is the key word, Bashalli. It may be a nuance wrongly introduced by a faulty translation. What if they didn’t really say if, but when? We do know from previous instances that once the Masters set something into operation, our space friends are prevented from blocking it even if they want to."

There was a long moment of thoughtful silence. Sandy was no longer lighthearted, but uneasy and vaguely frightened. "When that rocket-capsule flew over Shopton, the one you went after in your seacopter, we were all pretty scared," she said softly with a glance at her mother and Bashalli. "This may be worse!"

"Yet it’s an incredible opportunity for science, and for humanity," her father pointed out. "It would be hard to justify not moving forward with it."

Sandy nodded. "I know, Daddy. Don’t mind me. I’ll be a ‘Swift’ about it—you’ll see."

"We know you will, darling," declared Mrs. Swift reassuringly.

"As despite all efforts I cannot quite manage to be a Swift, I intend to be a mere ‘Prandit’ about it," Bash stated with a wry look. "But what will this visitor be like? What is an energy brain?"

Tom shook his head. "No clue, not yet. The message doesn’t say how, or in what form, the energy will arrive. It must be some sort of artificial device—a thinking computer of pure energy, maybe. And we’ve got to give it a ‘body’ of some kind, a container to sustain the energy in a stable form, and to allow it to collect impressions of Earth just as we humans do. And to allow it to communicate with us directly—just imagine!"

"We’ll learn further details after we transmit our acceptance," Mr. Swift declared. "Which sounds like a job for tomorrow."

A concluding segment of the received message had indicated how the response was to be transmitted. The Swifts’ grateful acceptance passed through the magnifying antenna and into interstellar space first thing the following morning. "I can’t understand how our radio signals, which only travel at the speed of light, can reach a planet in a star-system light years away," commented Nels Gachter, Enterprises’ chief of communications science who was assigned to the space oscilloscope monitoring setup. "Yet it seems they know what we’re saying within hours—even minutes!"

"The X-ians have learned how to control space and time in ways we can’t imagine," Tom replied. "For all we know, Nels, they may receive our messages years in the future—then send the reply back through time to the present!"

"Impossible!"

"Right. And by continuing to talk with them, someday we’ll learn how to do the impossible!"

Tom and his father waited in their shared office for a response, but by midmorning nothing had been received. After Mr. Swift had left to take care of some pressing responsibilities, Tom’s anxious wait was interrupted by Munford Trent, their secretary and receptionist. "Gerrold Funtz is outside asking to speak with you."

Tom’s brow creased. "Who’s Gerrold Funtz?"

"The Enterprises greensman."

"Uh—"

"Head landscape architect, gardener, and glorified lawnboy. Can you see him? He’s making a pest of himself."

"Sure, Trent."

Funtz was a fiftyish man, his skin dark and sun-wrinkled. He wore khaki workclothes smeared with dirt and stained green by grass. The workclothes appeared stiff enough to be able to walk by themselves. "Thanks for your time, Mr. Swift. Just got a question for you. Little bitty question."

"About our landscaping?" asked Tom politely.

"About my job! If you and your father plan to let me go, I think I have a right to be told about it right to my face."

The young inventor was baffled. "What do you mean? Has Personnel told you—"

"Aaa, forget Personnel!" the man snapped. "It’s Minerva Tavrish, I know it! She’s been on my back since she became chief of plant operations last year. What’s that old bag been saying about me? Whatever it is, she’s just spittin’ teeth!"

Tom spent a moment collecting his thoughts. "Please stay calm, Mr. Funtz. I really have no idea what you’re referring to."

"Then maybe you haven’t looked out your window this morning." Funtz strode over to the wall-spanning picture window and beckoned for Tom to join him. "I come in to do my job, and I find that! If I’m still the lawn decor go-to guy around here—well, you shoulda asked me to sign off on it first, right? Don’t that sound sort of reasonable, Mr. Swift?"

Tom looked, then looked again, unbelieving. Viewed from a multistory height, the broad, well-tended green lawn separating the administration building from its neighbor was criss-crossed with strange markings in a lighter color—curves and bands that hadn’t been there the day previous!

"Good grief, Mr. Funtz, is this some kind of practical joke?"

Funtz snorted in disgust. "Whatever it is, I wouldn’t call it professional lawn decoration. How’m I supposed to deal with that kind of a mess?"

But Tom couldn’t tear his eyes from the sight below. "Mr. Funtz, that mess—it’s the space symbols used by the extraterrestrials—the people from Planet X!"

HARLAN Ames didn’t approach the lawn defacement as a possible prank. His face was wooden, his voice sober and thoughtful. "Of course the first thing I did was check the recordings from the security videocams," he stated. "There are two covering this lawn area, continuously. One with a close focus, one wide and further off. At three AM, both failed at the exact same moment—blanked out for the rest of the night. I had an e-mail about it waiting for me when I came in, but I assumed it was just a mechanical problem of some kind. Obviously I should have investigated immediately."

The lean, hard-edged chief of Enterprises security knelt down next to Tom as they examined the bizarre phenomenon in the pale midday sun. Each of the starkly-etched bands was about a foot wide, the edges sharp and even, the lines and curves perfectly formed. Ames ran a palm across one of the markings. "As you can see, the grass hasn’t been cut or flattened out. It’s been discolored."

"I had the chem team do an analysis first thing," Tom said. "We’ve looked at the blades under the microscope, and used the Swift Spectroscope as well." He shot the older man a sheepish look. "Sorry not to have called you immediately, Harlan. I got a little impatient—I wanted answers."

"So do I," declared Ames. "What did your analysis turn up?"

"Nothing that explains anything. No trace of unusual chemicals. No poisons or acids."

"Couldn’t extreme heat have done this, Tom? Something like a focused laser or microwave setup?"

The young inventor gave a shake of his head. "There’s no charring, no carbonization. The grass is desiccated, depleted of all water content—yet there was no evolution of steam inside the blades. It’s as if the individual cellulose fibers were degraded by some external phenomenon."

"Some kind of structural deterioration, you mean? The cell materials got scrambled?"

"No." Tom struggled to find the right words. "Not so much scrambled as—well, fused together. Segments of the cell walls have physically merged with the neighboring walls, and the chlorophyll strings have ‘unwound’. That’s why the grass has lost its color. The closest thing I can compare it to is anomalous aging."

"All right. I see," Ames said. "Except—I don’t see! Do you know of anything that could cause such aging?"

Tom shrugged, but it was a shrug that bespoke not only mystification but dread. "Possibly, but I don’t like to think of the implications. Neutron bombardment!"

"Like the so-called neutron bomb. Is that what you’re saying, boss?"

The youth did not respond to the question, which Ames took as reluctant confirmation of a possibility too terrible to think about. After a moment of staring at the figures, Tom broke the silence. "And I’m also reminded of something really far out, something I read about. You’ve heard of the famous ‘Shroud of Turin,’ the holy image, centuries old, formed on a piece of cloth by some unknown process? Under the microscope the affected cloth fibers show the same effect!"

The former Secret Service agent surprised Tom by smiling. "Well, religious miracles are a little out of my line. But if these markings are space symbols, then obviously the extraterrestrials must be behind it."

"If so," Tom responded, "it’s sure a peculiar way to deliver a message, even for the X-ians. We can’t rule it out, though. They don’t think the way we do."

Noting the questioning looks from employees as they filed past the yellow tape border that Security had set up to keep the curious off the grass, Tom motioned for Harlan Ames to walk with him back into the administration building. Asked Ames: "Have you been able to translate the symbols, Tom?"

"Unfortunately no," replied the young inventor. "You see, the symbols express basic concepts, and the spatial arrangement of the symbols one to another—the overall form—modifies the concepts and links them into a complete thought, like a sentence in our kind of writing. But this set of symbols is incomplete, as if the process creating it was interrupted midway through. So it’s as if you were trying to read a written sentence missing four words out of every five!"

"Then all we can do for now is try to dope out what happened to our videocams at three AM this morning," pronounced Ames. "They’ve been removed, and Hanson is studying them." Arvid Hanson was not only the Swifts’ chief modelmaker and prototype constructor, but a trained and gifted technician and design engineer.

As noon approached, Tom joined Bud Barclay for lunch in the dinette adjoining one of Tom’s labs. The athletic, dark-haired pilot, who was Tom’s age, demanded every detail of the dire, thrilling, mysterious happenings of the 24 hours preceding. "Let’s see now—a big quake in Thessaly, a visitor from Planet X looking for a body, and a new bunch of those brain-breaking space symbols inscribed on a lawn by invisible alien gremlins." Bud smiled at his pal. "In other words, business as usual in the life of Swift Enterprises and its big-headed head genius."

"A lot to take in, flyboy," Tom acknowledged. "See what happens when you fly away for days at a time?"

Bud laughed. "Right. But I didn’t have much choice down there but to hang around and watch jai alai and those TV telenovélas—which aren’t too bad, actually. Must be even better if you speak Spanish! Professor Castillez had to haggle with the higher-ups before he got official permission to lend out the carvings." Connected to the Mexican government and the University of Mexico, Castillez had participated in Tom’s recent work in Yucatan, where he had used his retroscope camera to investigate ancient Mayan carvings and artifacts. Castillez had subsequently asked Enterprises to perform further tests on some of the objects that University archaeologists had uncovered after the departure of the Enterprises team. Bud had jetted to Mexico City to convey the priceless objects back to Shopton.

A vocal foghorn blast now heralded the arrival of Chow Winkler bearing a soup-and-sandwich lunch. "Wa-aal, if this don’t beat all! Swift an’ Barclay t’gether again!" The round ex-Texan, a close and colorful friend to both youths, set down his tray on the dinette table. "So t’ honor the grand o’casion, I whipped up some special stew fer ya."

"Rattlesnake again?" Bud teased.

"Gila monster! –Naw, jest funnin’ ya, buddy boy. Sauteed turnip an’ seasoned carrot." The cook, some thirty years older and a couple feet wider than his young friends, ladled out his latest creation.

Tom sipped. "Tastes great! Spicy."

"Uh huh." Chow paused, looking querulously back and forth between Tom and Bud. "Now say, what’s th’ matter with you two boys?"

"What do you mean?" asked Tom.

"Brand my spectrum! You don’t think this new shirt o’ mine is worth a few jokes?" Chow pretended to look hurt, eyes crinkled affectionately. His western-style shirts were always XXL festivals of eye-popping coloration. The current edition somehow married black and pink to turquoise splotches that revealed themselves, on close inspection, to be the bleached skulls of unfortunate steers.

Bud winked at Tom and pretended to feel in his shirt pocket. "Had my next quip written down on a slip of paper—must be in my other shirt. But I’ll work on it, wrangler man!"

Chow sat down at the table, chatting with Tom and Bud as the boys lunched. "Heard about that there earthquake," commented the former ranch cook. "But they say there’s shakin’ goin’ on all the time, some place ’r other in the world."

Bud asked Tom if there were a known earth fault in the Thessaly area. "No, and that’s what’s strange about it," Tom responded. "When Dad and I were first testing out our lithosonde device, we surveyed this whole area for hundreds of miles around—including straight down. No class-three lateral fractures anywhere."

"Well," Bud said, "I guess this stuff can’t always be predicted."

Tom nodded. "True, not yet."

"That there Pakker-stan earthquake shor was a terrible thing," Chow put in. "An’ then there ’as the big wave in th’ Injin Ocean that drowned all them folks."

"At least those were definitely natural events," said Tom in a thoughtful voice.

Bud lowered his disappearing sandwich to look at his pal with raised eyebrows. "What are you hinting, genius boy? You think the Wickliffe quake wasn’t a real quake?"

"It was a quake, pal. The question is, what caused it? Even setting aside the absence of a known fault, and the way the temblor seemed to be narrowly focused in one little area—there’s another odd thing that’s been on my mind."

"Odder than Chow’s new shirt?"

The cook snorted. "There ya go! Now I kin rest easy."

Tom chuckled. "It’s just this," he continued. "There was quite a lot of glass breakage—the skylights in the assembly building, a whole wall of windows in another building, even the car windshields in the parking lot."

Bud shrugged. "So?"

"So where was the glass?"

"Whatcha mean by that, boss?" demanded Chow with widening eyes.

Tom rubbed his chin. "I noticed that the shards of glass from the skylights weren’t on the floor under the skylights, but piled up against one of the walls. The window glass ended up about a hundred feet away from the base of the building, and the auto glass was all at the edge of the parking lot, almost all the way to the road."

"Yeah. Hmm." Bud looked puzzled. "You think somebody was carting it away or something?"

"C’mon, Bud, how could they do that without being seen?" Tom retorted. "We were only knocked out for a few minutes."

"That’s right as prairie rain," noted Chow excitedly. "So who did it, son? More o’ them grass-gremlins?"

The young inventor shook his head, his eyes bright with the thrill of a mystery. "Not a who, pard—a what! Some kind of invisible force or energy pushed the fragments sideways as they fell, and maybe even combined with the earth tremor to cause the breakage in the first place. And you know what I think, guys? I think that same ‘something’ also blanked out the cameras and inscribed the markings on the lawn!"

His mind racing, Bud half stood. "So whatever it is is bad for glass—and grass too!"

"Ye-aah," gulped Chow Winkler. "An’ if it kin do all that, it cain’t be s’ good fer us people, no-how-neither!"

The long day ended without any answer from deep space. However, Arvid Hanson was able to provide Tom and Ames with a report on the malfunctioning videocams. "Best I can tell, something entered through the lens and washed out the photoreceptor array—overloaded it and burned it out, basically. Which is pretty simple, I guess. But if you want to know just what it was, I have no idea. Some sort of radiant energy, but without heat."

"Thanks, Arv." Tom was appreciative but left the conclave troubled by the lack of progress.

After work, Tom drove into Shopton to visit Bashalli at The Glass Cat coffee house, which was owned by her older brother. Tom enjoyed it as a social call, but had another motive as well. "I guess we didn’t really explain to you that our ‘special visitor’ should be kept a secret for now—until he’s on his way back home. We’re keeping the authorities posted, of course, but—"

"But there are the usual spies and bad people everywhere, as always," Bashalli concluded. "This I have already considered, and in consequence I have curbed my tongue." She nodded teasingly at a man nibbling a croissant on the other side of the room, beyond the range of their low voices. "Does he not look suspicious, Thomas? Perhaps he has an eavesdropping device concealed in his paper coffee cup!"

"Very funny," retorted Tom. "But thanks."

The dark young Pakistani leaned close. "Speaking of our visitor, do tell me—what sort of body will you give it? Perhaps a beautiful, superintelligent space girl for you to moon over?" As Tom chuckled at the notion, she added, "But nothing doing! I insist on a terribly handsome young man who’d have time to take a nice earth girl out on a date! For after all, I do have a great deal of data to share with him."

"Ouch!" Tom pretended to wince. "Guess I left myself wide open for that one! Bud and I really neglect you girls, don’t we."

"Oh, Tom, it’s not so very bad. But you ought to realize," she continued mischievously, "in my country we practice our own form of voodoo. If you wish no further earthquakes, you must start to behave!"

Tom was still smiling at Bashalli’s repartee as he swung out of the alley next to The Glass Cat, where he had parked, and headed homeward in his low-slung sports car.

Think I’ll listen to the news, Tom thought as he drove at a relaxed pace through the streets of Shopton. He switched on his dashboard radio.

A moment later the announcer’s voice came crisply through the car’s set of highest-tech surround-speakers. "Casualties from yesterday’s disastrous earthquake now total thirty-one with serious injuries," the announcer reported. "Most of these are employees of Wickliffe Laboratories of Thessaly and four, including CEO Munson Wickliffe, remain in critical condition. There is one note of cheer, however. At last report, Mark Faber, the president of the company electronics division, is now expected to recover." Tom gave a thankful sigh of relief.

He was mulling over the matter as he drove along, when a sound reached his ears—a thumping metallic sound. Engine trouble? But the rhythmic noise seemed to be coming from the rear of the car, somewhere behind the seatback. He took a side street and parked next to the grassy recreation area that paralleled the shore of Lake Carlopa. If it’s a brake problem, I’ll have to call home and let ’em know I’ll be late, he murmured to himself. Maybe it’s just something rolling around in the trunk.

He popped the trunk open—then drew back in shocked surprise as a concealed figure lurched up from within and leaned toward Tom!

He held a long knife in his hand!

THE STRANGER held the knife, long and narrow as a knitting needle, with its tip at Tom’s throat. "Don’t move. Keep quiet and act natural. We’re not going to attract any attention, are we?" The question seemed to be rhetorical.

"I recognize you," Tom muttered quietly and calmly. "You were in The Glass Cat." The man had left unnoticed while he and Bashalli had been talking—evidently to seal himself in Tom’s trunk!

"Shut up!" the stranger snarled. "This knife has been dipped in a paralyzing nerve agent. Four inches and it’s inside your throat!" Keeping the knifepoint close, the man cautiously slid himself out of the trunk and onto his feet. "Slam the trunk and get into the car from the passenger side. I’m right behind you."

In a minute Tom was driving slowly in the direction of Swift Enterprises. "You think you know everything, don’t you, Swift. But you can’t even begin to know what’s really goin’ down. You’re going to learn a lot more about the real world in just a little while."

"Learning is a wonderful thing," Tom’s bravado spoke up. "How did you know I’d be in the coffeehouse?"

"Let’s just say your radio stereo system knows how to send as well as receive," the man replied. "I been tracking your movements for a week now, waiting for you to park someplace where I could climb in without bein’ seen. Can’t work it at your plant or your house, not with all those security sensors. Hard enough t’ kill the electronics in the trunk lid."

Tom nodded. "Very clever. I’ve had a lot of trouble in this car—now I know why they say most accidents happen within ten miles of home! So what is it you want, mister?"

"Take me inside the grounds of Swift Enterprises," he commanded in a voice low and unforgiving. "And no tricks or they’ll find a dead man at the wheel!"

"Never mind who I am. Just do as I say!" By this time Tom had recovered from his surprise and coolly sized up his enemy. The man was about thirty years old, with close-cropped black hair. Steely eyes glinted in a lean, hard-jawed face.

Tom wondered, Should I risk a fight?

As if in answer, the stranger growled, "I gave you an order, Mr. Blue Eyes. Don’t press your luck! Get going!"

The young inventor drove on, but proceeded slowly. He wanted time to think. Presently Swift Enterprises, enclosed by a high wall, came into view alongside the country highway.

Tom’s brain was working fast. At last he decided on a ruse. He would head for the main gate and use his electronic beeper-key to gain entrance without waiting for the guard to admit him. This violation of established procedures would prompt the gate guard to press a button to alert the Swift security force.

But the stranger seemed to read his thoughts. As Tom started to turn off toward the main gate, his passenger snapped, "Go to the private gate which you and your father use!"

"And if I refuse?"

The knife tip poked against his collar. "Simple. I shove your limp body aside and guide the car to a stop. I will then let myself in with your key!"

Tight-lipped, Tom drove on another half mile, then turned onto the narrow drive leading to the private gate. The sturdy gate slid aside in response to the car’s transponder, then closed again automatically after the car passed through.

Tom parked in his usual spot. The stranger kept the weapon angled at Tom, still covering Tom while glancing around cautiously. As they got out, the man slid the knife up his forearm inside the end of his shirtsleeve. "I can twist it out in half a second. So stay close, move slow, and let’s take a walk toward the—"

Suddenly the stranger stiffened. A paunchy, bowlegged figure, topped by a white Texas ten-galloner, was coming straight toward them. Tom’s heart gave a leap of hope.

"Hi, boss!" Chow bellowed in his foghorn voice. "Saw you drive in. Fergit somethin’, didja?"

Tom nodded. "Sure did, pardner. Good to see you. Been a while, hmm?"

This comment puzzled Chow and creased his brow. He turned his attention to the man next to Tom. "S’ who’s this new buckaroo?" the cook asked, squinting at the stranger with open, friendly curiosity.

"Why actually I don’t know his name yet, but he’s looking for a job," Tom replied. Turning to the stranger, he added, "What is your name, mister?"

The stranger glared from Tom to Chow, as if not certain what to answer.

Chow’s eyes narrowed. He had detected something strange in the way Tom addressed the fellow, and had also noticed how the man kept one arm hidden behind him. Looking to Tom for a lead, Chow suddenly noticed the young inventor waggle an eyebrow.

"My name? Al." The man’s voice fell to a mumble, obscuring the syllables. "Frankly I’m not yet sure I want a job here, but being an engineer, I thought perhaps—"

The man’s gaze switched back to Tom, and in that instant Chow jumped the intruder. With surprising agility for his ample bulk, the cook bore down on him and let fly a gnarled ham-fist at the stranger’s jaw. Tom followed up like lightning, grabbing the man’s wrist and shaking the deadly knife from his sleeve. He let it fall to the asphalt.

Chow quickly pinned his other arm in the small of his back, and the man yelped. "Jest keep yerself quiet now, you varmint, or you may git roughed up a bit," Chow warned. Then he added, "I’m a Texan! Who is he, Tom?"

"Search me. Sure knows how to talk big, though." The young inventor quickly explained what had happened. "Boy, was I ever glad to see you, old-timer!"

Tom searched the stranger while Chow continued holding him helpless, though the fight seemed to have gone out of him. Tom opened up the man’s wallet. "What do you know, his name really is Al—Alfred Wullgrath. Am I pronouncing it right?" He searched the man’s pockets further, and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. "‘Free character analysis now offered Sunday mornings at Fort Shopton. Family fun! Isn’t it time you learned the truth about Informatics?’"

"Can’t make much o’ that," Chow commented. "Never heard of Fort Shopton."

"Our meeting hall in this town," muttered the man sullenly. "In each town we call it Fort Something—it’s a fortress of truth against fear. See?"

"Brand my tumbleweed salad," Chow grumbled in disgust, "this here poke’s crazy as a cactus!" The man mumbled something angrily under his breath. Chow merely yanked harder on his arm. "What’ll we do with him, boss?"

"I think you can let up on old Al, Chow," Tom said. "Security should be here any second."

"How come?"

"Our friend doesn’t have one of our electronic amulets on him," Tom pointed out. "He’s been making blips all over the security ground radar since we drove through the gate!" He couldn’t resist giving Wullgrath a smug look.

Even as he spoke, Tom glimpsed a pair of electric nanocars speeding toward them in the distance. A security squad was coming to investigate the patrolscope "bogey."

As Chow released the man, he stretched his arm with a grimace. Then, without warning, he suddenly slammed the cook square in the stomach with his fist. With a gasp Chow was knocked sprawling!

Before Tom could counter the surprise attack, the man’s fist cracked against his cheekbone. Tom, though stunned, lashed out. More punches flew back and forth. Tom landed a stinging blow to his opponent’s midriff, then took a punishing one himself.

As he staggered back Tom felt the stranger’s hand clawing at his pocket for the electronic key to the main gate. With all his wiry strength, Tom locked his arms around the man and wrestled him to the ground.

The stranger fought like a tiger—until Chow sat down on him. Then he fought more like a flopping fish. A second later the nanocars screeched to a stop. Three security guards, led by stocky Phil Radnor, leapt toward the helpless intruder. Within moments they had the man cuffed and subdued.

Tom quickly briefed the security men on what had happened.

"All right, mister, start talking!" snapped Radnor, Harlan Ames’s assistant, who often worked the evening shift at Enterprises.

The man’s only reply was a scowl of rage. "Okay, take Mr. Wullgrath away till he cools off," Tom ordered. "He can wait for Shopton PD in our pleasant, informal plant jailhouse. It’s our own onsite fortress, Al."

Disheveled and still panting, the man was bundled onto one of the cars and driven off to the security operations building. "I’ll call Harl and Captain Rock," said Radnor.

"Thanks, Rad. As for me, I’m heading home." Tom thanked Chow warmly, then returned to his car.

Late at night, as Tom undressed for bed in his room, he emptied his pockets onto the top of his nightstand. Pulling out a folded sheet of paper, he opened it curiously and read it in the light from his bedside lamp.

"Oh, gosh," he muttered to himself. "I forgot to give this to Phil Radnor." He knew it might constitute important evidence as to Wullgrath’s foiled intentions on the grounds of the plant.

Like nearly everyone, Tom had heard of Informatics. And like nearly everyone, what he had heard was constructed more of rumor and innuendo than solid fact. He knew it was an organization organized as a religious association. Some called it a church; most called it a cult—or even a swindle. More than one tabloid celebrity proclaimed membership. It was rumored that some had been paid to do so.

Tom switched on his desk computer and accessed the Net. In moments he was scrutinizing the group’s website—impressive, colorful, animated, and in its way, seductive.

THE WORLD CHURCH OF

INFORMATICS SOUL SCIENCE

"I get the picture," Tom said to himself in disgust. "Fleecing the public in the name of faith."

The next morning, at the suggestion of Harlan Ames, Tom called Captain Rock of the Shopton Police Department, a family friend for many years. "Wullgrath is facing quite an array of charges, Tom—kidnapping, attempted grand theft auto, lying in concealment to commit a felony, trespassing, assault upon a cowboy—unfortunately we’ve lost any charges related to his weapon."

"Yes," Tom said. "Harlan told me that his knife turned out to be a harmless prop."

"Tinfoil over foamcore, darn it. But the news right now is, he made bail. And the amount was pretty substantial."

"Paid it himself?"

"No," Rock replied. "Paid in cash by this organization he belongs to, the—"

Tom interrupted. "I can guess. The World Church of Informatics Soul Science."

"Exactly, my friend, ex-actly." The officer snorted telephonically. "We’ve been keeping an eye on them since they set up shop—they call their church a ‘fort’—in the old Regalia Theater at Grantwood Beach. Man! I saw movies there when I was your age."

The young inventor chuckled, then asked Captain Rock if the church had caused any problems in Shopton. "No, I guess I can’t say they have..." His voice trailed off, inviting a further question.

Tom asked if there were more to the story, and Rock continued. "Tom, I’ve been a peace officer for near forty years now, and I know when I smell something not quite right. The church pastor, Speaker Scott Anderman, came to see me even before they purchased the building. He wanted to answer questions and reassure me, kind of keep things smooth. Nice of him, eh? But over the last ten years or so, these Informatics people have had trouble with the law here and there. Suspected embezzlement, tax violations, making threats against dissenting members, lots o’ things. And believe me, they have a team of good lawyers and know the ins and outs of the legal system—say a discouraging word about ’em in public and they sue the pants off you!"

"Wow!" the youth gulped. "But have they done anything like that here in Shopton?"

"Well, no. But there’ve been some incidents I find... odd." Captain Rock hesitated, involuntarily lowering his voice. "They’ve only been open for business for a few months, and already eight of their members—well known Shopton citizens who’ve joined the church, upstanding folks—have been charged with shoplifting in town. Piddly stuff, I’ll admit. But three of those eight were apprehended during storefront and home break-ins and charged with attempted burglary!"

"I’ll bet the Church bailed them out," commented Tom.

"Sure did. And as a matter of fact, there have been other local burglaries recently with similar MO’s, so far unsolved. When you get a rash of this stuff in the span of a few weeks—!"

"Right. And Mr. Wullgrath may have been planning some sort of theft last night, at Enterprises. It couldn’t possibly have worked, though, not with our security setup. He was dumb to think it could pull it off."

"Dumb? My opinion, these folks are nuts!" the captain grumbled. "Just my personal opinion, naturally. I have nothing against anyone’s religion but my own."

But when Tom clicked off the phone, he couldn’t stop thinking of the intent look on Wullgrath’s face, the fierce energy with which he resisted capture.

"Crazy they may be," the youth murmured to the inert phone in his hand. "But something tells me we have a lot more to worry about than tinfoil weapons!"

IT WAS later that morning that Tom, working in his design lab on the problem of creating a mobile container for the energy brain, received the welcome news that a response from the X-ians had been received at last.

"We just finished receiving it, but your Dad was here and had a chance to look it over," Nels Gachter reported. "He was anxious to get the preliminary translation to you."

"That’s great!" Tom enthused. "Now I can work on something more than vague notions! What was the content of the message?"

"Listen, I’ll read it to you—the first part, anyway."

Tom couldn’t help gasping softly. "Six and a half days!"

Gachter chuckled. "Like father, like son! Your Dad’s reaction was louder. Still, he said to tell you that the parameter data is extensive. Basically, you’ll just be working from their blueprints."

Tom, however, was not certain of this. The inhabitants of distant Planet X clearly knew the details of their own creation. But it was up to Earthly scientists to give the visitor the power to engage with an environment that was, apparently, radically different from that of his mysterious creators.

After the parameter details had been sent to Tom, he sat almost motionless for a time, studying them. How in the world do I begin? he asked himself.

Finally his youthful brain began to percolate and the magic of his scientific intuitions took over. The computer-like "space brain" was evidently a four-dimensional pattern of self-reinforcing energy, inscribed directly upon the fabric of spacetime and stable at the quantum level. The X-ians seemed to be indicating that modulations of the different segments of its peripheral "shell"—composed of dense motes of charged particles twined together by looped cords of electromagnetism—would be directly grasped by the entity, not merely as coded data but as something like a conscious experience. So the first thing to do is design receptor ‘organs’ that can respond to specific factors in the environment, like the five basic human senses, Tom thought as he pulled out his "sketch" notebook.

Like the space beings, Tom Swift had discovered how to manipulate the flow of spacetime. His method was to ignore it by means of deep concentration. The morning hours passed unnoticed.

"Chow down!" boomed a foghorn voice. Chow Winkler, wearing a white chef’s hat, wheeled a lunch cart into the lab.

"Oh, hi Chow... thanks." Tom scarcely looked up from his work as the cook set out an appetizing meal of Texas hash, milk, and deep-dish apple pie on the bench beside the young inventor’s papers and computer keyboard. Grumbling under his breath, well-aware that his grumbling would go utterly unheard, Chow sauntered out.

In the manner of a robot fueling itself automatically, Tom went on working intently between mouthfuls. In another hour he had finished a set of pilot drawings. The young scientist-inventor frowned as he studied the rough sketches he had drawn. "This setup’s full of bugs!" he muttered. His progress seemed minimal.

Nevertheless, Tom decided, the basic idea was sound. Grabbing pencil and hand calculator, he began to dash off page after page of diagrams and engineering equations. Near the end of the day, though Tom hardly knew it, he called Hank Sterling and Arvid Hanson and asked them to come to the laboratory.

They listened with keen interest as Tom explained his early concepts in great technical and theoretical detail. "This is a case where we can’t really perform advance tests to fine-tune the approach, obviously. No telling if it will work when the energy arrives from space," Tom said. "But I think everything tracks okay with the data from the space message. Hank, get these concepts blueprinted and assign an electronics group to the project. You’d better handle the hardware yourself."

"Right." Hank rolled up the blown-up copies Tom had made of his notebook pages. "I’ll also ask Dean Stegner from Life Sciences to go over them with me, since the goal is to emulate basic human sense processes. They’ve been doing emulation work in connection with AI stuff."

"Great idea. And Arv," Tom went on, "I’d like a scale model made to guide them on assembly when they get to that phase of things. How soon can you have it?"

Hanson promised the model for sometime the next day, and the two men hurried off. Their young boss had signaled, by his brusqueness, the tremendous importance of the project at hand.

As five o’clock crept toward six, Tom reminded himself of the need to record the day’s tasks and progress in his encrypted computer journal, which only he and his father had access to. He worked carefully for some time, then paused for long moments, staring at the screen. Was the entry finished?

Suddenly he stiffened, eyebrows lifted in surprise. Words not written by him had flashed onto the glowing screen!

BRUNGARIA PROBLEM

NEWS TO PUBLIC TOMORROW

"Collections!" gasped Tom.

When Tom had first begun to venture into space, an ultra-secretive government group, now nicknamed Collections, had made contact with him to warn him of dangers and developments in the shadow world of foreign affairs and international espionage. They had some sort of high-tech means of accessing Tom’s personal files and communicating interactively via any computer he chose to utilize. Incredibly, it sometimes seemed that his primary contact, who had accepted the monicker "the Taxman," could actually see and hear the young inventor at his keyboard!

The Taxman—evidently a team of specialists alternating in the role, not just a single individual—rarely intervened in matters other than those related to space exploration and national defense. He had last contacted Tom when the space friends had directed Tom to a rendezvous, on the moon, with a vessel containing extraterrestrial animals.

Tom typed, "Where were you jokers when I was trying to find Li Ching and the stolen ship?" He was referring to a recent deadly affair that had endangered many lives, Tom’s and Bud’s included. His attempts to contact Collections had then gone unanswered.

DOESNT MATTER NOW

COUP WILL IMPACT VISITOR PROJECT

Visitor project! "You mean our brainy guest?"

SUCH VISITORS

COULD CHANGE OUR WORLD

SENTIMENTALISTS NOW IN CONTROL

Tom frowned deeply. This was a new angle. He knew the government of the European country of Brungaria—formerly a totalitarian state hostile to the West, now democratic and nominally friendly—had been threatened by a faction of internal plotters who termed themselves The Sentimentalists. "We were sure that group had been smashed!" he entered.

ACTIVE IN SECRET

TAKEOVER IMMANENT

The news was dismaying. Tom probed for more information. "How will this coup affect our project here?"

NO MORE TO SAY

And no more was said. As Tom clicked off the computer in frustration, he told himself: "The guy didn’t even use his usual tag-line—your tax dollars at work!" Why had the warning taken such a vague form? Was Collections afraid their own communications might be tapped by the rogue Brungarians?

Then a more unsettling thought popped into his brain. What if the real danger to be guarded against was not the Brungarians, but the Masters from Planet X? Collections knew the details of the Swifts’ space contacts. Perhaps something about the impending visitation was compelling an unusual degree of secrecy!

It was a chilling possibility Tom preferred not to think about.

In the morning, a night of little sleep behind him, Tom sat with his mother at the breakfast table. Mr. Swift had already left for work, and Sandy had an early dental appointment in town.

Tom chatted with his mother about the pending arrival from space. "Goodness, mightn’t it get out of control and be rather overpowering? Suppose it went berserk!" commented Anne Swift.

Both she and Tom became thoughtful as they discussed the problem. "That’s a mighty scary possibility, Mom," her son agreed, smiling wryly but not reassuringly. "But I trust our space friends wouldn’t let that happen."

"Yes, but you said this ‘x-man’ isn’t coming from the space friends," she pointed out.

Tom nodded. "True. But in the past the Mars scientists were willing to slip us a warning when their superiors were—you know, pushing the envelope. All we can do is go forward. After all, nothing prevents the X-ians from shopping elsewhere for Earth contacts if we become difficult or suspicious. We just about have to play along."

"I understand," said Mrs. Swift. "And there’s so much to be learned from them. If anything’s worth the risk, this is, surely."

"Mumsy, I agree." As Tom stood to clear the dishes, he added soberly, "And Dad was sure right the other night, Mom. This is a terrific challenge on all counts."

Shortly thereafter, as he sat down on the living room sofa to pull on his shoes, Tom flicked on the big TV screen. Instead of the usual morning interview program, a news conference was in progress, and the tone was grim.

A familiar figure, the Secretary of Defense, was speaking. "It now appears," the man was explaining, "that only one segment was quelled. Other members of the antigovernment movement are active again and are said to be strongly organized."

"Mr. Secretary, what’s the bottom line here?" asked a reporter. "Does this coup in Brungaria endanger our allies in Europe?"

"We mustn’t jump to hasty conclusions, Jane," was the reply. "The statement from the White House urged calm and caution, and that’s certainly the attitude where I work, in the Pentagon." The assembled group laughed as he added: "Matter of fact, we didn’t even interrupt our morning coffee break!"

Yet even as the man spoke, a "breaking news" message was sliding across the bottom of the TV screen. President confirms ouster of democratic government in Brungaria. Rioting engulfs capital city of Volkonis. Border clash reported.

"Oh, Tom, what’s going to happen?" murmured Mrs. Swift softly, watching the news program from the dining room.

"Guess it’s not for us to know, Mom," Tom responded, trying not to show that he was as concerned as his mother.

When Tom arrived at Enterprises, he found Bud and Chow waiting with Mr. Swift in the administrative building office. "Guess we got a little spooked by that there Brungaria business," Chow declared. "We had more’n enough trouble with them pesty foreigners on th’ moon!"

"And there’s a real connection with all that, genius boy," Bud pronounced, grim-faced. "Harlan Ames just got word from his sources in D.C.—the main assistant to this guy Samson Narko, the new President of Brungaria, happens to be our old buddy Nattan Volj!"

Tom groaned, sinking into his chair behind his desk. This was the most disturbing news yet! Nattan Volj, who proffered the title of "professor" but seemed more of a military man than a scientist, had commanded the moon mission launched by the Sentimentalists faction in a race with the Swift Enterprises effort. Striving to gain control of the capsule of alien animal life to use it to develop germ warfare, Volj had treacherously violated a brief truce, attacking Tom’s crew with a volley of missiles before being repulsed into space. There had been no word of him since, nor any confirmation that the faction’s spacecraft, the Dyaune, had successfully returned to Earth.

"If Nattan Volj is now the number two man in Brungaria," began Mr. Swift, "America can expect a total turnabout in the—"

Suddenly the desk phone shrilled—a direct interoffice call from George Dilling. Tom’s father answered and put it on the speaker. "Damon—Tom—I know a lot’s going on this morning, but I assumed you’d want to hear of this right away. There’s been another unexplained earthquake, a devastating one. The Trumman rocket-engine lab in Ohio has been completely destroyed!"

GEORGE DILLING told the astounded listeners that he had recorded the most recent news reports of the disaster. "I’ll send it to the videophone setup in your office. It’s disturbing stuff."

Mr. Swift activated the broad curving screen of the videophone unit, one terminal of the private Swift Enterprises telecommunications network. Connected via satellite, the system kept the company well informed of scientific developments and other matters of special interest across the nation.

"Good night! Another quake!" Bud gasped. "What’s going on?" The shaken group rushed to the videophone screen, joining Mr. Swift. Soon a picture appeared on the screen. It was a panoramic shot of a landscape, evidently viewed from a hovering aircraft, with a large industrial plant just below and a busy highway further beyond. At the bottom of the screen was the legend, recorded live by our traffic-copter reporter at 8:12 this morning.

A TV commentator’s voice was reporting developments as the taped sequence played. "As you can see there was no hint of the tremor to come," he said. "But the scene was quite different three minutes later as our own Dave Kincaid interrupted his traffic video with this harrowing sight." The tape now cut forward to the later segment, the voice of the pilot-reporter replacing that of the commentator. "...flowing smoothly despite the slight early-morning—unh! Barb, I can see—notice that tall smokestack just over the Trumman plant— see how it’s starting to tremble. I’ve never seen—Barb, it’s beginning to crumble! Holy... This must be it! Earthquake!"

Suddenly the whole scene seemed to explode. Plant buildings collapsed like toy houses built of cards, while at the same time huge slabs of concrete and trees were uprooted as the ground below rolled visibly like long, low ocean waves.

The four watchers in the Swifts’ office stared in horrified dismay. The Trumman Aeroframe plant, big as Swift Enterprises, was disintegrating before their eyes! After a minute the helicopter reporter shifted his camera back to the nearby knot of highways. His voice shaky, he continued: "As you can now see, the arriving rocket-plant personnel and the passing commuters of Medfield are making desperate attempts to escape the wreckage, pulling off the roads to turn back. You can hardly blame them for panicking. I can see that the railway bridge a half-mile down has collapsed, adding to the chaos. Oh—oh! Ladies and gentlemen, there must be another tremor starting up—those high-tension power poles next to the highway look like—" The reporter’s voice was cut off as the screen filled with static!

The studio commentator’s voice broke in again. "And at that point the picture feed became jerky and distorted, then faded out completely. We now believe our satellite-uplink antenna in Medfield must have been knocked out by the quake.

"As of this hour there have been no further tremors in this area, and we have no information as to injuries or damage. Clearly the incident was centered on the Trumman Aeroframe facility, and the visible destruction was immense. We return you now to our regularly scheduled program, but will keep you informed as bulletins come in."

"Great balls o’ prairie fire!" Chow whispered as Tom turned off the set. "I shor hope all o’ those poor folks in cars got away safe!"

Tom rushed to a wall cabinet and pulled a bound sheaf of paper from the file drawer. He leafed through it quickly and when he looked up at the others, his face was grim.

"What’s wrong, skipper?" Bud asked tensely.

"These are the computer ground-mappings from the lithosonde tests," Tom replied. "Just as I thought, that quake wasn’t in a mapped fault zone any more than the Thessaly one was!"

"An anomalous cause," muttered Damon Swift. "As far as I know it’s an unprecedented earth phenomenon."

Chow’s jaw dropped open in a comic look of dismay. "Y-You mean this here ole Earth we live on is gettin’ all busted up an’ twisted around inside?"

"I wish I knew, Chow!" Tom paced worriedly about the office. "It just seems queer to me that both of those quakes should have destroyed vital defense labs linked to space projects!"

"Maybe it’s underground H-bomb blasts—bombs planted by saboteurs!" Bud put in. "That could cause quakes, couldn’t it?"

Tom regarded his pal silently, then finally gave a slight shake of his head. "If this new quake is like the one at Wickliffe Labs, the wave pattern doesn’t jibe with the idea of a bomb explosion. Seismograph readings at Grandyke University showed a gradual buildup of deep-earth movements over the course of several seconds. It felt on the surface like a sharp jolt because the rock strata fractured under pressure—but that was after the initial actions had already begun."

On a sudden impulse, Tom snatched up the telephone. His two companions listened as he put through a call to the FBI in Washington. Within moments, a friend at the Bureau, section chief Wes Norris, came on the line.

"Look, Wes," Tom said, "is there any chance this quake that just happened at Medfield and the earlier one at Faber Electronics might have been caused deliberately, perhaps by underground blasts of some kind? What do your experts say about it?"

"As a matter of fact, we’re checking on that very possibility," Norris replied. "In other words, sabotage. Things are pretty hot around here since that news on Medfield came in, so I can’t talk much right now, Tom. But I can tell you this," Wes concluded, "we are investigating, and I do mean thoroughly!"

Bud, Chow, and Mr. Swift were shocked when Tom reported his conversation with the FBI agent.

"Brand my rattlesnake stew!" Chow exploded. "Any ornery varmint that’d cause an earthquake ought to be strung up like a hoss thief!"

"I agree, Chow," Tom said. "But how do we find out for sure? There’s a clue, though," he added thoughtfully. "If the debris at Trumman shows the same strange effect on glass as we saw at Wickliffe Laboratories—!"

"Tom, if this was deliberate," Mr. Swift pointed out, "Enterprises may be next on the enemy’s list!"

Bud gulped but nodded vigorously. "They don’t get any bigger than us! And we sure do plenty of important government work."

Realizing that he had fanned the flames of alarm, Tom did his best to allay the others’ fears. But inwardly he himself felt apprehensive. Any large-scale sabotage plot would be almost certain to include Tom Swift Enterprises, America’s most daring and advanced technology research center.

Chow broke the moment of worried silence. "Got me one o’ those idees o’ mine, boss—bosses," he said. "Y’know that Al feller who decked me out t’other night? Wa-aal, we never did figger what he was after. Mebbe he was workin’ for the quake-maker, you think?"

"He didn’t have anything on him, Chow," Tom objected quietly. "Just that phony knife."

"That’s so," conceded the westerner. "Jest seemed t’me like a funny co-incerdence." With a shrug and a thoughtful expression, Chow excused himself and headed for his "chuck wagon"—his kitchen.

Watching his friend leave, Bud snapped his fingers. "But look Tom, the man did have something else on him, you said—that flyer about the nut group in Shopton!"

Mr. Swift commented impatiently, "I can’t see the possibility of a connection. This ‘Informatics’ business is some sort of religious movement. If somehow—incredibly!—these quakes are being produced on demand, it would surely require technology of the most advanced kind conceivable."

Tom said nothing. A trace of smile dawned on his lips as he looked at Bud. "Tell me something, flyboy. If I tell you not to play spy over at ‘Fort Shopton,’ just how guilty are you going to feel when you go and do it anyway?"

The dark-haired pilot grinned at his best friend. "Oh, I always make a point of feeling extremely guilty."

"Uh-huh." Tom’s look was mock-chiding but full of affection. "Be careful, pal."

"Always. Want to go with me?"

Tom shook his head. "Sorry. We’ve got an important visitor to prepare for!"

Bud prepared for his afternoon spy mission by talking to Enterprises employee Sam Barker, whom Bud knew had been briefly involved with the Informatics movement in Portland. "I guess I’ve spent a lot of time and money over the years trying to ‘find myself’," Sam conceded, crinkling his brow.

"Have you turned up yet?"

Sam laughed. "Not so far! Still got all my phobias intact. But as for these Informatics guys—well, what should I say? The Portland crew was pretty harmless, mostly University kids earning commissions by signing up new members. Some of them are true believers, though. And believe me, you don’t want to cross ’em."

"So I hear," Bud nodded. "But look, Sam... Is there any part of their process, whatever you call it, that might cause ordinary people to act strangely out in the, er, real world? Maybe do things they wouldn’t normally think of doing?—to prove themselves, or something?" Bud had in mind the peculiar incidents Captain Rock had mentioned, which Tom had told him about.

Barker paused, a thinking-frown shadowing his forehead. "Now that you mention it, Bud, there is something they do that I’ve always been kind of curious about. It’s this weird thing they call ‘the higher plane.’ Persons who commit to the church are expected to go through a three-week series of really intense spiritual counseling sessions. Very confidential closed-door stuff; you know, ‘reveal your inner self’ and that jazz. Maybe they tell ’em the secrets of the universe or something. I never went for it. But after the series is over, a few of the participants are made what they call Prime Movers. I guess they have a special role in the Church, like deacons."

Bud said slowly, "Yeah. It could be some sort of brainwashing! No wonder they don’t want anybody to talk about what goes on." The term Prime Mover stuck in his mind. Could mover somehow tie in to earth movements?—the violent kind?

It’s pretty far-fetched, Bud mused as Sam left for his shift. Still, that’s the kind of outside-the-box genius stuff Tom’s always getting into!

In an hour his red convertible was parked next to the old theater that now bore the sign "Church of Informatics Soul Science Fortress of Knowledge, Shopton Congregation." More discreet lettering advised that visitors, and donations, were welcome.

Bud, using a pseudonym, had been ushered from the tastefully decorous lobby into the office of the pastor of the Fort Shopton church, who introduced himself as Speaker Scott Anderman. He was a slim, youngish man, not even thirty, with a ready smile and a visage as bland as an open face sandwich. "But I’m not gonna fall for that!" Bud snorted inwardly, seating himself before the man’s wooden desk.

"Well now, Mr. Newton," Speaker Anderman began.

"Oh, please call me Ike," Bud said.

"Ike. You’re here on a quest, aren’t you—Ike?" Was there a hidden taunt in his words? The man’s empty-sky blue eyes seemed to focus on Bud’s gray ones.

The athletic youth shifted uncomfortably. "What’s that mean? A quest?"

"Quest. As in question. Don’t we all have questions about the world, about our place in it? About our happiness?"

"I suppose so, sir." Bud glanced away. The guy’s trying to hypnotize me! he thought. That must be how it starts!

Anderman nodded, and the nod seemed friendly and sympathetic, which made Bud all the more suspicious. "Your questions are your quest, Ike. You seek information. Informatics supplies what you seek."

"That’s—great." Bud realized that he sounded less than persuaded.

"We all began with skepticism," laughed the man gently. "Me too! But the process one goes through—called Confirmation—leads you from the world’s skepticism to the other side."

Bud tried to keep his voice level. "The other side. That’s what you call ‘the higher plane,’ isn’t it?"

To Bud’s surprise, Speaker Anderman looked unnervingly pleased. "I see you already know about Informatics Soul Science. Wonderful! You’re not a ‘zero-leveler,’ and we can move forward rapidly."

"I—I did speak to someone, a friend of mine at work, who had an interest in the church. He mentioned something about... special counseling sessions?"

"Mm-hmm. The first phase of Confirmation." Anderman leaned forward in his chair toward Bud, eyes still locked on. He said softly, "You have secrets."

Good night, does he know who I am? "Secrets? What do you mean—Scott?"

"We all have secrets. Secrets burden us down through life, like weights. To enter the Higher Plane, you must shed that pain. Do you see? The Confirmation Series, three weeks of daily private sessions with trained and enlightened church elders—that’s where you lay the burden aside and ready yourself for the white robes of knowledge. No more secrets, Ike. We free your soul."

I’ll bet you do! "I think I understand," Bud said. "And then—is that when you become one of those ‘Prime Movers’ my friend told me about?"

The man’s attitude seemed to chill as he shifted back in his chair. "This friend of yours wasn’t a very good friend of ours if he flaunted our private spiritual gifts to an outsider."

"He never went all the way into the Church, actually. He didn’t realize—"

"It doesn’t matter." The Speaker shook his head dismissively. "Religions all have their sacred languages and rituals. You’ll learn. We’ll provide you with better ‘secrets’ than the toxic ones you now hold within. And the new secrets will not be secrets at all, but truths. Truths are our treasures." Bud involuntarily followed Anderman’s glance toward one of the office walls. A colorful poster bore the legend: "Truths are our treasures.—Eldrich Oldmother".

Bud said he would think about what Anderman had said. "Yes—you will," the man replied. "And then, I believe I’ll see you again."

"Goodbye, sir."

"Later—Ike."

Bud turned over the odd-feeling interview in his mind as he pulled out of the parking lot. What had he learned, exactly? Only that this guy’s a mighty sophisticated seller of snake-oil! he thought ruefully. But what exactly went on in those secret no-secrets sessions?

Bud glanced in his mirror. A compact car, beat-up and badly in need of paint, ambled along the almost deserted highway about a half-block behind. Several turn-offs later and the car was still keeping pace, no closer, no further.

"Swell," grated the youth. "I’m not in the mood."

Bud slowed. The other car slowed also, making no move to pass. They went slower, slower—and Bud suddenly swerved onto the shoulder and yanked the parking break. A bound took him out onto the pavement as the compact skidded to a startled halt not far away.

Quickly striding up, Bud motioned for the driver to role down his window. He did so—a young man, about Bud’s age, face frightened.

Bud leaned into the window like a highway patrolman. "Friend, you’re messing up my enlightenment, but for the moment I’m feeling too righteous to punch you out. So look, don’t waste our combined soul-power following me. Packing a gun?"

The kid shook his head as if the very idea amazed him.

"Tell you what, then. I’m hitting Beach Dogs over at the Rec Pier—I’m hungry. How ’bout if I meet you there? I’ll even buy you a hot dog and fries. Frankly, I’d prefer being kidnapped on a full stomach. Okay?"

"O-Okay!" the youth gasped.

They rendezvoused at the Recreation Pier in Shopton, on Lake Carlopa. Bud handed his follower the promised snacks, eyeing him. He was a nondescript, muscular youth, not very tall, with hair beached-out by the sun. "So what’s your name?" Bud asked as they plopped down together on a bench.

"I’m Fred Latty," said the other. Bud suddenly realized that his benchmate was even younger than he had first thought—no older than a high-school kid. "I know who you are. You’re Bud Barclay."

"You a fan of high-school football?"

"No, but I’ve seen you in news photos," Fred replied. "You’re the guy who’s always standing next to Tom Swift."

Bud took a snapping bite of his hot dog. His expression had soured. "So what’s up, Fred—why’re you following me?"

"I saw you at Informatics and recognized you right off."

"You a member of the church?"

"No—I just volunteer to do a little custodial stuff there, part-time. When I’m not in school, I teach water skiing here on the lake."

"Okay. You saw me and followed me. Now you got me. What’s the deal?"

Fred Latty cleared his throat. "It’s just... I thought maybe you could get a message through direct, to Tom Swift himself. I think something bad’s going down in Shopton. And it’s aimed right at Swift Enterprises!"

"THAT’S real interesting, Fred," Bud commented in disinterested tones. "But so’s this hot dog. I can’t think of the last time Tom—my good pal Tom Swift!—and his company weren’t staring some kind of catastrophe in the snout. We just got back from an almost sunken ship, how ’bout that! All of which goes to say that whatever you want me to pass on had better be worth Tom’s time."

"Oh, man, it is!" declared Fred hastily.

"I’m listening. And eating."

Fred drew in a long breath, and Bud had the feeling the story was going to be a lengthy saga. Fortunately he had bought one of the extra-long dogs. "I grew up in New Jersey. My folks just got divorced and still fight a lot—from separate locations, but they hassle each other. I just had to get away. So I moved here."

Bud interrupted with a note of skepticism. "Just coincidentally the home of Tom Swift."

"Hey, it was because my uncle Pete lives here, that’s all," said the boy indignantly. "I’m living with him. He’s a great guy, except when—"

"Except when he’s not?"

"Except when’s he’s out o’ work, which happens kind of a lot, y’know? Then he’s a different dude altogether—real down for days, then mad, mad all the time. He broke his foot punting the TV through the window!"

"Okay. So no TV."

"Just listen—please. Okay, so all this has been goin’ on since last year. He had to go to court ’cause he... well, he bit somebody." Fred looked out at the lake, embarrassed.

"Bit somebody where?"

"In the middle of a hardware store. But anyway, the judge made him do ‘community service,’ and he lit on doing it at the new church—Informatics. Pretty soon he comes home and tells me he wants to join ’em. He said somethin’ about secrets and questions about life and that kinda stuff, but I think mainly he just wanted to get himself t’gether so’s he could hold down a job. See?"

"Uh-huh."

"Now, when you want to join, they make you go through these private sessions. Each one lasts about three hours, and you go every day for three weeks. After a few days of it, Uncle Pete changed."

Bud ate a fry thoughtfully. "Stopped biting?"

"He was just different, like he always had something on his mind. Each day it got a little worse. He started going out after dinner, and when I’d ask, he’d just say something about walking around in town, getting to know the people. But Bud—" Fred was now suddenly intense and stricken. "He was shoplifting! Stealing! Little things would turn up here and there, and finally he flat-out told me after I promised I wouldn’t call the cops or anything."

"I’ve heard something about this kind of thing, pal," Bud declared soberly. "Other people have been affected, too—it’s something Informatics does to people in those Higher Plane sessions."

"That’s what I figured out," the youth confirmed. "I wanted to know what was goin’ on, so—"

"So you volunteered to work there."

"Yeah. An’ I used a phony name, too—Jermaine Butafuoco. Uncle Pete doesn’t know. His sessions are always in the morning, and I come in after five, three days a week."

"Have you doped out anything?" asked Bud keenly.

"Ohh yeah! I found a storage closet where you can hear what they’re saying in the counseling rooms through the heating duct, where it’s pulling off from the wall. These sessions are—wow, people cry! They tell all this stuff about themselves, secrets they don’t want anybody to know about. Sometimes it’s just, like, humiliating, but sometimes it’s illegal stuff—mostly to do with tax cheating. Then there’s guys who are seeing somebody behind their wife’s back..."

"What do the church people do, make files on the counselees?"

Fred nodded vigorously. "Yeah—I’m sure they do! They keep ’em in a locked room. See, it’s, like, a blackmail operation. They find a few people with really bad secrets and force ’em to do things."

"Got it!—shoplifting."

"It starts with just watching people’s houses or businesses and writing reports. The ones who do what they’re s’posed to and act like real believers are separated out and told to prove that they have soul-freedom by shoplifting—then they go on to breaking into houses!"

"Wait," Bud interrupted. "What’s it all for? Does the church make its money by fencing stolen goods, or what?"

"No. The kind of things they steal are hardly worth it. I think it’s more like a test. Every now and then somebody passes all the tests and ‘graduates.’ They call those people—"

"I know," declared Bud. "Prime Movers!"

"Uncle Pete made the grade, I guess," Fred continued sadly. "Now he’s one of them."

Bud said impatiently, "I’m real sorry for your uncle. But what’s the danger to Swift Enterprises?"

"Okay, listen. There was a picture in the paper of a man who’d been arrested for forcing his way into the plant grounds—Al something. Now the thing is, I know that guy! He visited Uncle Pete several times over the last couple weeks or so."

"Now you’ve really got my attention, bud. Did you hear what they talked about?"

"A little bit; I must be gettin’ good at it. And that’s what I want you to pass along to Tom Swift. The guy said he was a Prime Mover himself, and my uncle was his ‘enabler.’ That means Uncle Pete was supposed to store things for him in this little cellar we have underneath the house. He told Uncle Pete to make a lot of room down there, because he’d be bringing armloads of valuable stuff after the big quake!"

Fred’s words finally drew a gasp from Bud. "You mean—a quake here in Shopton?"

"Centered on Swift Enterprises! He said it."

"Then—then he—" Bud’s voice faltered. "He must have been planning to cause an earthquake the other night, using Tom to get past security! It was just luck that we shorted out his plan!"

But Fred Latty shook his head. "No, man, that’s not what I’m saying. Al sort’ve went into it, to my uncle. The other night was just to check out if the goods were where the Church’s inside contacts thought they were. The quake was planned for later—I think maybe next week!"

Bud Barclay stood and made a long angry toss, his crumpled wrappers hitting the edge of a trash can and falling neatly in. "I get it. They cause quakes, then loot the labs and plants during all the confusion, when security is messed up."

"Yeah!" confirmed Fred excitedly. "They grab some real valuables to be sold off, for Church income; but also they steal technical stuff, like blueprints. I heard Al say that he was supposed to scout out some carvings from Mexico, for stealing in the quake."

The Yucatan artifacts! Bud asked if Fred had any idea what sort of "technical stuff" had also been targeted. "I’m not real sure," replied the youth. "I’m not even sure the church people know all the details much beforehand. They’re getting orders themselves from other people some place else who want specific items that they know Enterprises has. Look, Bud, there must be evidence in that locked cellar under the house. I’m hoping Tom can get to it and maybe keep the law out of it—I don’t want Uncle Pete put in jail. I don’t think he can help what they’re making him do."

Bud said he understood and would immediately pass all the information on to Tom.

As Fred moved to drive off, he suddenly paused and looked back at Bud. "Oh, I forgot to say—that guy Al did mention something that might help you figure out what they want to steal. He was joking, but maybe it means something. He said the main goal at Enterprises was to make ‘an unwelcome visitor feel real unwelcome’!"

Bud was thunderstruck! A visitor! "You’re right, Fred," he commented weakly. "I think just maybe it does mean something!"

The young pilot roared back to Enterprises in frantic haste, finding his chum hard at work on the space-brain canister in his underground lab.

"Hey, Bud," Tom greeted him. "They let you escape, hmm?"

"Jetz, Tom! Wait’ll you—"

"Boss, boss!" interrupted a deep, twangy voice and the thud of heavy footclomps on concrete. Panting with excitement, Chow burst into the lab. "Wait’ll you hear what I got t’tell ya! Brand my Pecos mules!"

With an apologetic glance at Bud, Tom nodded for the older man to go ahead.

"Wa-aal, Boss, after I left t’go off t’ my galley, I got to thinking—you recollect that piece o’ paper you got off’n that there spy? About that Info-Church? I heard somethin’ about ’em and got to wondering what in th’ name o’ Longhorn Louie they’s doin’ here in Shopton. Say, Old Wrangler, I told m’self, mebbe you ’as right the first time. Mebbe that Church is up to it’s dang neck in all this quake stuff!"

"Wow!" Tom exclaimed with affection. "That there’s good thinking, pard!"

Chow beamed. "An’ that ain’t the end. I took right off and rode out there in my pickup—told ’em I wanted t’ sign up."

"What did they do?"

"Girl at the counter said normally they’d have me talk with the head man, who they call the Speaker. But she said he ’as already in talkin’ to somebody—must be doin’ a flapjack business there, Tom. So’s they put me in with someb’dy else, little feller name o’ Jim. I kin tell ya anything you wanna know about that church now—what they’s all about, how you join, all that stuff. Bet it’ll help you figger what they’re up to!"

"Bet you’re right," grinned Tom as he gave Chow a pat on the back. "What a great job!"

"Aw now, son, anybody coulda done it." Chow shuffled his feet, then looked up at Bud. "But I guess I busted in on you, buddy boy. Go on with what you ’as saying."

Bud hesitated, not wanted to steal any of Chow’s loud and excited thunder. "Well, I was about to tell Tom... I went to get something to eat in Shopton, and this kid comes up to me. He knew who I was—high school kids know about my football career." Bud gave a slightly edited rendering of Fred Latty’s amazing tale.

"Good night!" Tom gasped. "This pretty well confirms what I’ve been suspecting for a long time. There’s some connection between the quake plotters and the arrival of our visitor—and with the X-ians themselves. I’m sure of it!"

The face around Chow’s bulging eyes turned a shade paler. "You mean t’ say them space people are makin’ th’ blame earthquakes?"

Tom gave a grim nod. "They’re involved in some way. You see, when I got to thinking about the strange effect of the Thessaly quake on glass, I remembered how the extraterrestrials’ energy-force, the glowing field that they use in moving solid matter, has a particular affect on silicon and silicon compounds, such as glass."

"You’re right!" exclaimed Bud. "Sandy told me how the rocket that flew over Shopton lifted up the cut-glass punchbowl!"

"Exactly, flyboy," the young inventor confirmed. "And of course, most of the rocky material of the earth’s crust is composed of silicates—silicon compounds. If the quake-makers are using X-ian technology, the effect is just what you’d expect to see!"

"An’ I thought we had trouble comin’ before!" groaned Chow. "If them loco church people have got themselves partnered-up with those saucer-riders—what kin we do?"

"What I’m going to do is talk to Harlan Ames and Dad," Tom declared. "And then to Captain Rock."

"And then?" asked Bud.

"And then I’m going to see if I can wangle permission to do a little hunting in Shopton!"

The astounded authorities were willing to give Tom Swift’s approach a try.

That night a nondescript sedan stopped at a weather-beaten house in one of the less charming sections of town. Wearing an official looking jacket and cap, Tom stepped out, along with a plainclothes police officer named Jack Hammond. "Is this one of the nights that kid Fred works at the church?" he asked Tom in a whisper. "He could give us away if he recognizes you."

Tom replied, "I called Informatics on a pretext. ‘Jermaine’ doesn’t work there tonight. I’m hoping he’ll be expecting quick action and won’t be too startled. But keep ready, Jack, in case things go south in a hurry!"

A pot-bellied older man came to the door in response to the bell. "What you fellers prowlin’ around for?" he asked with a scowl.

"Environmental emergency, Mr. Latty," the officer said laconically, pretending to glance at a clipboard in his hand. "We’re from the County Environmental Hazards Investigations Office. We have orders to search every house cellar in the area for underground openings. Radon gas is accumulating all over, and it’s dangerous."

"You hafta do it late at night?"

"That’s when most folks are at home to let us in, sir," Tom responded with a smile.

Grumbling—and, Tom thought, nervous—Pete Latty let them enter. He followed them down a rickety stairway into a plank-floor basement illuminated by a tiny bulb that seemed more adept at casting shadow than light. The two fanned out to examine the dirty cement walls. A moment later Tom stumbled and gave a yell. Hammond swung around just in time to see the youth drop from view!

As the disguised officer’s flashlight stabbed through the cellar gloom at the spot where Tom had disappeared, there came a loud splash! The light showed a round hole in the floor, rimmed by a low circle of brickwork. Rushing to look inside, Hammond found the young inventor standing chagrined and knee-deep in water, five feet below floor level.

"What’s that hole?" the trooper snapped at Latty, who had remained on the stairs.

"What does it look like?" the man snapped back. "It’s an old well."

"A well!" the trooper exclaimed as he knelt down to extend a hand to Tom. "And not even covered? What’re you trying to do—kill people?"

The man sniffed. "Used to be covered, but the lid’s gone. Figgered you could just walk around it. Didn’t expect to have a bunch of nosy fellers pokin’ around down here!"

The policeman reddened. As he yanked Tom up to safety, he stood up to his full six-foot-two. "Look, mister—what’s your name again?"

The man shrank back, as if suspecting that the inspector’s patience might have been tried too far. "Pete Latty," he mumbled.

"Okay, Mr. Latty, you take a deep breath and visualize every square inch of this basement! Got it? Now—any more booby traps we should know about?"

Latty gulped. "Nope. Nothin’ else." He turned toward Tom, whose trousers were wet and stained, but was unharmed. "Sorry, son," Latty said with hasty apology. "Guess I should have warned you."

Tom chuckled good-naturedly. "It’s all right," he said. "It was my own fault for not watching where I was going. Besides, you can’t blame a true-blue American for not liking the idea of having his home searched." He wondered if his choice of words had sounded sarcastic. He knew they had been meant that way.

Latty chuckled too and flashed a wary eye at Jack Hammond.

"Uncle Pete, you down there?" called a voice from atop the stairs.

"S’okay. Just showin’ some visitors what’s what. You can stay up there, Freddy." The paunchy unshaven bachelor turned back to Tom and Hammond. "Just my nephew. Lives here too."

Tom noticed a large packing crate. A smear of grime on the floor testified that it had been freshly moved. He walked over and began to shove the heavy box aside.

"Wh-what’re you doing?" Latty piped.

"I want to look underneath," Tom replied. "We have to check everywhere for radon smudges around the cracks." Hope Latty doesn’t know anything about radon! Tom thought. A second later his eyes widened with satisfaction as he uncovered a trap door, evidently leading to a subcellar. It sported a shiny stainless steel padlock.

Tom beckoned his partner over and showed his discovery. "Where does this lead to?" Hammond asked calmly, turning back to Latty.

"Just a little storage place," the owner replied with a shrug. "Nothin’ much. I didn’t think it was worth mentioning. Don’t use it no more. You’d better not go down there," he added hastily. "The ladder steps ain’t safe."

"Just the same, we’ll take a look," the policeman stated. "You don’t use it, hmm? Funny—looks like a nice new lock to me, Mr. Latty. Unlock it, please."

"Don’t got th’ key."

Hammond looked dangerous. "Get it."

"Lost it."

"Then do it at your own risk!" Latty snapped. He pulled a keyring from his pants pocket and produced the key. In a moment Hammond pulled up the trap door and Tom shone a light down. The cement-walled room below was much larger than Pete Latty’s description of it, about ten feet square. The four walls were crowded with metal cabinets and new shelving. On the floor, at the foot of an aluminum ladder, lay a large bundle wrapped in a tarpaulin.

Tom descended the ladder cautiously and opened the tarpaulin to see what was inside. The contents made him gasp—a large, well-oiled collection of rifles and pistols!

Looking up, Tom saw both Hammond and Latty peering down at him—the officer openmouthed with grim surprise, Latty scowling nervously. "Don’t touch ’em!" Latty warned. "Some are loaded. I keep ’em hidden for safety, but sometimes my nephew Fred here and I have target practice. I—er—guess they ain’t all legal—don’t care t’have folks find out about ’em. But that’s not your department, boys."

Just then Tom’s keen eyes spotted a slip of paper tucked among the guns. He pulled it out. His heart gave a leap of excitement as he saw two words scrawled on the paper—contact Anderman!

Hiding his amazement, Tom read the name aloud and added casually, "What’s this? The make of one of the guns?"

"Uh, yeah—that’s right," Latty replied. Without comment, Tom climbed out of the subcellar. As he bent down to drop the trap door, Tom flashed the officer a signal. Instantly Hammond swung about and grabbed Latty.

"H-hey! Why the rough stuff?" the prisoner exclaimed. Then, as he realized the officer was about to handcuff him, the man’s face turned pasty white. He pulled free from the officer’s grasp and bolted toward the stairway. Dashing to the steps, Tom saw Latty’s nephew standing above at the top, as if paralyzed at the sudden turn of events. As Pete, in full scramble, tried to shove Fred aside, the boy braced himself and grabbed his uncle in a two-arm vice.

"I’m sorry, Uncle Pete," Fred muttered softly. "We gotta get this whole thing over with."

After Pete Latty had been manacled, Tom leaned near to him and said intensely, "I’m Tom Swift. In case you don’t know it, Al Wullgrath—and Scott Anderman; you can tell us all about that—are working for enemies of this country, people who are endangering a tremendous scientific development that could change human history. As if making earthquakes isn’t bad enough."

"I don’t know anything about that stuff," Latty muttered. "Informatics changed my life—that’s the only ‘history’ I care about."

"It may go better with you and the church people if you tell us who’s been giving them orders," stated Hammond. "Who tells them where the next quake’ll be, and what to steal?"

"How should I know? Speaker Anderman hasn’t had nothin’ to do with me, hardly, after my Confirmation. It was Wullgrath who brought the guns here. I don’t know anything about that slip of paper—it’s Wullgrath’s handwriting. Probably just an old note he wrote to himself."

"Then tell us what’s in the cabinets, at least," demanded Tom coldly.

Latty shook his head sullenly. "Go take a look. Maybe you understand ’em. Most of it’s in some foreign language. Wullgrath delivered it all in a big truck one night, while Freddy was out. It took hours t’ handtruck it all down to the subcellar. I just took a little look—the Church told me to leave the papers alone. It was Wullgrath who locked up the cabinets."

"Do you know who was slipping information out of Enterprises to Anderman?"

"Nope." The man flashed a sickly, ragged grin. "But I guess they call it Informatics for a reason, right?"

Officer Hammond had called a Shopton PD patrol cruiser. When it arrived, he led Pete Latty out, young Fred accompanying them. Tom was momentarily alone.

Those papers down there are going to be carted away as evidence, thought the young inventor restlessly. But if it has something to do with our visitor from Planet X...

Feeling guilty, Tom resolved to sneak a quick look. He climbed down into the subcellar, stymied for a moment when he found the sturdy metal cabinets all locked and impassive. Did Latty have a key? But if Tom asked him in front of the police, they might prevent his going ahead. Then Tom remembered that Latty’s keyring was still dangling from the trap door padlock!

The cabinets were set up on a master key, and Tom quickly discerned the most likely choice. He smiled as the key slipped easily into the slot on the first of the cabinets. He twisted the key, noting the welcome click.

LEAVING the Lattys with the officers who had driven out in the cruiser, Jack Hammond dashed frantically back into the house, filling with the haze and stench of smoke. The crack of a loud boom rang in his ears. To his relief he met Tom struggling his way up from the basement, backlit by flame.

"Tom! What in—"

"Booby trapped," Tom choked, his face blackened, jacket and cap smoldering. "The tops of all the cabinets—every one—blasted off. Just the tops—lucky for me. The sides and fronts of the cabinets held the explosion back and shielded me." Hammond helped Tom into the open air and Tom panted to catch his breath. "I’m okay, but there won’t be much left to see down in that subcellar. The files are burning like magnesium torches."

"I’ll radio the fire department," said Hammond, trotting off to the cruiser.

Pete Latty, stricken, yelled out: "You gotta believe me, I didn’t know!"

Tom shrugged. To the still-astounded Fred, he said quietly, "If there’s anything I can do to make it go easier for your uncle, I’ll try. But you did the right thing, and probably saved lives—including your uncle Pete’s."

A checkover at Shopton Memorial and a welcome shower at home did a lot to overcome the young inventor’s