THE TOM SWIFT INVENTION ADVENTURES

TOM SWIFT

AND HIS TRIPHIBIAN

ATOMICAR

BY VICTOR APPLETON II

"TOM, your new atomic sports car is absolutely dreamy!" enthused Bashalli Prandit.

Young Tom Swift grinned at the pretty, dark-haired girl’s excitement as his sleek, bronze racer glided along the highway leading out of Shopton. "Don’t forget, Bash, it’s not actually an atomic sports car—not just yet. But thanks for the compliment."

The Pakistani managed to combine a nod with a frown. "Every now and then I run across an English term that I don’t quite understand, I fear. Does not ‘dreamy’ mean ‘like something seen in a dream’?"

"Well, in a way. Say, you’re not withdrawing the compliment, are you?"

Now she smiled reassuringly. "Of course not, Thomas. I am in love with this car. Even its peculiar dreamlike shape. That is, eventually." As her companion laughed, she went on: "You see, as an artist I am very attuned to shape and form. And this car of yours—how could one describe it? Rather like a lady’s high-heeled shoe. With fenders and a cockpit dome, of course. Stylish? I am not so sure!"

Tom was well aware that his new invention had drawn its share of puzzled looks from the passing parade of Shoptonians. They were accustomed to encountering the strange engineering products of Tom Swift Enterprises, the huge world-famed invention factory run by Tom’s father. They had seen their share of wingless cycloplanes, terrasphere tractor-tanks, hulking robots, and, not long before, Tom’s giant multi-ringed moonship the Challenger. But they had seen nothing like this four-wheeled stalker of the highways, with its teardrop-shaped dome that swept back to meet the high finlike tail of the car, which rose to a pointed apex. It looked a little like a jet plane that had somewhere misplaced its wings.

"She may look a little ‘out there,’ but the body shape has been developed on computer and tested in a windtunnel," declared the young inventor.

"I have no doubt of that."

"It has two planes of airstream stability, you know, at right angles to one another. She’ll cut through the air like a knife!"

"So you have said. But I must say, in my life I have met many people with enviable airstream stability—and homely looks." Bashalli leaned back in her contour seat, languidly gazing out the dome at the passing scenery. They had now left the main part of the little town and were humming down the long lakeside road that ultimately joined the Interstate. Lake Carlopa, lazy and sparkling in the afternoon sun, rolled along past them only yards from the roadside. "At least she is silent—‘unlike many women,’ as you are surely thinking. You should call her the Silent Streak!".

"Good name, Bash," Tom agreed, "but George Dilling’s publicity releases will call her a triphibian atomicar. When she’s ready for her official debut, that is." George Dilling was Swift Enterprises’ chief of Communications and Public Interest.

The two young people shared a friendly, contented glance, Bash thrilled with the exciting life that came with knowing an inventing prodigy with a taste for high adventure. But the glance was interrupted by a shrill buzz from the car’s low-slung instrument board, spread wide in front of Tom at waist level. A red warning light was flickering like a strobe, demanding urgent attention!

Bashalli gasped. "Tom!"

An oncoming minivan had drifted across the line and was barreling toward them like a brick wall on wheels!

The young inventor forced himself to remain calm. One finger moved, pushing the slider-switch on the side of the unicontrol joystick in his right hand. With a whoosh! the Silent Streak curved smoothly up from the highway and took to the air. Her dangling tires cleared the top of the minivan with inches to spare, soaring out over the lake and looping back in a lazy half-circle.

Before settling back down on the pavement the atomicar cannonballed across the bow of the speeding van, and the startled driver dropped his cellphone and honked out his indignation at the air hog. Bashalli replied with a few apt comments in English and Pakistani, concluding with: "Can you hear me now?"

"May he lose his connection and suffer exorbitant roaming charges!" she fumed. "Alas, he cannot hear me through your sealed dome windshield."

"I—I think he got the gist!" Tom pronounced, wide-eyed. His thoughts added: Bash sure has mastered the language! Then he suddenly realized that his friend was trembling.

"Oh, my g-g-goodness!" she quavered weakly, bravado exhausted. She was white-faced and breathless from the near accident—no more so than Tom Swift himself.

Hoping to comfort her, Tom essayed a tentative joke attended by an unconvincing chuckle. "This is what’s known as getting the bugs out of a new hot rod—the hard way!"

"Please! Let’s not joke about it!" said Bashalli. "And do not dare tell me how much vital information you have learned from this experiment." But after a moment she relented. "Still, Thomas, in serving as a guinea pig I have spent more time in your company than on our last two dates!"

"And our drive isn’t over," Tom added sheepishly.

They soon forgot the frightening experience in the sheer exhilaration of spinning along as quietly as a breeze. The lack of engine noise, Tom explained, was due to the car being driven by four small electric motors, one mounted at each wheel.

"And that steering lever does everything?" Bash asked, nodding at the unicontrol stick springing from the driver’s right armrest.

"Practically everything," Tom said. "Accelerates, slows, stops, turns, or reverses—depending on how you move the stick. And you’ve seen my demonstration of the lift-off control."

"And your safety buzzer. Which I must say is much more useful than those annoying seatbelt beepers your American cars are required to have."

"The system is an adaptation of the cybertron we use in my cycloplane," explained Tom, not bothering to conceal from Bashalli a note of pride. "It uses radar—a kind that can see around obstructions—to create a ‘mental map’ in its electronic brains, a three-dimensional simulation that is updated four thousand times a second!"

"Ah! My current pulse rate."

Passing motorists goggled admiringly—or more often just goggled—at the bubble-hooded phantom. As Tom drove farther into the country, the highway skirted pleasant green woodland on the left, allowing only an intermittent glimpse of the blue waters of Lake Carlopa beyond.

"How about that triphibian feature you mentioned, Thomas?" Bash asked. "I know that ‘tri’ signifies three. Driving on the ground is the first of the phibians, flying is the second. What of the third? Can the Silent Streak fly to the moon, perhaps?"

"Just wait!" the young inventor shot back happily. "You know what amphibian means—something that works on both land and water? For example, the Marines make amphibian landings, and amphibian planes like our Whirling Duck jetrocopters can take off from land or water." When the young Pakistani nodded, Tom continued: "Well, my atomicar is triphibian—meaning it can get around on land, through the air, or in water."

To demonstrate, Tom again slid the switch on the lever, and again the car’s wheels soared gently up off the road. "A bank of mini-repelatrons does the trick," he explained. The repelatron was a highly selective repulsion-ray device which Tom had utilized to drive his revolutionary spaceship, the Challenger.

"But I understood that your magical machine could not be used for propulsion so near the surface of the earth," objected Bashalli.

"Very true," he conceded. "There’s a lag-effect that prevents the repelatron from adapting itself to the changing mixtures of compounds so near the ground. And so—I’m not using it to repel the ground! Instead, the force-radiators are attuned to the mix of oxygen and nitrogen in the atmospheric air, forming a stable ‘cushion’ of high pressure just underneath the body, between the wheels. It’s the air pressure that lifts the atomicar up."

"I see! Like bringing your two palms together to enclose something from both sides. But—" She suddenly broke off with wide eyes. "What are you doing?"

Tom had dipped the nose of the Silent Streak and was now lunging toward the surface of the lake! "The third phibian!" he exclaimed as the atomicar settled onto the mild waves, bobbed calmly for a moment, and then, at the touch of a control, began smoothly to submerge.

"Oh Tom, this is—this is fantastic!" breathed Bashalli in awe as the blue-green waters closed in over the top of the viewdome. "It is indeed like something from a dream!"

The car sank lower into the shallow waters, coming to rest on the bottom. The dome of the passenger compartment was as transparent on top as all around, and the waves above sent diamond-shaped patterns of light across their faces. "A little too much shade down here on the bottom," commented Tom. "But I can do something about that." He manipulated a trackball under his left palm, selecting an option from a list that appeared in glowing letters on the inside of the dome, right before his eyes. Instantly a powerful glow lit the lake-bottom in front of them.

"Much better!" Bashalli congratulated him. "Now we can avoid underwater potholes."

Tom fed power to the wheel motors, and the Silent Streak bounced forward over the uneven floor of sand, mud, and clay. "Just in case you’re wondering how we can get such good traction down here, the atomicar has a couple of my gravitex machines built in to it. They push it down firm against the ground, and my special ‘gripper’ tires do the rest."

Bash’s eyes were pretty and luminous against the background of green-blue light. They twinkled as she said, "I do presume, professor, that you have a means to get us back up onto dry land? Or shall we simply drive across the lake to the pier?"

Tom adjusted the controls with a warm smile. The Silent Streak bobbed up to the surface, then up into the air again. "She has a buoyancy control setup of the sort we use in our underwater escape suits, the Fat Men."

"The big steel eggs, high fashion beneath the seas."

"Yep. And these long pods running the length of the body on either side are actually pontoons filled with plastic aero-foam, to let us ride high when we want to make like a boat."

"Great for a fishing trip!" said Bashalli.

"It’ll be great for all sorts of transport purposes," Tom said in response. "But its real scientific purpose, Bash, is exploration. There’s a whole lot of Planet Earth that can’t be thoroughly investigated by satellite mapping, or even from a plane or helicopter."

"Uh-huh. The great deserts, jungles, polar ice..."

"Sure! This baby can cross rivers and operate in, or over, any terrain—swamps, wild bush country, even mountainous areas."

"Can it also deliver little children to kindergarten?"

"One scientific challenge at a time, please!"

Tom flew the car back to the lake road. Finally rounding the end of the lake, they headed back to the parking lot at Swift Enterprises, where Bashalli had left her car for the afternoon.

Bash pointed. "A reception committee!"

"Sandy and Bud! Something’s up." Sandy was the famous inventor’s year-younger sister, as blond and animated as Bashalli Prandit was dark and exotic. Athletic Bud Barclay was Tom’s dark-haired best friend and constant comrade-in-arms on his many scientific adventures.

Sandy glanced elaborately at her wrist watch as Tom and Bash exited the viewdome. "About time! We were ready to launch a search by radar-bloodhound!"

"What have you kids been up to?" needled Bud. "All science and no play, I trust."

Tom raised his eyebrows, puzzled. "Good to see you too! Was I supposed to be someplace, for something?"

Suddenly Bashalli groaned. "Gracious! How foolish! This ride’s been so thrilling, I completely forgot to give Thomas the message. Sandra, I’m so sorry."

Tom was still puzzled. "Message?"

Bud chuckled as Sandy replied. "We’re to meet Cousin Ed at the airport at four-fifteen!"

Tom whistled. "Ed’s coming in?"

"Mother took the call this morning, after you and Daddy had left. Our Miss Prandit here was supposed to—"

Bashalli hung her head at the mock-scolding. "I expect grave punishment for this."

"An hour of genius boy’s science lessons is more than enough of a penalty," Bud joked. "But we’d better get a move on! Shall we take the atomicar and dazzle the natives?"

Tom shook his head. "Not if we plan to give Cousin Ed and his luggage a lift! She only seats two."

Bashalli begged off with regret, a shift at The Glass Cat coffee house waiting for her in town. After the atomicar had been garaged inside Enterprises grounds, Sandy drove Tom and Bud to the airport in her own car, which was more capacious than Tom’s little sports car or Bud’s red convertible. "Ed’s on his way back from England," Sandy explained, "and headed for Mexico. But he managed to work in a visit to his doting aunt in between."

Ed Longstreet was the son of Tom’s mother’s older brother Quentin. That branch of the family was well-monied, and Ed had never needed to work for a living. Instead he had become a world-traveler with a zest for exotic locales and challenging off-the-map explorations.

"It’ll be great to see Ed again," declared Tom.

Added Bud: "I’ll say—especially since I barely got to see him at all last time he passed through." Ed’s prior visit had coincided with Bud’s being held captive in New Guinea, a tale told in Tom Swift and His Ultrasonic Cycloplane.

The Shopton Airport was modest, but growing rapidly as the world beat a path to the door of Tom Swift Enterprises. There was no need for Sandy to find a parking spot, as Cousin Ed’s jet had already landed and its passengers were streaming through the terminal exits. "Oh, there he is!" she exclaimed.

A slender young man of twenty-five with a good-humored grin, and somewhat less than a full ration of hair, Ed Longstreet had been one of the first passengers off the plane.

"Hi, Ed! How’s the world traveler these days?" Tom said, jumping out and shaking his cousin’s hand.

"Just great! And say! Who’s this blond charmer?"

Sandy giggled and leaned out the window to give Ed a quick kiss.

"Since you didn’t call me a charmer, you’ll have to settle for a handshake," joked Bud. "Good to see you!"

"But where’s your luggage?" Tom asked.

"Oh, I always travel light, you know," was the breezy reply. "Easier—and more fun—to just buy what you need when you get there. I just have my one travel bag to pick up at the luggage carousel. Now that I know you’re here, let me—"

His remarks were interrupted as a tense voice blared out over the terminal’s public-address system:

There was a stunned hush, then an excited babble as people began hurrying across the parking lot, glancing back in puzzlement and fear. Tom grabbed Ed’s forearm and spoke to his cousin. "Come on, Ed! Let’s go! We’ll come back for your bag when they give the all-clear."

Ed was just about to pile into the front seat next to Sandy when a loud thudding blast was heard, shaking the terminal’s big glass windows and provoking cries of startled alarm from the surging crowd. Smoke billowed from the airport building.

"A bomb!" Tom cried.

FIRE TRUCK sirens were already screaming in the distance. In a short time a hook and ladder arrived, followed by a police car, another fire truck, and an unmarked official van that discharged several running men in helmeted, thickly-padded work outfits.

"Emergency bomb squad or something," Ed murmured.

Bud nodded. "Shopton’s got its own anti-terrorism office these days," he commented.

Sandy gasped at the thought, but Tom spoke reassuringly. "Terrorists don’t usually give advance warning, guys. More than likely this is just a prank."

The displaced crowd remained in the parking lot, milling about. In twenty minutes exhaust fans had cleared away the last wisps of smoke, and the same voice—much calmer now—was announcing:

Most of the crowd showed signs of relief, although some were still angry and shaken.

"Well, well," joked Ed Longstreet, mopping his high forehead with a handkerchief. "Quite a welcome you folks arranged for me—as usual!"

Tom laughed wryly and told Sandy to take their cousin to the car while he picked up Ed’s suitcase. Soon the Swifts and their guest were driving home.

When they arrived, Tom’s parents greeted Ed warmly. Then Mrs. Swift, slender and pretty, served glasses of iced fruit juice while their visitor settled himself in an easy chair and Sandy recounted the airport bomb scare. Mr. Swift, tall and athletic-looking, with steel-blue eyes, listened with keen interest.

"Sounds as though someone has an unpleasant sense of humor," he remarked quietly. The distinguished scientist and his famous son bore a close resemblance, and they shared similar temperaments. Tom knew his father was wondering if the incident had somehow been aimed at Tom. It would hardly be the first time!

"Got something for you, Aunt Anne," Ed spoke up. He reached inside his suit-coat pocket and brought out a leather case which he handed to Mrs. Swift. Her eyes danced in anticipation.

Inside lay a delicate silver necklace supporting a blood-red ruby pendant. The jewel flashed with fiery brilliance as Mrs. Swift held the necklace up to the light.

"This is magnificent," she said.

"Try it on," Ed urged with a smile.

"You surely didn’t bring this for me?" Mrs. Swift’s voice trembled in genuine awe.

Ed nodded and produced a smaller box for Sandy. It contained a silver ring with a ruby that looked like a twin to the one in the necklace. Sandy bubbled with delight. "Oh, it’s beautiful— just beautiful!"

Both she and her mother smiled happily as they expressed their thanks and displayed the gifts to Mr. Swift, Tom, and Bud. Ed’s grin showed his pleasure at their reaction.

"Don’t give me too much credit, you two. Actually the stones were a bargain," he explained. "I bought them unset at the bazaar in Teheran."

"That’s the capital city of Iran, isn’t it?" asked Sandy, more fascinated than ever.

"Yes. Always in the news these days. By the way," Ed went on, "there’s a mystery connected with those rubies, from way back when the country was still called Persia."

"A mystery!" Sandy was wide-eyed.

"Ah hah, still a mystery-lover, I see!" Ed’s eyes twinkled. "No doubt you’ve read in the newspapers recently about Kabulistan—a little speck of a country near Iran and Afghanistan which just gained its independence. Well, according to the jeweler I went to in London, a famous ruby mine was once located there, called the Amir’s Mine. Today no one knows where it is—the mine’s been lost for two centuries."

"Jetz! You don’t mean these two rubies came from that mine?" asked Bud with an excited look in Tom’s direction.

"You’ve guessed it," said Ed. "I took the stones to London to be mounted—and because of their color, the jeweler suspected they had been taken at least three hundred years ago from the fabled lost mine of Kabulistan!"

"Oh, how fascinating!" Sandy exclaimed, and her mother added, "What a treasure trove if someone could find it!"

Ed winked at his aunt and smiled. "Believe it or not, I just happened to have the same thought. In London I tracked down a book which gives a few clues to the mine’s location! It’s my gift to Tom and Uncle Damon. But if you worm the secret out of it, you’ve got to promise to take me along to Kabulistan!"

"It’s a deal!" Tom laughed.

Going over to his bag, which had been placed on the stairway, Ed opened it and delved inside. In a moment he had pulled a tattered, faded volume, obviously very old, from a secure pouch. "According to the antiquities dealer who sold it to me, this may be the only copy in existence."

"In which case it’s worth a fortune if it really holds the secret of the Amir’s Mine," said Mr. Swift thoughtfully, taking it from Ed’s hands with a nod of thanks.

"What’s the name of the book?" Sandy asked.

"Travels in Remotest Araby," Ed replied, "written in 1728 by an Englishman named Dalton."

Ed explained that after hearing the jeweler’s chance remark, he had used his London contacts to seek out books of the period which told about the Kabulistan region, then a part of old Persia. He had eventually been put in touch with the antiquities dealer, who had advertised that Travels in Remotest Araby included an account of the author’s own visit to the mine. "I don’t imagine the bookseller realized that the mine was lost to history, or that the book could contain some clues."

"We’ll send him a ruby or two when we find it," Bud declared with a grin. "And you know what, everybody? Tom’s flying ‘electric runabout’ is perfect for lost-mine hunting!"

Bud’s comment intrigued Cousin Ed, who asked Tom about his new invention. The discussion continued as they sat down for dinner.

"Right now my test model runs off a bank of our Swift solar batteries," Tom explained, "which the company manufactures in orbit, in the space outpost."

"And they’re not enough?" asked Ed in surprise. "I thought they were super-advanced."

"They are, and in fact the batteries are already in use for powering electric-motor vehicles. But my flying car’s repelatrons are real energy hogs, Ed. I didn’t mention it to Bashalli today, but we really couldn’t have spent much more time in the air than we did—our available power was down almost ninety percent by the time we returned, from just a few minutes of repelatron use."

"Not exactly a selling point," Bud gibed.

Tom continued, "That’s why my goal is to make it a real atomicar, a private vehicle running off its own atomic power source."

Commented Ed with a snort, "You must be making the Nuclear Regulatory Commission very nervous."

"Tell me about it!"

"We have all the necessary certifications for prototype development," noted Damon Swift, "but we had to give strict assurances that we won’t use dangerous fissile materials, such as the Veranium we utilize in the jetmarine reactors. Nowadays they don’t want too much of such materials floating around in public."

This puzzled Cousin Ed. After a moment he inquired, "Maybe I’m not up on the latest in atomic energy, but—how can you have an atomic reactor without the stuff that makes it go?"

It was Bud who answered the question. "Genius boy’s foolin’ around with fusion!"

"Really, Tom? Tabletop fusion? You found a way to make it work?" Ed was excited but incredulous.

The crewcut scientist-inventor gave a modest shrug. "Maybe. Sort of. I think so."

"Tomonomo’s already tested it out!" enthused Sandy with sisterly pride. "It’s already almost as powerful as a solar battery."

"Which is far from enough," Tom declared. "But I’m continuing to experiment with my atomic power capsule, as I call it—another test tomorrow."

Tom’s mother now entered the conversation, a worried tone in her voice. "Son, your power capsule could have quite an impact on world energy production, and that makes it extremely valuable—and threatening to certain interests, don’t you think?" When Tom nodded agreement, she went on: "Couldn’t that airport bomb scare have been more than a prank? And more than a coincidence?"

Trading a glance with his father, Tom said, "Believe me, I’ve thought about that."

"Me too," Bud stated. "Except—how does pulling a stunt like that at Shopton Airport affect your experimentation?"

The young inventor admitted that he could see no connection. "But it’s enough of a coincidence for me to want to find out a little more about it."

After supper was concluded, Tom strode to the phone and dialed his friend Captain Rock at Shopton Police Headquarters. After telling the reason for his call, Tom asked for details on the bomb incident.

"More anti-Swift shenanigans, hmm? Maybe so. Soon after your cousin’s flight set down, we got an anonymous phone tip that a bomb had been set to go off in the terminal," Rock said. "Naturally I called the airport and ordered them to clear the building at once. No sense taking chances! We’ve traced the warning call to a booth right there at the terminal, which makes it look like a typical prank."

"Did anyone notice the caller?" Tom asked.

"Yes, and it wasn’t some school kid with too much time on his hands. An airline clerk gave us a description—a tall, sallow-faced man with several gold teeth, wearing a light-colored suit. Back in my misspent youth, we called ’em tropical-style."

Tom turned and repeated the description to Ed. "Why, that fellow sat right next to me!" Ed exclaimed. "He tried to draw me into conversation! But I sort’ve ignored him. I’m not into being stupefied with boredom on air hops."

Tom passed this information on to Captain Rock. "Good lead," the officer remarked. "We’ll check the airline passenger list, although the man may have been using an alias. But Tom, my friend?"

"Yes sir?"

"D’you suppose we could arrange for this not to turn out to be a spy, just for a change of pace? My guys are getting tired of having to always turn their cases over to the good folks at the FBI."

Tom laughed. "I’ll see what I can do! But I’m afraid it’ll be up to Harlan Ames." Ames was the seasoned head of Swift Enterprises plant security and well known to the Shopton police.

When Tom hung up, Ed commented, "The usual Tom Swift murky-murk, eh?"

Bud stuck out his hand for a congratulatory handshake. "Let’s hope so!"

"A big if!" Tom thought wryly.

A cubicle of concrete and magtritanium metal, radiation-shielded by the company’s amazing superstrong plastic, called Tomasite, filled one corner of the high-pressure test laboratory. A special exhaust system was provided to dispose of dangerous atomic vapors. The booth also had a Tomaquartz view window and an outside instrument panel. Inside, mounted on a test stand, lay the power capsule—about the size of an ordinary automobile battery but far lighter in weight.

As Tom was busying himself with the final hookups, Bud, always welcome, came ambling in. "Hi! I want to see how the Mighty Midget over there pans out."

Bud watched eagerly from the doorway of the test booth as Tom tightened a cable connection and inspected a few final details.

The power plant was housed in a small, rectangular, capsulelike casing. It had a copper boss at each end, one positive and one negative, through which the electrical output would be drawn off. A sheathed cable led from the capsule to a small control box, which was connected to an outside control panel.

"Keep your fingers crossed, pal," the young inventor muttered as he emerged from the booth and latched the door with the twirl of a lever—like that on a bank vault.

Bud, a young flier from San Francisco, the same age as Tom, had shared many adventures as Tom’s copilot. More than that, he had watched the development of all his chum’s major inventions, and he never failed to feel a thrill when Tom tested some new brain child.

"Good luck, genius boy!"

Tom handed him dark goggles for extra protection, donned a pair himself, then threw a switch.

The needle of the output wattmeter swung sharply to the right. "This is great!" Tom breathed. "Good night, we’ve already more than quadrupled Monday’s highest—"

The final words were never uttered. Both boys were jolted off their feet as the entire laboratory shook from a terrific blast!

A DISASTER siren, activated by automatic sensors, wailed across the experimental station as an orange-red inferno glowed behind the Tomaquartz window of the test chamber.

Slowly Tom and Bud sat up, struggled to their feet, and eyed the wreckage in the laboratory with dismay. Books, file cabinets, electronic gear, and other valuable equipment lay tumbled about the floor, amid the shattered glass from fallen racks of test tubes. Smashed bottles of chemicals sent reeking fumes through the lab.

"Good grief! What happened?" Bud gasped.

"Isn’t it obvious? The atomic power capsule exploded—generated too much pressure and blew up," said Tom grimly. He stepped up to the instrument panel, which had not been damaged, and replayed its final readings.

"What’s the verdict?" asked Bud eagerly. "Did the capsule live up to expectations?"

"It exceeded them," was the dull reply. "In a big way. I thought the matter-lenses would retain coherence all through the process, but they failed in the end. The ion pressure was just too great to be contained."

"But you’ll be able to patch ’em up, skipper. Won’t you?"

Tom shrugged. "I don’t know. I don’t see how. This was a pretty edgy approach, but it was the only method that seemed at all promising. Now—" His voice trailed off listlessly, and Bud put a comforting hand on his pal’s arm.

Though dazed and bruised from their fall, neither youth was injured. Already shouts could be heard outside the laboratory as plant employees rushed to investigate the explosion.

"Bud, tell everyone to keep out!" Tom directed, listless. As Bud hurried to comply, Tom glanced quickly at a radiation-level indicator. "Thank heavens!" he muttered. Evidently the reaction products had been safely confined within the test booth.

Tom snatched up the telephone and contacted Ames at Security. "Bud and I are okay," he reported, "but an atomic reaction got out of hand. Get the decontamination squad here pronto, won’t you, Harlan?"

"Will do, boss. I’ll calm the place down, too, as best I can."

The next few hours were spent in harried efforts to cope with the lab disaster. Tom finally organized a procedure to draw off the radioactive residue safely from the booth after the reaction had cooled. This would take several days. Then the chamber itself would have to be dismantled and construction materials carefully disposed of. Fragments of the power capsule, super-propelled, had become embedded right in the solid walls!

He and Bud were just completing their tasks when a wavering signal tone erupted from the lab phone. Recognizing it, the two jerked to attention. "The main radar alarm!" gasped Bud. "Somebody’s messing with our air space!"

Tom Swift Enterprises, which often took on projects funded by the government, was treated as a heightened-security facility. The entire plant was protected by a "bubble" of constantly scanning radar that alerted security personnel, and company executives, in the event of any unauthorized intrusion by air. Flicking on a monitor and accessing the main patrolscope, Tom saw a blip of light moving in a rapid curve about the center of the screen—evidently an aircraft!

Tom snatched up the wall phone and beeped the airfield control tower. "What’s going on out there?"

"A small jet’s circling the plant," the tower operator reported. "There was no advance—oh, now they’ve heard from him. The pilot requests permission to land. Says his name is Simon Wayne."

The name sounded familiar, but Tom couldn’t place it immediately. "What’s his business?" he asked.

"Let’s see... He claims he wants to see you personally on an important matter. They’re saying he refuses to elaborate."

Tom hesitated. "Okay. Set him down. I’ll meet up with him on the airfield."

Bud volunteered to remain behind to attend to the final clean-up details. Tom left the lab building and went outside. He shaded his eyes as he looked skyward. A sleek jet, bearing a red-and-black insigne, came whistling down onto one of the concrete runways. Tom hopped into a midget electric vehicle, called a nanocar, and sped out to meet it.

Another nanocar from the Enterprises Security Building joined Tom as he reached the station airfield. Its driver was slim, dark-haired Harlan Ames. Ames leapt out of his car and stood beside Tom as the young inventor waited to greet their visitor, wary and annoyed.

The pilot of the jet proved to be a huge, ruddy-cheeked man of about forty. But even more imposing than his size was an enormous blond handlebar mustache which stuck out on either side of his bluff, weather-beaten face.

"Tom Swift?" he boomed. "Well, of course you are!"

Tom nodded and shook hands. "This is Harlan Ames, head of our security staff," he added.

The visitor shook hands with Ames. "I’m Simon Wayne," he explained, "American representative of Europa Fabrikant—as you probably guessed from the symbol on my little jet."

Europa Fabrikant was well known, at least by name, to both Tom and Ames. It was a European firm, belonging to one of the biggest industrial cartels in the world.

"Rather an informal way to drop in, wasn’t it?" said Ames.

Wayne’s eyes froze on the security chief, then be burst into a deep chuckle. "When I do things, I do ’em in a hurry!" Wayne said. "It’s why they pay me a salary, boys—only way to meet business competition these days. I wanted to see Tom Swift and happened to be flying this way, so here I am!"

"What did you want to see me about?" Tom broke in politely. He had decided he was too busy to be impressed by the big man.

Wayne abruptly turned serious. "Where can we talk business?" His eyes shifted to Harlan Ames. "If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to speak to Tom privately."

Minutes later, Tom faced his visitor across a broad modern desk in the big sunlit double office which he shared with Mr. Swift, models of many Swift family inventions looming on all sides.

"I’m listening, Mr. Wayne."

"I’ve been reading in scientific journals about your new miniature power plant," Wayne began. "Impressive stuff. But you don’t need flattery. Do you? To skip to the bottom line, Europa Fabrikant can use that process. We’re aiming to go beyond materials fabrication and get involved in other areas of manufacturing—high-tech stuff. And we can use you, too, m’friend, to ride herd on developments. Name your price. I’m authorized to make a good-faith down payment on your retainer today." He took out a checkbook and poised a fountain pen over it. His bushy eyebrows were lifted in anticipation.

Tom grinned. "I’m flattered after all, Mr. Wayne, but the rights to my midget power plant are not for sale. Nor am I looking for a job. If you’ll pardon me, my dad and I think we have the finest scientific setup in the world right here. And I don’t care to work overtime."

Wayne named a huge figure, then doubled it. Tom shook his head. "Sorry, but my answer remains No."

Wayne laughed. "Very well. I like a young fellow who knows his own mind." He replaced his checkbook and pen, then took a card from his wallet and handed it to Tom. "But if you should change your mind, the offer’s still open. Please think it over—personal favor, hmm?"

As the man blustered off, Tom wondered why, precisely, he was presumed to owe Simon Wayne a personal favor.

Tom had arranged to meet with his family, Ed, and the Prandits for lunch, at the Yacht Club restaurant.

"What a wonderful morning," said Moshan, Bashalli’s older brother, with whom she lived. "The lake is superb, is it not?"

"My own morning was pretty eventful," commented Tom. He briefly mentioned the capsule test, downplaying its more dangerous elements and his own disappointment in the outcome. Then he gave a humorous account of the Simon Wayne visitation. His impression of the robust industrialist brought the others to laughter.

"I have heard of this man," said Bashalli abruptly. The Pakistani’s face was no longer gleeful.

Tom asked if Wayne had a poor reputation, and Moshan answered, "Perhaps so, if you live in our part of the world. Europa Fabrikant is one of the great multi-nationals who are rather careless of our customs and our national feeling, our sensitivity to the appearance of exploitation by Europeans."

"Yes, and by us Americans as well," noted Mr. Swift understandingly.

"May I say also," added Mrs. Prandit, "that there have been industrial accidents, spillage of dangerous chemicals. Whole villages are thought to have been made sick. Some have died, it is said. Our own government does not like to admit these things."

"But let us be fair," Bashalli broke in. "It is surely not this Mr. Wayne himself that we object to. He is sometimes in the papers, the face of his employers. But he cannot be held responsible for what is done by Europa Fabrikant."

"Well, Tom’s pretty good at sticking to his guns," said Sandy. "We’ve seen the last of old Handlebar Hank."

The conversation turned to other matters. Tom’s mother asked Ed Longstreet if he had ever visited Kabulistan in his travels.

"Oh, I tried to, not long ago," was the reply. "But independence has sent world business interests flocking there—a real flood of The Suits. The few scheduled flights are sold out far in advance." Ed threw a glance at Tom. "Speaking of big wheels and big deals, last week in London I met a banker named Provard who was very much interested to hear that I was related to the famous Swift inventors."

"An American?" Tom asked.

"Yes. I got the impression Mr. Provard might get in touch with you."

"Maybe he wants Tom to invent a new burglar alarm for his bank vault." Sandy giggled.

"More likely he’s checking up on our credit," Tom said dryly. "Dad, you’d better make sure my atomic power capsule experiments aren’t putting us in the red."

Mr. Swift laughed. "No danger yet, son. I have an idea the capsule could be the most profitable project Swift Enterprises has ever undertaken!"

It was late afternoon when Tom finally slumped into a chair in his office to relax over a pot of hot cocoa with Bud. The young inventor had been working for hours in front of his design flatscreen, attempting to find some new route to success for the atomic capsule. Thoughtful and discouraged, he told his pal that nothing had yet turned up.

"Tough luck, skipper," Bud sympathized. "Did you expect this might happen?"

Tom shrugged. "I knew the risk was there. But I thought I had the pressure problem licked. This time it looks like the scientific establishment is right. ‘Tabletop’ fusion just can’t be tamed."

"So it’s back to the drawing board," Bud declared. "Flatscreen, that is."

Tom plowed his fingers through his crew cut and grinned ruefully. "This means our atomicar announcement will have to be postponed, and I won’t even be able to use the special lab for the next few days."

That evening, after the others had retired, Tom brought his father up to date on the day’s events. Then he said, "Dad, I’ve just been reading some reports from the Citadel. They’ve made a little progress in this area that I was unaware of." The Citadel was the Swifts’ atomic research plant in New Mexico.

As Mr. Swift listened with interest, Tom explained that he was impressed by the data on a stable isotope of one of the new man-made elements. Its physical and chemical properties sounded as though the isotope might be promising in developing a new fusion technique for the atomic power capsule.

"In fact, I think I’ll fly out to the Citadel and work on it in the lab there for a few days," Tom said.

An excited voice suddenly burst down the stairwell from the upper floor. "Oh! What a super idea!" cried Sandy from her invisible perch. "Bud will be going, I suppose, and school’s out, so why don’t Bashi and I go too?"

Another voice joined the discussion from above. "Don’t forget Cousin Ed, world explorer!"

Mr. Swift laughed. "Tom, for your next invention, how about a silencer for our house!"

For better or worse, the matter was settled. The next day at noon, the five young people watched as the Sky Queen was lifted into the sunlight from its underground hangar at Swift Enterprises. The Queen was a staple of the young inventor’s exploits. This huge solar-powered skyship, often called the Flying Lab, had carried Tom on his first adventure when he found himself enmeshed in intrigue in South America. Most recently, it had carried Tom to Madeira in connection with his search for a lost space probe with his electronic hydrolung.

The Flying Lab needed no large crew despite its great size and advanced capabilities. Bud and Tom would copilot the craft, and other than his cousin and the girls he had invited only one further crew member, Swift Enterprises’ talented modelmaker Arvid Hanson.

"I hope I’ll be of some use to you, boss," he told Tom. "I’ve never really gotten involved in automotive design—except in my head."

"It’s your expertise in miniaturization that I hope to tap," Tom replied. "If this new lead pans out, the power capsule will have to be completely reconfigured. I’d like to be able to test it out right away, at the Citadel."

They boarded the skyship, and in minutes it had risen aloft on its bank of jet lifters. Bud set a course for New Mexico as Tom made his guests comfortable in the lounge, which was at the front of the topmost of the Sky Queen’s three decks.

"I love this ship," exclaimed Ed. "Sure beats the commercial jetliners. Wish I could borrow it for all my travels."

Reclining luxuriantly on a padded sofa, Sandy asked, "Tomonomo, will Chow be joining us?"

"That’s the plan, sis. I phoned him last night. He’ll meet up with us at the Citadel—tomorrow or the day after."

Big Texas-born Chow Winkler, Swift Enterprises’ executive chef, was a close friend of the Swift family. He had flown to his native Texas the week previous to attend a funeral, and Tom and Bud felt his absence.

The Sky Queen’s mode of travel made New York and New Mexico near neighbors. Streaking westward at supersonic speed, the sleek wingless craft reached New Mexico in an hour.

As the rugged desert rolled by beneath them, Sandy pointed out the lounge’s floor-to-ceiling windows. "Look, Ed—that’s Purple Mesa, where Bashi and I and Bud were marooned!"

"Oh, right," nodded her cousin. "When Tom’s helicopter was wrecked. How long were you trapped up there?"

"It was a terrible ordeal," replied Bashalli with twinkling eyes. "We were completely cut off from civilization for—how long was it, Sandra?"

Sandy reddened. "Long enough. It was getting dark and turning cold."

"Luckily, we managed to survive," continued Bashalli, "the entire five hours!"

As the painted canyons and mesas flattened into barren scrubland, the Citadel came into sight below—a pinwheel formation of ultramodern laboratory buildings and dormitories, grouped around a massive central dome of white concrete which housed the main reactor. The whole research plant was ringed with barbed wire and guarded by drone planes and radar.

As soon as they landed, Tom buried himself in his private laboratory. He was still deep in work the following morning. Bud, Ed, and the two girls, knowing it was useless to disturb him, drove off in a jeep for a picnic at one of their favorite spots off the highway to the nearest town, Tenderly.

Suddenly Bud braked the jeep to a halt on the sandy side road. "Hey, what’s that joker doing up there?" he muttered suspiciously.

On the low mesa just above them, a figure was seated on a small camp chair, peering through binoculars. They could see his car parked at the foot of a rough trail leading upward to the mesa top.

As they watched, the distant figure raised what appeared to be a camera. "Looks like a photographer," said Bashalli. "I’m told nature studies are very popular. I myself have seen many such photographs in dental offices."

"Then why is he snooping at the Citadel through those glasses?" Bud demanded. "It’s not exactly one of nature’s wonders!"

The man again raised his binoculars, and the glasses certainly appeared to be trained toward Enterprises’ nuclear research facility.

"I’m suddenly overcome with sheer curiosity," declared Cousin Ed. "Shall we strike up a conversation, Budworth?"

"I’m game, Edward." Bud and Ed jumped from the jeep and scrambled directly up the boulder-and-brush-strewn slope, ignoring the heat. The two girls, rolling their eyes, decided on the more leisurely trail route.

Ed Longstreet, in a competitive mood, beat his younger companion to the top. "Say there!" he panted out. "What’s the idea of those glasses?"

The figure, a youngish, wiry-looking man with tousled, carrot-red hair, jumped to his feet, startled, almost dropping his binoculars.

"To see better," the man replied tersely, but with a hint of a mocking grin. "Why d’you think—old-timer?"

Ed unconsciously ran a palm across his scalp. "I’ll bet," he growled, knotting his fists, ready to defend his honor as a Balding American. "I think you’d better hand over that camera, Red."

His opponent drew away protectively. He paused long enough to carefully set the camera on the ground behind him. "Touch my camera, man, and you touch me first."

Ed stepped forward to do just that, when a voice behind him threw off his rhythm.

"Aw, good grief," exclaimed Bud Barclay. "Now I know we’ve got trouble!"

"HEY THERE, Bud!" called out the diminutive redhead with a broad grin. "Been a while, hmm?"

"I take it you two are acquainted," Ed noted sourly.

Bud looked a bit grim. "You might say that. Ed Longstreet—Gabriel Knorff, ace photographer and freelance expert on getting under-foot."

"Just call me Gabe," said the young man, offering his hand. "I like it better than what Bud here calls me under his breath."

As Ed shook his hand warily, Bud explained that Gabe had been part of the Swift expedition to Little Luna, Earth’s phantom satellite Nestria. "He has a real talent for inserting himself in other people’s business."

Gabe laughed. "Well—it’s something."

Bud wasn’t ready to be friendly. "In case you don’t know it, pal, that’s a top-secret research station you’ve been poking your nose into!"

"I’m not likely to steal any secrets at this range." The red-haired young man looked Bud up and down. Then he raised the binoculars to his eyes again.

Irritated by Knorff’s careless attitude, Bud snatched the glasses from his hand.

"Come on! Give those back, please," the photographer demanded.

"I’ll give you a poke in the jaw if you don’t explain what you’re doing here!" Bud stormed, grabbing him by the front of his polo shirt.

"Oh, Bud! Stop it!" Sandy commanded as she and Bash came running up from the trail. "Honestly!"

The young co-pilot snorted but calmed himself and let go. "Okay. Sorry, Gabe."

Knorff shrugged. "I know I get under your skin. It’s my hair—like when a bull sees red."

Bashalli giggled. Bud seemed less amused.

"Nice to meet you—I think!—but we still have a right to know what you’re up to," said Ed evenly.

"Can’t blame you for being suspicious. I guess I shouldn’t have been conning the Citadel with binoculars." Gabe seemed to be weighing how much of an account he ought to provide. "Well—I was just doing a job. Real freedom-of-the-press stuff, you know. I was working on a freelance assignment over in Socorro when someone called me with a big money offer if I’d get some photos of Tom Swift inside the installation and email them to him."

"But why?" asked Sandy.

"He said he wanted to verify, absolutely and definitely, that the reports he’d received were accurate—that Tom was really there. Swift Enterprises has been quick on the ‘no comment’ lately, you know."

"My cousin’s a little tired of the world always getting in his way," Ed noted dryly. "Mighty eccentric method to verify where somebody is, though."

"The guy is pretty eccentric. But he sure does have money!"

"Okay, so who is it?" Bud asked.

"Ever hear of Milt Isosceles?"

Bud had indeed! His jaw dropped. "Good night, the car guy?"

Sandy asked Bud to explain. "He’s the president of Imperative Motorskill," was the response. "A major magnate!"

"Imperative Motorskill," repeated Bashalli softly. "Yes, the car company. I believe they call it ‘Number Four’. And I have read that he is regarded as a bit peculiar in his temperament and ideas."

Gabe chuckled. "He says it makes him creative—helps sell his product. Anyway, he didn’t say much more than what I’ve just told you. I’ve managed to get a couple nice telephotos of ol’ TS walking around, and I’ll be sending them to Isosceles later today. If Bud doesn’t chew up my camera!"

Bud scowled but admitted that he had no right to prevent Knorff’s actions.

"This may even be a good thing, in a way," Ed suggested. "Milt Isosceles isn’t exactly some sort of phantom spy. Whatever he has in mind, it may be something Tom and Damon will be glad to find out about."

This proved to be the case. When Bud phoned his friend from the jeep, Tom told him to relax. "There’s nothing out in the open here that we wouldn’t want getting out. As for me—well, if Mr. Isosceles needs to know, absolutely for sure, that I’m here at the Citadel, it must be because he plans to fly in and meet me here for some reason. I’d like to find out what it is."

"Must have to do with the atomicar," Bud suggested. Tom agreed.

Gabe Knorff, his mission concluded, had ambled down the trail to join them. At Ed’s query he began to talk about the two previous occasions on which he had become involved in the affairs of Swift Enterprises. The saga was cut short as Sandy gasped in dismay. "My ruby ring! It’s—gone!"

The ring, a bit too large, had evidently slipped off her finger when she had returned to the jeep. They all embarked on a frantic search. Bud’s face flamed with embarrassment when he discovered the ring under his foot—the metal band badly bent.

"Bummer," said Gabe, wincing. "But listen, here’s an idea." He suggested that the ring could be repaired by a famous jewelry designer in Taos, some miles away. "I was planning to head that way anyhow, to transmit my photos. Maybe, if it works out, we could pick up my old chum Mr. Invention and make an afternoon of it."

Both Sandy and Bashalli were delighted at the idea of visiting the famous art colony. Before the conversation ended, Gabe had accepted an invitation to join their picnic. If Bud was somewhat unenthused at the notion of spending a day with Gabriel Knorff, he managed not to voice it.

Returning to the Citadel after the picnic, Bud and the others persuaded Tom to take an afternoon off from his lab work and drive with them to Taos, taking a company minivan and following Gabe’s car. The highway wound along the Rio Grande amid rabbit brush and wild flowers. Taos itself proved to be a quaint old Western town nestled at the base of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Some of the huge cottonwoods shading its dusty streets had been there since the days of Kit Carson, its most famous citizen.

They strolled about as a group for a time. Then, Gabe leaving them, Tom drove through the bustling plaza to the Indian reservation three miles distant. Taos Pueblo, built before Columbus discovered America, rose from a plain at the foot of the smoky-blue range like a child’s brown mud castle. It was rectangular and terraced, with crude wooden ladders leading from one story to the next higher one. Black-haired Indians, garbed in blankets, sat before the turquoise and red doors of their apartments.

"How fascinating!" Bash exclaimed.

Ed Longstreet nodded. "It is. And yet—not so different from the traditional village lifestyle you find all over the world. Something like this must be the default state of the human race."

After touring the settlement, Tom drove back to the town. Here an Indian shop owner directed the five visitors to the adobe studio of Benn Garth. The jeweler’s eyes lighted as Sandy showed him her mangled ring.

"I’ve never seen a ruby quite like this before," he said, examining the stone through a jeweler’s loop. "Looks rather like the kind from Afghanistan, but this has much finer fire."

"Do you think it came from Kabulistan?" Tom asked casually.

Garth looked up at him. "Oddly enough, I do. I’ve seen only a few museum specimens from the Kabulistan mine—it’s lost, you know—but this certainly resembles them in color. I’m not a mineralogist, but I’m told these rubies have some unusual structural features."

At that moment Bashalli gasped and pointed toward the window. As the others turned, they saw a dark-featured man in an Oriental turban suddenly duck out of sight!

BUD whirled into action and darted out the front door of the studio. He collided head-on with the man in the turban!

The jolt left Bud speechless for a moment as the man stared at him with wounded dignity. Recovering, Bud gripped the man’s arm and demanded, "Why were you spying on us?"

"I beg your pardon, but I was not." The dark-featured man shook off Bud’s arm contemptuously. "I was merely passing the window on my way to enter the studio and happened to glance in. Now will you please allow me to get by?"

"Okay." Bud stood aside and stared at him in baffled surprise. The stranger adjusted his white, gold-threaded turban, then walked in.

"My name is Mirza," he said to the entire shop. "Is Mr. Tom Swift here?"

Everyone looked at him in surprise. Tom spoke up. "I’m Tom Swift."

The man bowed and made a gesture of salaam. "I am the secretary to Mr. Nurhan Flambo, the head of Pan-Islamic Engineering Associates. Mr. Flambo is now at your atomic research station and urgently wishes to confer with you."

Mr. Flambo, the secretary explained, had flown from the Middle East via New York for the sole purpose of seeing Tom Swift. After landing in New Mexico he had taken a car directly from the airport to the Citadel. There, Mr. Flambo had learned of Tom Swift’s trip to Taos and had sent Mirza to summon him back at once.

"And how did your Mr. Flambo learn that our Mr. Swift was here in New Mexico?" asked Bashalli with a withering look.

Bud frowned. "From a guy named Gabe Knorff, maybe?"

"I do not know that gentleman," was the stiff reply. "From Manhattan Mr. Flambo spoke directly to Mr. Damon Swift in Shopton, by telephone. Knowing of Mr. Flambo’s international reputation, Mr. Swift was more than cooperative."

"Why didn’t he bring his ‘international reputation’ to Taos himself?" Bud demanded. Mirza merely shrugged.

Tom, too, was somewhat irritated by the highhanded demand. Evidently this Mr. Flambo was accustomed to having people jump when he issued orders. On the other hand, if he had flown all the way from the Middle East, there must be an important reason and it seemed only polite to see him.

Ed Longstreet chuckled. "My gosh, cuz! You must be the one with the rep—everybody’s trying to get some face time with you!"

Tom frowned a moment, then said, "Sorry to bail on you, guys, but maybe I’d better go back. You four go on with your day. Mr. Mirza can drive me back. If he doesn’t mind." Mirza gave a polite nod.

Arriving at the Citadel after a strained, silent ride, Tom found his visitor pacing back and forth in the lobby of the reception building. Flambo, a plump, hawk-nosed man with a trim black beard, greeted Tom with an angry glare.

"I have been waiting here for over four hours," he complained as they shook hands. "My time is of value to me."

"As is mine. A call that you were coming would have saved us both some inconvenience," Tom returned evenly. He suddenly realized that his father would surely have tried to contact him immediately at the facility. If he had missed the call, it meant that Flambo and company had flown to New Mexico as quickly as had the Sky Queen the day before! "I hope you have been comfortable."

Flambo snorted. "A ridiculous-looking cowperson brought me what he called lunch—a concoction of rattlesnake meat. An insult to my culture and beliefs, as I have come to expect among Europeans and Americans. Naturally I was unable to touch it."

Tom repressed a grin. He could just imagine!—and now he knew that Chow Winkler had arrived. "Chow probably thought he was paying you an honor, sir. He does prepare—er—unusual delicacies at times."

As he spoke, Tom looked over his visitor carefully. Flambo was dressed impeccably in a suit of shimmering gray silk. Tom’s eye was caught by his ruby tie clasp.

"Perhaps we can talk more comfortably in a private setting," Tom said. The man nodded curtly, dismissing the hovering Mirza with a wave of his hand.

As they walked across the grounds toward one of Tom’s lab buildings, the young inventor remarked, "I can’t help admiring your tie clasp, sir. That’s a Kabulistan ruby, isn’t it?"

Flambo bared his white teeth in a sneer. "I fear your knowledge of rubies is not so expert as your scientific skill, my dear Mr. Swift. This happens to be a pigeon’s-blood ruby—a gift from a colleague in India."

"My mistake," Tom said with a smile. But he was not entirely convinced.

When they reached the office adjoining a lab, Tom offered his guest a chair and sat down behind his desk. He wanted to look unintimidated. "What can I do for you, Mr. Flambo?"

There were no further pleasantries. "My company—no doubt you have heard of Pan-Islamic Engineering Associates—is making a great contribution to the Middle East, as you prefer to call the Muslim world," Flambo said proudly. "We are building roads, bridges, and refineries—all with technicians from our own countries. A far better way than letting greedy outsiders get a foothold!"

Tom nodded. "I believe science knows no national boundaries. All countries have a right to share in scientific progress."

Flambo scowled. "Unfortunately some countries use their scientific leadership to impose their will on less advanced areas."

"Some do," Tom agreed coolly. "Not the United States." Tom bristled instinctively. But then he recalled that his father had acknowledged, to Moshan Prandit, that such feelings were understandable.

Flambo shrugged impatiently. "It is no matter. My company could make good use of your new small-sized atomic dynamo, which we have read about in the journals with great interest. You must surely realize that such a power source has uses much more valuable than to run an electric automobile, even one that flies through the air. We are therefore prepared to offer any price within reason for the sole industrial rights to your invention."

Tom was startled. Then a smile spread over his face. "That’s the second time in a few days I’ve had such an offer, Mr. Flambo. My answer to both offers is No. When and if my midget power plant is perfected, I intend to sell or lease it for use wherever it can help mankind. That’s the way the Swift family does things, and it’s the policy of Swift Enterprises. We avoid politics if we can."

Flambo’s eyes blazed. "Meaning you and your government will make it available wherever you can use it as a tool for getting advantage over weaker countries!" he stormed.

The telephone bleeped. Tom picked it up, listened a few moments, then replaced the receiver with an amused look. "Excuse me a minute, sir," Tom told Flambo. "Your secretary Mirza seems to be trying to get a foothold where he doesn’t belong."

Tom hurried outside and found Chow Winkler holding Mirza tightly bound in the loop of his lariat, a security man with a cellphone standing nearby.

"Caught the sidewinder sneakin’ past my galley window—snoopin’!" the Texan reported. "Jest enough time t’ grab my lariat and make a catch fer you."

Mirza was quivering, either from anger or fear, Tom could not decide which. The secretary’s face looked livid as he muttered something unintelligible.

"All right, let him go, Chow. I’ll take over," Tom said, taking over the rope. He warned his prisoner, "An atomic research station is a dangerous place to go wandering around, Mirza. Don’t try it again." He removed Mirza’s bonds, returning the lariat to Chow with a wink of gratitude.

"Reckon you’d better keep an eye on that boss o’ his, too," Chow warned. "I never did trust a critter that don’t appreciate good vittles!"

Tom grinned and started back to his office. Mirza accompanied him silently. In the meantime, Flambo’s temper seemed to have died down.

"Your answer to my offer, then, is a flat refusal?" he asked Tom.

"I’m afraid it will have to be, sir."

"Then there is no further point in my remaining here." Flambo turned and snapped an order to his secretary in what sounded, to the young inventor’s barely tutored ear, like Farsi or Arabic. Politely but firmly, Tom insisted on accompanying them to their rented car. Then he watched until the guard at the gate flagged them through.

Good night! he thought ruefully. Now I know what they mean when they say ‘everybody wants a piece of me’!

Twenty minutes later he was pouring a batch of molten metal from a miniature electronic furnace into a keg. The white-hot mass was a new alloy of the metal called neo-aurium, mined on the floor of the Atlantic, bonded to radiation-resistant Inertite. He was creating a container with a series of minute, bubble-like hollows in the center, into which the newly discovered stable isotope, a granule smaller than a grain of salt, would be inserted. Tom was wearing protective dark goggles and asbestalon-Inertite gloves and apron.

Suddenly, as he finished pouring, Tom’s ears caught a hissing, crackling noise behind him. He turned and gave a gasp of fear. His workbench was a mass of flames—which were shooting perilously close to a shelf full of flammable chemicals!

Tom pushed an alarm bell and grabbed up a fire extinguisher. Luckily he was able to douse the flames even before help arrived.

"What happened?" the chief of the facility fire crew asked, after making sure the danger was past.

"I’m not sure." Tom shoved up his goggles and began poking among the scorched debris. "Oh-oh! Here’s the answer," he announced a moment later. "The electrical lead to my glass pyrometer rod must have shorted. There’s a kink here, where the insulation probably frayed. Just an accident."

The crew left. Then Tom repaired the damaged electrical lead and went back to work. That evening, when Bud, Ed, Sandy, and Bash returned from Taos, the five young people enjoyed a snack of hamburgers and milk in the laboratory. Bud scowled suspiciously after hearing of the blaze and asked: "Did you say Flambo stayed in your office when you went out to rescue that sneaky secretary?" Tom nodded. "Then how do you know he wasn’t responsible for that electrical short?" Bud demanded. "He could have slipped into the lab while you were gone."

Tom frowned. "It’s possible. But why should he? I mean, I turned down his offer, but that’s hardly a reason to threaten my life."

"Some people take perceived insults very seriously in that part of the world," Ed cautioned.

"And of course, he may just be what Chow calls plumb loco!" offered Sandy.

Tom snorted. "We’re getting way ahead of the evidence!" Nevertheless, before going to bed that night, Tom sent an email message to Harlan Ames at Enterprises. He asked the security chief to check on both Flambo and Pan-Islamic Engineering Associates.

Some time after midnight, Tom was aroused by the telephone burbling on his bedside table. "I don’t know why I even bother closing my eyes," he mumbled to himself. He groped sleepily for the instrument. "Hello?... Tom Swift speaking. I think."

"This is Benn Garth in Taos," said an agitated voice at the other end of the line. "I just surprised a thief breaking into my studio. Thought I’d better let you know right away. He was that man with the turban who came here looking for you!"

"YOU mean Mirza?" Tom sat bolt upright, completely awake.

"Right. My studio is wired with a silent alarm because of the precious stones and valuable jewelry I keep here," Garth explained. "When the alarm went off, I jumped out of bed and dashed to my workshop just in time to grab him. But he put up a nasty fight and finally escaped out the window."

"What about my sister’s ruby ring?" Tom asked.

"Don’t worry. It’s still here in my safe. In fact, he didn’t take anything, so far as I can discover. I don’t know what he was after."

Garth added that he had called the police and they were mounting a thorough search for the suspect.

"Good deal," said Tom with a shrug in his voice. "Maybe he admired your jewels when he was there today—er, yesterday—and thought he saw an opportunity."

"I called partly to warn you that the fellow is a criminal—maybe even dangerous," Garth said. "Also to find out if you had any information about him."

Tom told as much as he knew about Mirza and his employer. "When they left here this afternoon, Flambo claimed they were going to fly back to New York," Tom concluded. "We should ask the police to check with the airport at Albuquerque."

"Good idea. I’ll notify the officer who’s my contact on the matter."

After Garth beeped off, Tom lay awake for over an hour, thinking. Had Mirza just been tempted by the sight of valuable jewelry lying about the studio? Or after all, was it Sandy’s ruby that Mirza had been after? But if so, why that gem in particular?

Mirza’s first appearance at the studio window had certainly seemed furtive and suspicious. And Garth had just been saying, at that moment, that the ruby might have come from the Kabulistan mine! Tom recalled. In either case, where did Mirza’s employer, Flambo, fit into the picture?

The thought of Flambo’s ruby tie clasp flickered through Tom’s mind as he finally dozed off.

As Chow served breakfast that all-too-soon morning, Tom discussed the late-night incident with Bud. "About time things started heating up on this ‘case’!" declared the dark-haired pilot. "Er, no pun intended."

"So far this is much more mystery than thriller," chuckled his pal. "Smoke bombs, a few accidents, a breaker-inner, various weird industrial types—not much to shake a fist at."

Bud glanced up at Chow, pouring orange juice. "Good to see ya, wrangler man—though at first I thought somebody had left the door to the reactor open!"

"Fer once I agree, buddy boy," replied the rotund ex-Texan, glancing down at the explosive clash of colors on his billowy western-styled shirt. "Had t’pick up somethin’ kind o’ on the spur of the moment, fer the funeral. Leastways it’s got black in it."

The former chuck-wagon cook from the Texas Panhandle had first met the Swifts on one of their trips to New Mexico while planning the construction of the Citadel. On this morning, as usual, the roly-poly chef was decked out in a ten-gallon hat and gaudy sport shirt. Everyone who knew him considered it something of an official uniform.

Tom asked about the funeral. "Mighty nice," responded Chow, "takin’ account that y’got a dead body right spang in the middle of it. Good ole Pappy Burge!"

"Did you know him well?" inquired the young inventor sympathetically.

"Aw no, son. Never met the feller. Jest went a-cause I knew a bunch o’ my old ranch pals’d be there." The cook approached the boys and spoke confidentially. "But y’know somethin’, you two? Dang if half o’ those old guys ain’t gettin’ fat and turnin’ bald! Brand my vitamin pills."

Soon Sandy and Bashalli arrived to join Tom and Bud for breakfast. When Tom told them about Mirza’s breaking into the studio, Sandy exclaimed, "And to think it might have been my ring he was trying to steal!"

Bud lifted a forkful of bacon and eggs. "Don’t take it personally, San. Maybe he can’t help it. Maybe he’s the Thief of Baghdad." Sandy, who was just finishing her orange juice, choked and sputtered with laughter.

Bud slapped her vigorously on the back, then turned to Tom. "Seriously, skipper, I warned you the turban-engine creep and his boss were up to no good!"

"Right again, flyboy," Tom conceded with a grin. "When’ll I ever learn?"

"Don’t give this’n so much credit, boss," urged Chow. "It’ll make the muscles in his head grow as big as the others!"

Later that morning a phone call from the Taos police informed Tom that Flambo had arrived on schedule in New York. "But Mirza was not with him," added the police lieutenant.

"How come?" Tom asked.

"Flambo told the police that just before taking off from Albuquerque, Mirza had informed him he was quitting his job and refused to accompany Flambo on the flight back. Apparently Flambo was angry at his employee. He stated that he knew nothing about Mirza’s present whereabouts and cared less. I’m summarizing."

"That clears Flambo of suspicion—if he’s telling the truth," Tom mused. "Thanks for letting me know, officer."

As the morning progressed, the girls and Bud gathered in Tom’s laboratory, Ed Longstreet having decided to take a drive to Santa Fe for the day. They watched quietly as Tom prepared to test a new material he had been working on for some time at Enterprises. The young inventor had extruded several rods which he now installed in a strength-testing machine.

He explained as he worked, "If this stuff pans out, I’ll be using for the body of the finished atomicar."

"Did you say it’s a plastic, Thomas?" Bash asked in amazement.

"Technically, yes," Tom replied. "But in all its properties, the material is more like a tremendously strong, hard, featherweight metal. It’s a further development of the material I used on the hydrolung suits, which I named duraflexon."

"Uh-huh," Bud said, "molecule-sized chain mail that morphs and flexes when you push a button."

"Ordinary duraflexon is only super-tough on a small scale—that’s the problem. This new formulation, Durastress, can be manufactured in large, contoured panels. But let’s see."

When the rods were installed, Tom flipped a power switch and slowly advanced a control lever. He watched the gauge needle creep around its dial as hydraulic pressure built up inside the machine. Soon the sample rods were being subjected to enormous stress. One was being pulled at each end to test its tensile strength. Another was being compressed under crushing pressure. Still another was being bent, while a fourth was being twisted.

‘I don’t see much happening," said Sandy in a puzzled voice.

Tom grinned. "Neither do I—and that’s good. It means the stuff is as strong as I had hoped."

His jubilation increased as the torture tests continued. When the rods were removed from the machine and measured, they showed only a small amount of deformation! "And watch this, ladies and gentleman!" Tom attached wired alligator clips to each end of the rod he was holding, then fed in a trickle of current. Instantly he bent the rod into a U-shape, effortlessly. When he let go of one end, it sprung back like rubber.

"Jetz! Looks as if you really have something here, skipper!" said Bud excitedly. "When do you switch out the Silent Streak’s body material and switch in the new stuff?"

"Soon as we get back," was the reply. "But I’ll be needing to do some body redesign work first. Arv Hanson’s working on some ideas right now, over in Building 7."

"Maybe you could start making the Pigeon Specials out of Durastress," suggested Sandy dreamily. "Then they really couldn’t crash—they’d just bounce!" Tom’s sister had a steady job demonstrating these compact commuter planes, manufactured by Enterprises’ affiliate, the Swift Construction Company.

The young inventor laughingly acknowledged the idea. But then his face grew serious. "I just wish I’d make more progress on the really important part of the trip here—solving the problems with the power capsule." He reported that his experiments with the new isotope had not born fruit, and the others were sympathetic and as encouraging as non-scientists could manage to be.

It seemed Tom’s work was foredoomed. He was interrupted by two more calls that morning. The first was from Harlan Ames at Enterprises. The security chief reported that he had checked on both Flambo and Pan-Islamic Engineering Associates. "So far as is known, there is nothing detrimental against either the man or his company. Actually, your Dad had already asked my opinion before giving him your whereabouts, but your own request allowed me to look in more detail. No apparent problems—the man’s worked productively with several governments, and with the United Nations."

"Good to know. Thanks much, Harlan."

Near lunchtime, as Tom was "cooking" a bubbling brown mass of chemicals in a complicated hookup of retorts and glass tubing, his father telephoned from the Swift home.

"Sorry if I’m interrupting a big scientific breakthrough," Mr. Swift teased, "but I thought you might be interested in this item of information I just dug up. It concerns the mystery rubies."

"I sure am interested, if it has anything to do with those rubies," Tom said.

"Well, son, I’ve been reading that gift book of Ed’s, Travels in Remotest Araby, and I’ve reached the chapters that deal with the Kabulistan region. Guess why the Amir’s Mine was abandoned?" he challenged.

"I give up. Why?"

"Because it’s cursed—by the devil himself!"

TOM couldn’t take seriously his father’s statement. "What’s the joke, Dad?"

"I’m not joking—and I don’t think the author was, either. An imam, or Islamic holy man, decreed that the mine was accursed by Shaitan," Damon Swift reported. "Shaitan, you know, is the Muslim name for Satan—and for evil demons in general. The thought of that curse scared everyone in Kabulistan so much that the mine workings were abandoned. It’s an easy guess that they were later filled in. That was two centuries ago and no one has even dared look for it since."

"I suppose the devil’s curse would scare a lot of people," Tom said thoughtfully. Then he told his father about Flambo, Mirza, and the attempted burglary.

Mr. Swift was intrigued by the news. "Looks as though you may be getting mixed up in this ruby mystery yourself, Tom," he remarked.

Tom gave a dry chuckle. "I hope not. After all, I am right in the middle of a hot experiment."

"In that case, I’ll hang up." The older scientist laughed. "But please keep me informed of developments, Tom. And not just for my sake. George Dilling is starting to get on my nerves!"

After working at his typically frenzied pace through most of the weekend, with only time out for a church service, Tom decided on Monday to accompany Ed and the girls to Taos to pick up Sandy’s ring. He wondered if Garth, or the police there, might have fresh news about Mirza.

"Will not Bud be joining us?" asked Bashalli. "Tom Swift without Bud Barclay seems rather lopsided!"

"I’ve asked Bud to stay and give a hand to Arv in the modelmaking shop. He’s helped Arv before, you know."

Chow, too, begged to go along. "Brand my apple dumplin’s, you ain’t headin’ off agin without me, are you, boss? This here’s my country, you know!"

"Sure you’re coming, pardner," Tom said soothingly, throwing his arm around the seasoned, and somewhat weathered, Texan. "We planned this trip on such short notice, I forgot to let you know."

"S’whut I figgered. Reckon I’ll mosey around in town a bit while you buckaroos are gettin’ that ring," he said. "T’ tell the truth, I prob’ly should buy a new shirt before I start in payin’ calls on my friends in Tenderly."

As soon as the minivan arrived in Taos Chow hurried off with a wave.

"Don’t buy any Indian shirts with purple-and orange thunderbirds on them!" Sandy called.

Chow turned to give a dignified sniff. He had hardly taken two steps forward again when a plump woman with orange-yellow hair and jangling silver earrings pounced on him with a glad cry. She wore a paint-smeared artist’s smock.

"Oo-ooh! What a colorful character!" she shrilled in a piercing voice. "A perfect Western type! Such rugged, sun-bronzed features!"

"Huh?" Chow gulped. "Beg pardon, ma’am?"

His remark sent her into fresh gales of excitement. "And the voice too! You positively must pose for a painting!" she declared. "Naturally I’ll pay you the top model’s fee!"

Chow’s face took on a pleased smirk as he realized that she was an artist and wished to paint his portrait. "Wa-aal now! Reckon it’s natural to want the real thing if you’re lookin’ fer a rugged, straight-shootin’ cowboy," he said, doffing his ten-gallon hat. "I don’t mind posin’ fer a spell."

Sandy and Bash giggled as the woman dragged him off triumphantly, and Ed joined in with a chuckle. The watchers saw them enter a low adobe house halfway down the street.

"I think that was Lady Thunderbird herself," Tom confided in a low voice. "Come on! Let’s get Sandy’s ring."

Benn Garth greeted Tom and his companions at his studio and produced the new ring setting he had fashioned for Sandy’s ruby. Ed gave a whistle of admiration and both girls gasped with delight.

"It’s beautiful!" Sandy declared, holding out her hand like a queen for all to see. "A perfect fit, too!"

The silver ring now consisted of twining serpents, their heads and tails forming the setting for the stone.

"It’s certainly a fine piece of craftsmanship," Tom remarked. Yet he frowned thoughtfully. The serpents reminded him of what his father had told him—the curse of Shaitan! He had refrained from mentioning this to the others.

"Sandra, you are most elegant," stated Bashalli admiringly. "You may even earn a look or two from our dear Bud—if you are ready for such a heart-stopping event."

Garth invited the four to have refreshments at his studio and Tom took the opportunity to inquire about Mirza. "The police have no fresh clues," the jeweler said. "The funny thing is, where could he have gone in the wide-open country around here? Of course he may still be hiding in Taos. Actually there’s no easy way to identify him without his turban. And the town’s always thronging with tourists at this time of year."

"Mr. Garth, are you very sure the burglar was Mirza?" Bashalli put in.

Garth frowned thoughtfully. "It’s true I couldn’t see his face in the darkness very well. But the burglar did have on a turban—and I’ve never seen anyone else around here wearing one."

"But that could be just what an impostor thief could be counting on!" exclaimed Sandy with a shrewd look. "It’s what I’d do."

"You would make a marvelous criminal, Sandra," commented her Pakistani friend.

Presently, and with many expressions of thanks to Mr. Garth, the four young people took their leave and strolled along the pleasant, quiet street, seeking out the cool shadows. Presently Sandy noticed that her brother was walking more slowly and had fallen behind.

"Come on, Tom! Oh, let me guess—you’ve got some new invention hatching up there under your crewcut, right?"

Tom’s answer was in low tones, his eyes narrowed. "Just keep walking, please. I think we’re being followed."

Ed Longstreet looked back up the block, startled. "You must have x-ray eyes, cousin. I don’t see anyone anywhere. Must be siesta time."

"No no," whispered Bash. "I understand, for I see him too. We are being followed from the front!"

Sandy gave her friend an incredulous look, but it was easy to see that Bashalli and Tom were both serious. Now she noticed, turning her gaze, that they were not alone on the block after all. Some ways ahead a lone figure was ambling along, his back toward them. "You’re right, Tom!" Sandy whispered, more enthused than alarmed. "I noticed him earlier too, watching us from a distance."

"Watching you from a distance watch him from a distance," added Ed dryly.

"He’s been keeping pace with us," Tom said, "carefully slowing when we slow and walking faster when we do. And he must have just waited somewhere while we were with Mr. Garth."

"Surely he is casing the joint—for another robbery!" hissed Bash. Sandy gave her a poke, and they both giggled with excitement.

Tom had noticed that the man risked a concealed backwards glance at them every ten steps or so. Immediately after the next such glance, Tom suddenly sprang into motion! Like a track-team runner he sprinted up the block, silent in his tennis shoes, overtaking the startled man in moments and grabbing the back of his shirt.

"Okay, mister, what’s with you?" demanded the young inventor.

The man tore himself loose from Tom’s grip with a powerful lunge. "What? Get away from me!"

Tom took his opponent’s measure. The man was on the youthful side of 30, it seemed, muscular and broad-shouldered. His close-cropped hair was an off-shade of dark auburn. The young inventor couldn’t help an inward gulp. Sure wish Bud had my back right now! he thought. His quarry looked like he wouldn’t be at all easy to handle!

"You’ve been spying on me and my friends for some reason," declared Tom flatly. "You’re not leaving until you tell me why!"

"I don’t have to tell you anything!"

The man started to turn away. Tom threw himself forward, again grabbing for the man’s shirt—but this time his opponent was ready for him! A forearm whipped up against Tom’s jaw, rocking him back. And the fight was on!

As the two bobbed and weaved along the sidewalk and into the street, Ed and the girls came running up, shouting words that Tom did not pause to comprehend in the heat of battle. But the girls managed to separate the opponents—and then the words made sense. "Tom—this is Orton Throme! He’s the famous abstract painter!" cried Sandy.

As Tom, panting, gaped in astonishment, Ed added, "And Mr. Throme is also a well-known war hero and jet pilot."

"We have studied him in art school," was Bashalli’s contribution.

Tom stopped short as he suddenly remembered various magazine accounts he had read about "Ort" Throme and his exploits in the wars of the Middle East.

"Good grief! I—I’m sorry, Mr. Throme," he said, thrusting out his hand. "Guess I acted too fast, without... well, just without."

"Pretty powerful left hook you throw." The ace chuckled, shaking hands. "Call me Ort, by the way."

"You are shaking the hand of Tom Swift, world famous boy inventor," pronounced Bashalli Prandit. "He cannot paint. But he has been to the moon!"

Now Ort Throme seemed as astonished as Tom had been! "Go tell! You never know who’ll you’ll run into in this town! But I don’t think you came at me to trade autographs, hmm?"

Tom explained shame-facedly, and Throme burst out laughing. "Okay, now it’s all clear. And I guess I was acting a little suspicious. You see, I noticed you earlier, Tom, and as an artist I have a pretty good eye, if not a great memory. I couldn’t place you, and it kept buggin’ me. I’m afraid the situation brought out my stubborn streak. That’s why I kept hanging around...well, and also—" To the onlookers’ surprise, the artist blushed! "Also, I—that is, two pretty girls, and I, I was trying to figure out—"

"Oh my word, you wished to make our acquaintance!" Bashalli’s voice showed that the wave of astonishment had now spread her way.

"As the only one here who is neither pretty nor a celebrity, we’d be delighted if you’d join us at dinner, Ort," stated Ed Longstreet. The others added their urgings, and Throme finally accepted.

"In fact," he said, "if you don’t have a restaurant in mind, I’ll guide you to one of my local hangouts. Wonderful food."

"Actually, we have one more in our party, Mr. Throme, who’d surely like to meet you," Sandy said. She glanced at Bashalli. "I wonder how Chow is getting along with Lady Thunderbird." She turned to Ort and explained: "Our friend is in there, probably posing for Custer’s Last Stand." Throme chuckled.

"We can all see for ourselves," Bash continued mischievously, pointing to the artist’s house far down the street. "Mr. Throme, too. You’ll like our friend—he is colorful!"

As they passed the driveway beside the house,

Sandy glanced into the back yard and clapped a hand over her mouth. "Oh, no!" she exclaimed, struggling hard not to burst out laughing—and the laughter was winning!

In the yard, seated before an easel, was the stout lady artist. She wore a blissful expression. Her subject was not so happy.

Chow’s leathery face bore a scowl. He wore a gaudy silk neckerchief and bearskin chaps as he posed beside a discontented, even downright surly, cow.

"Now pick up that branding iron," the artist ordered, "and pretend you’re branding the bull."

"You don’t brand ’em standin’ up!" Chow protested. "An’ besides, I keep tellin’ ya, this ain’t no bull!"

As if in total agreement, the cow turned her head and licked Chow’s face. "Git away!" the cowboy stormed.

Unable to restrain themselves any longer, the watchers burst into shouts of laughter. Chow’s neck reddened with embarrassment. "Sorry, ma’am," he apologized, doffing his big hat, "but this stuff ain’t fer me, I guess."

The woman appeared stricken. "Ohhh, dear. But Mr. Winkler, you’re so perfect!"

"That may be, little lady, but I ain’t no model." He handed her the chaps and kerchief she had provided. "And that sure ain’t no bull, neither!"

Looking straight ahead, the flustered cowboy stomped out of the yard. Tom clamped a hand on

his shoulder as he passed. "Come on, old-timer. What you need is a good, juicy, three-inch steak!"

Chow brightened. "Now you’re talkin’, boss. An’ loaded with ketchup, too!"

The chef was introduced to Orton Throme. "Say, it’s a right honor. I got a book o’ your pictures back in Shopton!"

"What do you think of them?"

"Don’t rightly know. Never did open up the book, t’tell it straight."

They dined in a small cafe. Throme talked of his experiences in the Afghanistan conflict, and Tom spoke of his triphibian atomicar. He avoided all mention of the ruby mystery, and his subtle glances warned the others to do likewise.

"A flying, swimming supercar, eh?" The artist’s face assumed a thoughtful look. "What’s it look like, Tom?—if you don’t mind my asking."

"Not at all," said the young inventor. "There’ve already been news articles about it." Taking out a pen, Tom sketched out a rough drawing of the prototype. He pointed out its various key features. Ort gazed at it in silent fascination, then produced a pen of his own and commenced drawing on his dinner napkin.

"Lovely!" exclaimed Bashalli when she saw the result.

"Just doodling," Ort replied with a smile. "Call it one possible direction your prototype could evolve toward."

The sketch presented a sleeker, more attractive version of the atomicar’s body shell and overall configuration. The teardrop dome now completely enclosed the upper part of the vehicle, nose to tail, without a break in its smooth line. Throme had added some chrome trim, and had moved the forward wheel cowlings further toward the front, so that they now extended slightly beyond and below the enclosed nose. "Wow!" breathed Tom, very impressed. "The future on wheels!"

Ed studied the drawing. "Mounting the wheels so far forward really changes the look."

"Now the Silent Streak looks more like a leaping jaguar!" Sandy exclaimed. "I’ll bet Enterprises’ll sell a million of ’em!"

Tom handed the sketch back to Throme. "Ort, would you be interested in selling us this design of yours?"

Grinning, Throme waved off the napkin. "No, Tom, keep it—it’s yours. Send me a release to sign if you want. I don’t care to become a paid automotive designer."

"Son, you stick to yer picture-paintin’, ’specially western stuff," advised Chow. "Never goes out o’ style!"

Darkness had fallen when the group finally started back to the Citadel, with Tom at the wheel. Sandy and Bash were still chatting excitedly about the day’s sightseeing and their encounter with the celebrated Orton Throme. The highway was almost deserted, moonlit and star-lit except for a pair of lights far behind them. Eventually even that disappeared.

About ten miles out from Taos, the van’s engine suddenly began sputtering and coughing. "Wonder what’s wrong," Tom said.

"Frankly, cousin, it sounds as if we’re out of gas," Ed said cheerfully.

"We can’t be. Look at the gauge needle."

A moment later the engine died abruptly. Tom barely managed to steer off the road before the van rolled to a halt. The three menfolk got out to check the tank, lift the hood, and offer unneeded advice.

Suddenly a distinctive-looking pair of headlights flashed on some distance away on the highway. The car that had been behind now overtook them and pulled off the road just ahead of the van. A bareheaded man leapt from the car, brandishing a revolver.

"Raise up your hands, all of you!" he snarled in a voice that had a familiar foreign accent.

No turban. But it was Mirza!

AS HE strode toward Tom, Ed, and Chow, Mirza’s face was starkly revealed in the glare of the Citadel van’s headlights. He looked pale and unshaven. His eyes gleamed fanatically.

Moving past the three men, Mirza jerked open the rear door. "You women, if you please—step outside!"

"At least you asked politely," commented Bashalli with calm dignity.

Sandy followed Bash out. Mirza motioned for the girls to join the others.

"I suppose you drained our tank while we were having dinner back in Taos," Tom accused Mirza. "And then doctored the fuel gauge."

"Most clever of you to guess," the man sneered. He turned to Sandy and held out his free hand. "I will take that ruby ring, please!"

As Sandy stepped back defiantly, Tom snapped, "Go ahead, take it from her. I want to watch what happens when you touch it!"

Mirza froze. "And what is this?"

"In case you’ve forgotten, the rubies from that lost mine in Kabulistan bear the curse of Shaitan! Did you forget what happens to one of the faithful who defies the words of an imam?"

Tom’s words were a mere shot in the dark. But the effect was startling. The former secretary’s face contorted in fear. "What does a young American fool like you know about the curse of Shaitan?" he blustered.

"I know that it’s already bringing you bad luck," Tom said smoothly. "Every word we’re saying is being picked up—which means a State Police car is probably on its way here right now!"

"A lie!"

"Take a look for yourself at the cellphone on the dashboard," Tom prodded. "It’s on. Did you think we wouldn’t guess that we were being followed, just because you switched off your headlights?"

"We spend half our time in public being followed," Sandy added. "We’re very used to it."

Mirza took the bait. He edged toward the open door of the van. As he bent forward slightly to glance inside, Chow’s gnarled fist shot out in a whirling uppercut!

The punch caught Mirza on his out-thrust chin. He tottered backward and Ed dived at his legs in a tackle that brought the man crashing to the ground. Before Mirza could bring his revolver into play, Tom wrested the gun from his hand.

"Don’t try any stunts!" Tom warned.

Said Bashalli mockingly, "The stunts are to be all on our side! Unfair, is it not?"

Mirza struggled like a madman, but Ed and Chow pinned him relentlessly to the ground by the power of muscle and unforgiving gravity. Tom quickly got a length of rope from the van, and Mirza was finally subdued and bound.

"Brand my tumbleweed soup!" Chow panted, when it was all over. "Back in the noose! Yuh’d think the critter would learn."

Mirza gasped out a torrent of abuse in his native language. Several times his listeners caught the word "Shaitan."

Tom asked Bashalli if she could understand any of it. "A little bit," she replied. "Most of which I shall not venture. I am too refined. As to the rest, it appears he is unhappy with you and rather upset. And he advises the devil to shift his curse onto your shoulders, Thomas."

"Let’s jest hope he ain’t listenin’," declared Chow nervously.

Tom made use of the van’s dashboard phone. Soon a State Police car arrived. The sergeant in charge tried to question Mirza, but the prisoner gave only raving, disconnected replies.

"Beware! The Amir’s ruby must be returned to Kabulistan, or hurled into the depths of the sea!" he stormed. "If not, the curse of Shaitan and his afrites will fall upon you!"

"I guess that’s all we’re likely to get out of Mirza," Tom murmured. "Might as well show him his cell, officer."

The sergeant agreed in disgust. "I’d say this guy belongs in a padded cell."

After Tom put some gasoline into the van’s tank from the police car’s emergency supply, he and his companions continued on to the Citadel.

"Tom, do you suppose Mirza really believes in that silly curse?" Bash asked a few moments later. "Or was the whole thing just an act?"

"If you ask me, he was just covering up to keep from answering questions," Ed Longstreet said flatly.

Tom agreed. "For all we know, he may still be working for Flambo!"

Sandy shuddered. "If that business about the curse was just an act, he deserves an Oscar!"

For a thoughtful moment Tom did not comment. Then he said: "Frankly, I’m not worried about any ‘curse.’ But there is something I wonder about. We would have left Taos a lot sooner if we hadn’t spent a long dinner chatting with Orton Throme."

"You’re thinking he might be in league with Mirza?" asked Ed in surprise.

"What I’m thinking is, that extra time allowed Mirza to do a number on our car after it got dark."

"Never did trust them artistic types!" snorted Chow. "No offense, Bashalalli. Jest mean the men."

The next day Tom reported the incident to Citadel security and by phone to Harlan Ames. He soon forgot about Mirza and the attempted burglary as he plunged back to work in his laboratory. A study of the new isotope’s atomic characteristics had sparked a different train of thought.

"Maybe I’ve been thinking too narrowly," he said to Bud Barclay. "Why think in terms of a miniaturized atomic reactor in the first place?"

Bud grinned. "Because otherwise you wouldn’t be able to call it an atomicar?"

The young inventor laughed. "But there may be an entirely different way to utilize atomic reactions to produce power." Tom explained to Bud that, some time previous, he had run across a report in an internet journal concerning a novel theoretical approach to using neutron decomposition to induce electric current. "In fact,