TOM SWIFT
AND HIS
POLAR-RAY DYNASPHERE

By VICTOR APPLETON II

CHAPTER 1

A TALE OF TWO SATELLITES

"SORRY, Tom," came the voice of the Flying Lab’s radioman through Tom Swift’s cellphone. "Don’t want to interrupt. But."

"Problem on the Sky Queen, Luke?"

"Not for us, chief — maybe for you. Your Dad’s on the videophone. Says it can’t wait."

Tom Swift grinned. "I’d say the biggest problem around here may be with my traveling companions! I’ll head back now. Give me fifteen."

As Tom clicked off his phone, a pretty raven-haired girl pretended to bury her face in her hands. "Oh no, oh no," she moaned. "Even in Pakistan, trouble follows Tom Swift."

The crewcut young inventor’s grin had quickly become a sheepish half-smile of abject apology. Vacationing in Pakistan with his good friend Bashalli Prandit, who had been born there, the relaxing tour of Karachi now faced the kind of interruption that all too often had cut short the young people’s dating life back in Shopton, New York.

Bash’s mother, accompanying them down the modern streets of the new-old city’s tourist district, said something in Urdu, to which her daughter gave a wry response that required no translation for other ears. "Oh yes," commented a blond girl, Tom’s year-younger sister. "It’s fate, absolute fate. The stars of the East are against us. Just like the stars over Shopton!"

Bud Barclay, Tom’s best friend, gave Sandra Swift a look of pure skepticism. "C’mon, San. You don’t speak Pakistani any more than I do — ‘hello,’ ‘goodbye,’ ‘how much?,’ ‘does it come with fries?’ "

"My dear Budworth, she does not have to know the language," stated Bash. "She knows the gist — by sad and repeated experience."

"Okay, okay," Tom protested. "I’ll try to keep it brief. Go on with your walk-shop. Maybe it’s nothing."

"Ye-aah, an’ mebbe I’m th’ blame Duke o’ Paducah!" snorted the large, rounded, very Texas-like figure of Chow Winkler, professional chef, devoted friend. "Jest try not t’get yerself kidnapped, boss."

"Don’t worry, pard. Not my turn!"

Tom headed for the Karachi International Airport in one of the city’s dauntingly risk-taking taxis. Out of sight of his Shopton friends and the Prandit family, the young inventor dropped his humorous pose. Whatever was behind his father’s summons, it was more than likely a serious matter. I must’ve been dreaming, thinking I could manage to unwind for a couple weeks! Tom thought ruefully.

A life of danger and challenge — brief though it had been so far — took an inevitable toll. From the moment his giant Flying Lab jetcraft had carried him into deadly intrigue in South America, he had endured the sort of unending excitement that would gray the blond hair of anything less than an extraordinary prodigy, the genius descendant of the first Tom Swift. Tom had already traveled to the remotest corners of Earth — to Antarctica, to the Yucatan jungles, to the steamy marshlands of Africa, even to Trenton, New Jersey. He had plumbed the depths of the sea, the nuclear fires of an antimatter volcano, more than one lost city, and the airless plains of the Moon.

But it was Tom’s most recent exploit, an encounter in space with a nomadic lifeform of frightful power, that had finally led him to the ultimate sacrifice — time off from the demanding art of invention. His 3-D telejector now in the hands of others for whatever further development and commercial manufacture lay ahead, the youth had gladly accepted the invitation extended to Tom and those closest to him to join Bashalli Prandit on one of her visits home to her extended family.

And now, four days in — this.

The silver-white three-deck Sky Queen sat grandly in a broad section of the airport that was still under construction. Though it had flown its passengers to the ancient, troubled land in modern comfort and scientific luxury, they had chosen to stay in one of Karachi’s better hotels along with the Prandits, leaving only two crewmen behind on the skyship.

On the other side of the Queen’s side-hatch, pilot Luke Tor greeted his young boss. "All ready up above, Tom. Mr. Swift stayed on line for you."

"Good night!" Tom groaned. "No way this isn’t important."

The Swift Enterprises videophone system was a private television network that spanned the world via satellite. In the spacious control cabin at the prow of the ship, the digital flatscreen awaited the young inventor, full of the sober visage of the man who sometimes called himself The Old Inventor — Tom’s father Damon Swift, CEO of the family’s Shopton invention factory.

"Believe me, son, I would have done anything to avoid bothering you on your vacation with this," he said. "But — "

"Oh, I know, Dad," Tom reassured him. "Imminent worldwide destruction? Or just a little espionage?"

Mr. Swift smiled. "A scientific puzzle — maybe one should call it a scientific crisis — with significant implications. Within the hour I was contacted by NASA, who in turn put me in touch with the head of the GenRev team in Toronto, Professor O’Malan."

Tom’s mind flashed across his mental filing cabinet. "The satellite project developed at the Toronto Institute of Applied Physics."

"Yes — measuring the finer details of Earth’s gravitational field to confirm some predictions from Einstein’s General Theory of Relativity. The satellite went up on a European booster nine days ago."

"Have they discovered something interesting?"

"The concern is that something may have discovered them. Tom, the GenRev satellite has inexplicably gone dead in orbit, as if something attacked it in space!"

Tom gulped. "That’s terrible news. Physicists around the world were hoping the project would go a long way toward discovering how gravity works its wonders — me too. But what happened, exactly? Is the satellite still up there?"

"Yes, according to radar and optical," replied the older scientist. "But it went dead silent without warning. The telemetry didn’t fade out, it was cut off in an instant. Yet long range instrumental readings show nothing abnormal in the area — no debris, no radiation, no sign of outgassing from a blown thruster."

"Could a micrometeorite have fouled the solar panel?"

"The satellite has battery backup. In fact, it has a sort of ‘black box’ aboard, as airliners have, with its own power source, which should be automatically reporting some basic information to ground control. But they’re getting nothing at all."

"I see," nodded Tom. "I’m sure you’ve already taken a look with the megascope." The megascope, a remarkable invention of Tom’s, used an electronic principle to create a television-like viewing point at any distance, even in deep space.

"Of course, that was my first response," said his father. "But there was nothing to see — no superficial damage is visible. The satellite is gliding along perfectly, at least as far as I can tell. I’ve sent the viewer images on along to Toronto."

"I take it there were no signs of a missile assault. Or..."

Mr. Swift gave Tom a shrewd look. "No spacecraft — I know what you’re thinking. No sign of the Fanshen. If indeed it still exists."

The Swifts had battled the self-styled Black Cobra — a stateless scientific criminal named Li Ching — several times now, in situations that had endangered countless lives. The man’s private spacecraft, the Fanshen, had been thought destroyed; but the Cobra had outwitted the death notices, and it was thought his ship had also survived to fight-or-flight another day. "We know the Cobra has been pretty lively recently," Tom pointed out.

"Yet, as the NASA people are saying, there are no signs of the Cobra’s signature weaponry, nor was the satellite snatched out of orbit — not that there’s any reason for Li to want to do so."

"There’s no reason to ruin the experiment, either, Dad! — but something wants to," declared the youth. "Are we being asked to do anything? Maybe go up and retrieve the GenRev?"

"Not just yet. They’d prefer to study the tracking data over several days-worth of orbits, so as not to miss any clue to the cause of the aberration. This is a heads-up about something that might grow large very soon.

"But another problem has cropped up in space, perhaps a more serious one. Though it’s hard to imagine how they could be connected — "

"Right, Dad, we’ve learned to distrust ‘mere coincidence’!" Tom half-laughed. "So what’s the second problem?"

Damon Swift paused, pulling out a drawing to place before the eye of the videophone’s camera. "You know what this is, don’t you?"

Tom frowned. "Well... maybe. Another satellite?"

"Exactly so," nodded Mr. Swift. "I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you don’t recognize it right off, son. It’s been a good ten years or so since Canaveral sent it up."

"Oh, of course," exclaimed the youth. "I’ve read the journal articles, the reports of its findings. I just forgot how it looks. The Kronus 3 — the Titan orbiter." His mind leapt back to the exciting images the NASA space probe had sent back in the years when Tom’s megascope was less than a dream. Radar-scanning the shrouded surface of Titan, distant Saturn’s giant moon, the satellite had launched a score of atmosphere-penetrating offspring which had returned a torrent of images of the eerie world beneath its deck of methane clouds. "Has something happened to the Kronus as well?"

"Yes — something quite different but equally hard to explain. The details are complex. Rather than go into it now, I’ll digitransmit the report to you. Perhaps it’s just Swiftian imagination, but I thought the double-problem in space was worth an early alert. As a matter of fact, for reasons that will become clear to you, the Kronus matter may well require some fast action. Probably a new invention, I’d say."

"Hey, Dad, it’s what we do. I’ll look for the report and read through it tonight — bedtime reading!"

Puzzled, concerned and somewhat at angry odds with inconsiderate Fate, Tom called a cab and rode back into town. To ascertain his party’s location, he dialed Bud’s cellphone. Receiving no response, he tried Sandy — again, nothing. Aw, good grief, he grumbled inwardly. Can’t leave ’em alone for a second. But then he added a rueful concession: Me neither, I guess.

Finally Tom tried the number he had been given for the cellphone of Ulnash Prandit, Bashalli’s father. To his surprise, it was Chow Winkler who answered! "Chow! What in the gosh-darned world is going on? Where are you?"

"Huh? That you, Tom? I ’as jest answerin’ the phone, cause ever’body’s all — oh, son, it’s jest like you said!"

"Just like I said? What did I say, pardner?"

"About gettin’ kidnapped! That there Bashalli’s gone an’ disappeared!"

CHAPTER 2

PRINCELY INTERVENTION

MR. AND MRS. Prandit and the Shopton travelers — Bud, Sandy, and Chow — rushed up to Tom as he jumped out of the cab at the police precinct station nearest the department store from which Bashalli had vanished. Five voices overlapped, trying to tell Tom what had transpired within the hour.

"Wait, wait!" demanded the young man, fear mounting. "Please, just one of you tell me."

"Then I will tell," declared Mr. Prandit, who spoke English, if somewhat haltingly.

He explained that the group had decided to visit a large, well-known department store, Mo’urdass, that catered to tourists. Inside they had separated, Sandy accompanying the Prandits to the section devoted to women’s fashion, Bud and Chow to the toy section.

"Never seen sech toys, boss!" Chow blurted. "Wind-up, plug-in, all manner o’ them little video — "

"Chow — let’s let Mr. Prandit continue."

"Yes, for I am the father," harrumphed the gray-haired Pakistani. "My little honey-heart, I see her walking down a further aisle, where there are scarves. She waves, I wave kisses to her. You see?" He pantomimed.

Tom nodded impatiently.

"Then she turns her head, as if — well, maybe I think somebody has called her, from just around a corner. She walks away. I no longer can see her." The man’s broad face assumed an expression of dignified anguish. "When we look to find her, she is nowhere. All over the emporium, out to the streets — nowhere is she! And so at last we demand of the manageress that she call the Sur’muq’a, the civil policemen. They come, we tell the story, they tell us to come here to tell it again, and to wait."

"We are here," put in Mrs. Prandit. "But where is Bashalli, where?"

"Do the police have a theory, ma’am?" Tom asked.

It was Bud who answered, hotly. "These guys? Forget it! They don’t give a hoot about Bash or any of us. They just tell us to wait out here cooling our heels."

"That’s right," Chow stated with bobbing chins. "Like tryin’ t’push a barrel o’ molasses up a hill without th’ barrel."

Trying to hold himself together and not allow his alarm to surge into the open, Tom’s frown raked the others like a searchlight. "Look, I don’t understand. Why won’t the police cooperate? Don’t they believe you?"

Ulnash Prandit lowered his voice. "I will help you understand, Tom, srimam. It is the way here, the way of Pakistan, of the cities, of ‘the way the roads go’ — we say that. There are factions and sects, people opposed to others, matters of who is to rule, of religion and tradition."

"Yes," nodded Tom. "I know about all that."

"So, we give our family name, where we are from, where we live now — the very street, even — and it tells about us, who we are. That is, you see — where we belong. And for these police here, in this part of town..."

"The Prandits don’t belong," finished Sandy bitterly. "The stupidest thing. So the police would just as soon ignore them."

"And also, pal, they don’t much care for Americans," Bud added. "Or even people who hang around with Americans. Or speak American."

"I am so frightened, I do not know how to think," murmured Mrs. Prandit. "If they know she lives in America, perhaps they will hold her for ransom!"

Tom noticed a uniformed officer eyeing them with cold disapproval. "Come on," he said quietly. "The hotel’s nearby. We can talk there."

"I tried to tell mimroh Prandit — that’s how Bashi says ‘momma’ — that everything will work out all right," Sandy said to her brother as they walked. She essayed a slight smile. "I told her we all get kidnapped over and over and it always works out."

"Weren’t s’much comfort," snorted Chow grimly. "Th’ blame problem is, here in this here country they also get kidnapped time’n agin, but it gen’rally don’t work out. They send ya back a little bit at a time." The blunt westerner regretted his words instantly as stricken faces surrounded him.

In the hotel lobby they all sat palely facing one another as Tom attempted to get further details. "Mr. Prandit, you said she disappeared around a corner..."

"So it seemed."

"Did it lead into another room in the store?"

The man shook his head, and Bud stated: "It was an alcove in front of an elevator. She may have taken it to another floor."

"Or the basement?"

"It went only to the upper two floors, above us," said Mrs. Prandit. "And we looked all over everywhere, of course."

Tom mulled the matter over. "This may sound a little ‘off’ — it’s always hard to know what to do in a situation like that — but — did anyone happen to actually look inside the elevator?"

"Oh, of course we did!" huffed Sandy. "We went to the upper floors in the elevator! That is... well, didn’t we?"

But Chow was scratching his bald head. "Er — wait now — I don’t think I reckerlect that."

"We did not use the elevator," said Mr. Prandit. "No! We took the escalator, and this one, Bud, ran up the stairs first of all."

Bud looked down at his shoes. "I guess nobody looked inside the elevator car for a while. We — we didn’t handle ourselves so well."

The young inventor nodded in an understanding way. "But other shoppers must’ve used the elevator."

"That is so!" said Mr. Prandit, his face brightening. "A body inside would have been — "

"Ulnash!" reproved Mrs. Prandit harshly.

"There’s no reason to think Bash has been harmed," Tom cautioned. "Or even that she’s been kidnapped. We only know that we can’t find her."

"No, Tom, it is more than that," disagreed Bashalli’s mother, whose name was Dhavhaz. "No one will say it, but I know it is true. The police do not help because they are ordered not to, by others. You are important Americans, Tom, and my Bashalli is your friend. Many officials in this part of Karachi belong to tribes and groups that would be anxious for her to be punished — taken away and punished for being friends with America!" She began to weep.

Tom stood and whipped out his cellphone. "We tried that first thing, genius boy," said Bud quietly. "We managed to think of that, at least. No answer."

"And now we’re trying again!" Tom snapped. "And then I’m calling Shopton."

The bleating cry of Bashalli’s cellphone seemed muffled by the darkness in which she lay, but its grotesquely happy tune roused her. This time she stayed awake. She felt the blanket below her that was her only cushion, and sensed that the hard surface beneath it was bare, cold concrete. Opening her eyes, she studied the brace-beams of a ceiling, mostly shadow, mostly cobweb.

The phone, somewhere far beyond reach, stopped ringing. "Maybe they will try again," she murmured in her thoughts. "Perhaps they will leave a nice message on voicemail." My name is... She allowed the answer to float to the surface in its own time. Yes — Bashalli, still. In Karachi. Or am I? But alive — so I presume. How presumptuous of me!

Her inner bravado was a lie. Limp with fear, she was able to sit upright, finding that she was not bound in any way. Her head pounded, but she could feel no bump or bruise. There was a stinging feeling in her nostrils, however. Ah ha! she thought. Chloroform — or whatever is the style nowadays.

She was in a room that was very broad and square, but its ceiling was low. Bud would hit his head! she reflected. Indeed, the ceiling is just a floor — planks. I am in a basement crawl space. How romantic. Across the room, high near the top of the wall of dirty brick, were some slitted windows, perhaps just above ground level. They were covered with ancient newspapers, but traces of ivoried light seeped through. It seemed to be daylight. But is this today or tomorrow or a week from Wednesday? she wondered groggily.

There was a metallic clank, a sound of chains rattling, a square of light in the ceiling not far away. Legs slid down onto a wooden stepladder, and a dim figure stood near Bash. "Can you eat now?" asked a woman’s voice in the language of Pakistan. "I have meat cakes, some water for you, some honey candies."

"Thank you," said Bashalli, surprised by the croak of her weak reply. "Who are you?"

The woman came and crouched down, her sad face barely visible. "You ask me each time. I am Harsa. They told me to care for you. And now you will ask who ‘they’ are, and again I will say I don’t know. Men, Pakistanis and some foreigners. My husband works with them, but he says he knows little of their affairs. We are paid to hold people here for a time, now and then."

"But why?"

"Who knows? A few days, then they are taken away in cars. It will happen to you too." The woman passed the food and cup to her. "Are you afraid, my miss?"

"Fear! — what good is it? Very much."

Bashalli ate for a time while the motherly woman sat cross-legged on the concrete nearby. "I’m surprised you don’t have a gun pointed at me," Bash remarked.

"I won’t touch such things. But up above, two men with big guns, those very loud ones." Harsa was silent for a long moment. "May I ask, my miss — do you remember what happened to you?"

"Rather well. I was at the big department store — "

"In Karachi?"

"Are we not in Karachi?"

"No."

"A man called out to me from in front of an elevator, a young man. He smiled very nicely, but I could not make out what he was saying. I stepped closer to him. And then I think the elevator door opened and two others jumped forward."

"I heard them planning, for I do not matter to them," said Harsa matter-of-factly. "A cloth to put over your face with something from a little can that makes you sleep. Then, inside the elevator, they lift you up through the ceiling of the car. They bring the car to the top, into a workers’ space in the shaft, and take you out onto the roof. At last they take you here. It was only hours ago."

"And you don’t know what they want?"

The woman took Bashalli’s cup and stood. "Perhaps they themselves do not know."

In Karachi, in the hotel, Tom Swift first spoke to Swift Enterprises’ head of security, Harlan Ames, then to his father. Both men were shocked and deeply troubled. "We’ll use every law enforcement contact and political route available to us, son," promised Damon Swift. "Our congressman can help us with the State Department. But I know you understand the situation in Pakistan. If the civil authorities will not cooperate — "

"Time is against us," Tom interrupted. "By the time the different factions get all the protocols and jurisdictions sorted out, by the time everyone’s ego gets out of the way, it could be too late. I’ve got to figure out a way to find her now! — on my own."

After breaking the connection, Tom returned to his group, brain tumbling in furious thought. As he crossed the lobby the way was blocked suddenly by a large man in an ornate uniform — accessorized by a nicely polished revolver. He spoke first in Urdu, then in English. "American? Ah? With the others? Yes. Please wait here, sir. A moment only."

"What’s going on? Is something wrong?"

"No sir, no wrong. Just safety for the royal guest."

The young inventor’s eyebrows rose. A small knot of well-dressed people were crossing the lobby. Amid them, best-dressed of all, was a handsome young man wearing a turban of saffron hue and a white sash. "Who is he?" Tom asked.

"You do not know? He is Prince Jahan, sir. Of Vishnapur."

Though Tom had heard the names in the news somewhere, they meant little to him. Vishnapur — one of those countries. But the Prince’s air of authority and the deferential attitude of his entourage gave rise to a sudden impulse. This was a visitor with power and authority, whose voice could command action! As the royal security man glanced away, Tom ducked past him. "Sir, stop! Mol! Mol gipa!"

Jahan had halted in surprise, staring warily at the blond crewcutted youth charging up to him. "Your Highness! Forgive me, but — I’m Tom Swift from America. I — I need — "

The Prince smiled. "Well! Tom Swift!" He extended a hand, which Tom shook vigorously. "Had I known you were here, I would surely have approached you."

"Thank you. I have to ask you — for assistance."

"You wish my assistance?"

"My friend, a Pakistani named Bashalli — she’s disappeared here in the city just this morning. She may have been kidnapped! The local authorities, the police..."

"I see. Yes, they are reluctant to intervene. They must first find out whether it is a good kidnapping or a bad one."

"Your Highness, as an honored guest here, I thought you might — "

The young man smiled a brilliant gleam. "Swing some weight on your behalf?" Tom nodded, grateful that he had been understood. "It is I who am honored, to be asked to assist the great young inventor. And perhaps I can do rather better than you have in mind," continued Jahan. "I am here with a retinue of loyal men who are expert in the field of — protection. Let us sit down together. Tell me all you know."

In the dimness of the cellar, a captive hour passed. Bashalli had experienced many strange, exciting things since she had come to America and met the Swifts. But now it was her own country, her own people, that made her weak with fear. She knew that the plight of captives rarely had a good ending. And I am a most valuable captive, she thought.

Harsa again came down the ladder, very hesitantly with many a look back. She approached Bashalli and bent down to whisper in her ear. "My miss... I can not be part of this any longer. You are innocent. You have those who love you. This is not for you."

Bash’s heart thudded — hope, yet fresh fear as well. Perhaps a dangerous escape would be worse than captivity! "You will help me, Harsa?"

The woman nodded. "I will go outside on an excuse and unlock one of the windows. They will think — oh, I don’t care what they will think! I will flee these people, even my husband. Ghul upon all of them! He will pursue me, but I am told there are organizations in Kabulistan who will help me, as a refugee."

Bash’s eyes filled with tears. "You’re so brave! What shall I do when I leave the cellar? Where do I go?"

"This is Gonss Abr, an hour from Karachi by motor. Go north, Bashalli, but stay out of sight until you are far away. Do not seek the authorities. When you are nearer the city, then telephone your people."

"If you brought me my phone — "

"I cannot while they watch. Now be ready. May angels make short your path."

In three minutes Bashalli had squirmed up and out into a paved alley separating two dilapidated houses. She worked her way back from the street the houses faced, ducking beneath windows, stifling her breath. Beyond was a weedy field with oil derricks and bobbing pumps. She glanced down at her shadow, then turned north.

"Okay, you angels," she whispered. "Up to you now."

In the hotel, the sun had begun to dip across the windows when Tom’s cellphone bleeped. "This is Jahan," said the familiar voice. "I have good news for you, my friend!"

Tom could barely speak. "You — you found her?"

"We have her. One of my teams came across her near the southward highway. She ran away but my men ran faster."

Tom laughed in giddy relief. "I’m just glad she didn’t bean your guys with rocks! How is she, Your Highness?"

"They say she is well. She will be at the hotel in minutes." He added with a chuckle: "Assuming she survives a drive down the highways of Pakistan at a breakneck speed, eh?"

Bashalli was welcomed with many tears, and when the Prince came down to greet her, she was all but speechless with gratitude.

"All neat, nice, and wonderful," said Bud. But then he turned to Tom and said more quietly: "Except for the fact that it happened at all. Who did it? And why? Is it over now, or will they make another try?"

Tom nodded. "And one more question, flyboy. Who is the real target?"

CHAPTER 3

FLASH ATTACK IN SPACE

THAT EVENING the Shopton vacationers and the Prandits were invited by Prince Jahan to dine with him in the huge royal suite in the hotel. "This here’s quite a spread," conceded Chow, dressed up in a manner that almost fit the dignity of the occasion and the formal elegance of the table. "Lookit all them silver pots ’n pans ’n suchlike."

"Miss your spangled shirt and ten-gallon hat, pardner?" teased Bud.

"Naw, buddy boy. Too busy thinkin’ about which blame fork goes with what."

Tom leaned over to ask, "Chow, whatever happened to that great wild west tux you put together for the banquet in Montaguaya?"

"Don’t fit. Guess I’m still growin’."

The Prince, only a few years older than Tom and Bud, was charming, witty, and well-educated, speaking English flawlessly. "Miss Prandit, the photograph we gave my searchers did not do justice to your radiance."

Bashalli radiated all the more in a somewhat fluttering way. "Ohhh, Your Highness is most perceptive. Flattering, that is."

Compliments were lobbed in Sandy’s direction as well. Both girls seemed about to tip over the edge into uncontrolled giddiness. At times Bud and Tom looked like two captive gentlemen too polite to frown — barely. Yet it was clear that Jahan’s comments were cultured gallantry and represented no more than the proprieties of royal etiquette.

"Gotta be perlite at these here things," Chow whispered to Tom reassuringly. "Their heads’ll turn back around after a good night’s sleep."

"Assuming they don’t dream," Bud amended.

As Bashalli’s ordeal wasn’t right for the mood of the occasion, the talk evolved in other directions. Tom discussed the two satellite mysteries his father had brought to his attention. "Now don’t anyone start tossing forks my way," he begged sheepishly, "but I think Dad would like me to cut the vacation short and head home. He was going to transmit some details that explained the seriousness of the problem with the Titan probe."

"The Kronus," said Jahan musingly; "named for a demigod of the Greeks, one of the Titans, who deposed his father." There was a darkness on his face, but then he brightened and continued. "But in space the father of the moon Titan is the planet Saturn, the god whose domain is time, years, and the wisdom of age. I am young, but I hope I have a trace of such wisdom."

"You seem to be doing all right," Sandy piped up with faint breath.

"Thank you indeed, Miss Swift. In fact, perhaps it is such wisdom that prompts me to make a suggestion as to how to extend your vacation even as Tom returns to America."

"Oh? What’s your idea, Your Highness?" Tom inquired.

"Please, all of you — I am Jahan. As to my suggestion, why do you not join me on my jet and return with me to my country when I finish my trade mission here?"

Bud looked openly skeptical. " ‘You’ means who — Jahan? Not just the girls, right?"

The Prince smiled good-naturedly. "I fully intend to preserve and honor the reputations of these young ladies, Mr. Barclay. I extend my invitation to all of you who can accept — including, naturally, Mr. and Mrs. Prandit. One of our festivals is coming up. You will find it fascinating, I think. And thus our Tom here will be free to return to America aboard the majestic Sky Queen without having the holiday cut short for the rest of you."

It was clear that the girls wanted very badly to accept. But Sandy touched Bash’s arm and glanced at her brother. "Jahan, what a great invitation, but — we’ll have to discuss it a little."

"Yes, of course. You must speak to your own parents in Shopton, and no doubt Mr. Winkler must consult with Mrs. Winkler."

Chow snorted courteously. "I left off askin’ permission from Ma back when I still had hair."

Over a sumptuous dessert Mr. Prandit politely asked his royal host about the political situation in Vishnapur. "I do recall some mention in the papers of certain recent difficulties, my dear sir."

"Yes. The matter of the succession," replied Jahan soberly. "It is not a situation that would stir up any threat to foreign visitors. The question has reached a satisfactory conclusion."

"I’m afraid I don’t know anything about it," Tom said.

"Perhaps you would not find it as interesting as we do in Vishnapur."

Sandy spoke hesitantly. "I read — mm — about the — how you — "

The Prince smiled, if some grimly. "Don’t be embarrassed to mention it. It’s all public knowledge. You see, Tom, all of you, my father the King died three years ago. As Crown Prince I naturally expected that I would ascend to the throne at the end of the official mourning period. But on his deathbed Father promulgated what amounts to a will. Without explanation he altered the line of succession, which is permitted by our laws and ancient customs. His brother Glaudiunda was crowned nej’h — that is, King. His eldest son, my cousin Vusungira, is now Crown Prince. So you see, my friends, I have been demoted."

"Ouch!" gulped Bud. "Must’ve hurt."

"There was more hurt to come." Prince Jahan was silent for a moment. "His Majesty chose to revive an ancient tradition of my country. He claimed as his wife the former King’s widow. And so my mother, Aju, continues as Queen of Vishnapur — my mother, who is now also my aunt."

Chow ventured a comment. "Reminds me of a movie I saw’r once. Hope ever’thing works out better fer you than it did fer those poor folks with their swords."

"I hope so too, Mr. Winkler."

Tom said, "We’re all most appreciative for your invitation, Jahan."

"Perhaps, then, I might ask of you one small service in return?"

"Of course."

"A small group of my countrymen is now in New York City on a mission of importance, not unlike my own here," the Prince explained. "But in this case it is not a trade mission. They are visiting as students, engineers in training who have a special interest in scientific and technical matters. It would greatly honor my country if you would permit them to visit Swift Enterprises during their sojourn — particularly as it includes the Crown Prince, who shares these inclinations." He added: "For the good of my country, we wish more of our professional people to learn how things are done in the western world."

"Oughta go t’ San Antone," Chow remarked. "That there’s about as western as you kin get."

Tom smiled and nodded to the Prince. "We’ll welcome their visit. I’ll serve as their guide myself."

"Most kind."

After discussing the matter with Mr. Swift and with Harlan Ames, Tom told Prince Jahan next morning that they would be honored to accept his invitation to Vishnapur. "I know Sandy and Bashalli are thrilled. My friend Bud and I will fly back to America on our jetcraft. I think my work in Shopton won’t require me for too many days. We’ll fly to Vishnapur in the Queen to take everyone home after your festival is over. Perhaps we can even catch some of it."

It was the afternoon after the dinner — the day after Bashalli’s terrifying experience — when the two jets headed off in opposite directions. As Luke Tor piloted the Flying Lab across southern Europe and then the cellophane carpet of the Atlantic, the young inventor discussed with Bud what his father had transmitted concerning the Kronus satellite problem. "Basically, the satellite’s orbit has shifted in a way that takes it too close to the edge of the Titanian atmosphere, for some reason no one yet understands. It’s no longer circling in a stable way, and there’s not enough fuel left in the maneuvering thrusters to correct it. As the parameters change — the orbital perigee and apogee — there’s real concern that the Kronus will end up plunging into the atmosphere of Titan all the way."

Bud nodded — but shrugged. "Too bad for space science, I guess. But pal, how is that any kind of crisis?"

"There are some complicating factors that make it a lot more serious than it sounds." Tom reminded his chum that Titan, large as a planet, was the only moon in the solar system to have an appreciable atmosphere. "Hydrocarbon rains, lightning, oceans of methane — and trapped heat emanating from its core, which may be generated by the crunch of tidal interactions with Saturn. It all adds up to the possibility that organic materials may have started forming, just as they did when Earth had a similar environment."

"Way back when," joked Bud. "So they’re thinking something may be living up there?"

"There’s well-reasoned speculation that Titanian life is at least possible. There may even be oceans of liquid water down deep under the surface ice. We’re not sure yet."

"I get it, but I still don’t see — "

"Flyboy, the problem in a nutshell is this," continued Tom seriously. "The Kronus relies on a midget nuke reactor for power, so as to avoid power loss during orbit, when the satellite crosses into the shadow of Titan — not to mention similar problems when Titan itself is on the shadow-side of Saturn. The team running the project calculates a better-than-even chance that the reactor core won’t burn up during the plunge, but will shoot right through the ice layer, into — whatever’s down there."

"Good night! You mean there’ll be an atomic explosion?"

"Well — no," Tom smiled. "But contamination of a possible biosphere with radioactive waste is pretty dire. It could certainly compromise future bioscience explorations of Titan."

"Yeah, not to mention making the Titanian fish pretty mad at Earth!" The young Californian asked his pal what Enterprises was being asked to do.

"They want us to study the problem and see if we can come up with a scientific solution."

Bud chuckled. "In other words, an emergency Tom Swift invention, made to order! But look, isn’t the solution pretty simple? Let’s fly out to Saturn and pick up this Kronus gizmo — or maybe just shove it back into the right orbit."

Tom knew Bud had in mind Enterprises’ huge spacecraft the Challenger, which thrust through space on the force-beams of Tom’s versatile matter-repelling devices, the repelatrons. The ship had already taken them to the Moon, to the vicinity of Venus, and recently to an intruding space object called the Green Orb. "No time for that, Bud. The Kronus orbit is shifting rapidly, and will probably go critical in a matter of weeks. Even if we exceeded our usual constant-1G acceleration, it would take months for us to reach Saturn in the Challenger."

"Then I’ll return to my starting shrug. What can you possibly do, Tom? How do you fix a problem that’s hundreds of billions of miles away?"

"If my brain knows, chum — it hasn’t told me yet!"

The Sky Queen touched down in Shopton at dinner time, and Tom and Bud had supper at the Swift home near the gates of Enterprises.

"What a horrible thing for Bashalli to endure!" exclaimed Mrs. Swift feelingly. "Fortunately, her brother here had barely learned of it when he got word that she was safe. What was the motive, do you suppose?"

Tom answered, "They say it was probably to embarrass us ‘foreign entanglers’ and gain status — with a little ransom on the side. Seems it’s all too common in that part of the world."

Mr. Swift added, "This Prince Jahan seems a remarkable young man. According to our various sources, he’s universally regarded as intelligent and honest — excellent character. Our State Department was rather disappointed at the change in succession. No one knows a great deal about the new King and his son."

"Sandy and Bash are sure to get a lot of info about all these guys," Bud noted.

"But you know, the best source of information may be good old Chow," said Tom. "He’s always had a good nose for character."

Bud nodded. "Absolutely. It’s the best part of his face."

The next day, working in his office at Swift Enterprises, Tom took a telephone call from Professor O’Malan, the physicist leading the GenRev satellite team in Toronto. "Tom, I know your father has briefed you on the problem with our satellite."

"Have you determined the cause of the episode, sir?"

"We’ve made zero progress," replied the man disgustedly. "Thus far we’ve deduced nothing from studying the orbital parameters — no change whatsoever. We can rule out a meteoroid collision or some unexplained explosive event inside the GenRev itself. It simply fails to respond. Absolutely dead."

"What I find especially strange," said Tom, "is the fact that all its systems went ‘absolutely dead’ at the same moment, even those operating on separate batteries."

"Which includes your own Swift Enterprises solar batteries. We can’t explain the matter, and have no way to investigate it further — unless — "

Tom grinned. Expectation fulfilled! "Unless Enterprises goes up and brings it back to you."

"The GenRev’s ‘black box’ should tell us the details of the event. But as it’s not transmitting, it seems we’ll have to download its data directly, here in mission control."

"I’ll be glad to perform ‘towing services,’ Professor," replied the youth. "In fact it’s pretty convenient patrolling the local spacelanes now that we have a midget vehicle available to us here at the plant."

There was no reason to wait. In an hour Tom and Bud were rising — with somewhat frustrating slowness — through the atmosphere in the young inventor’s remarkable Space Kite.

"She may not be fast," remarked Bud, "and she’s sure no Challenger, but I get a kick out of this little cosmic compact. It’s weird to think, though — the wind of particles that pushes her along is sweeping right up through the earth and through us even as we go!"

"The subtrinos are weird, flyboy, and they’ve set off quite a revolution in the physics community. Which reminds me..."

"Hmm?"

"I’ve been in touch lately with that Australian scientist who discovered the subtrino, Dr. Clarke MacIllheny."

"Found anything exciting out there in the desert with that big racetrack of his?"

Tom nodded, with a chuckle accompaniment. "Since the Hyper-Celerator was rebuilt, he’s been pursuing a few interesting leads on what he calls his ‘polar ray investigation’."

"Polar ray. Should I go for it?" Bud pretended to muse. "Ahem. So, Tom, polar rays, hunh? Opening a tanning parlor in Antarctica? — No need to laugh, pal. I’m just exercising."

But Tom laughed nonetheless. "It’s just the casual way he refers to dipolar field phenomena — basically electromagnetic radiation and the electrical fields and magnetic flux effects that produce them. All electromagnetic waves — from radio waves to gamma rays, with plain old light in between — are basically electrical and magnetic fields propagating through space at right angles to each other, alternating between positive and negative polarity."

"I’ve managed to pick all that up somewhere or other. So what’s the latest on the polar-ray scene?"

Tom made an adjustment to the Space Kite’s ascent trajectory before answering. "Nothing that most people would find at all interesting, though it’s a very big deal to scientists. Dr. MacIllheny is investigating some unexpected properties of space itself that can be used, in principle, to modify how field phenomena and associated forms of radiation propagate across distances. He asked me to develop a test device to more fully explore the theory. I’ll probably work on it a little before we rejoin the girls and Chow — maybe it’ll clear some space in my mind for the Kronus problem."

"Let’s face it, genius boy — that’s your idea of a vacation."

Soon radar, and then two pairs of eyes, alerted the astronauts to the tiny GenRev satellite ahead, gliding along its orbit in silent serenity. Tom guided the Space Kite to within 100 feet, but then stopped the approach. "What’s wrong, Skipper?" Bud asked as he felt the tug of the craft’s anchoring gravitex. "Why are you hanging back?"

"Professor O’Malan asked that we wait until the GenRev had completed a final orbit back to the exact position where the original ‘event’ occurred," was Tom’s response. "They want to feel confident that they’ve extracted every bit of data from the orbit parameters, though they read as unaltered."

Presently Tom announced that they could proceed with the retrieval. They both clipped on belts bearing several specialized tools that would allow them to safely link to sockets in the shell of the GenRev. Then, snapping shut their spacesuit helmets, they depressurized the tiny craft’s pilot dome and swung it open. With bursts of their suit microjets, the pair thrust off into space in the direction of what was now an electronically lifeless hulk. They slowly closed the gap, bantering relaxedly as bright Earthshine illuminated their faces from below.

There was no concussion in the void, but the blaze surrounded them. Its intensity caused their transparent bubble-helmets to darken automatically, becoming effectively opaque. "B-Bud!" choked Tom.

"Still with you, Skipper," came the familiar radio voice. "Can’t see anything yet, though. Jetz! — did the satellite blow up?" The unvoiced question was clear: was this a deliberate attack?

As his visor-dome cleared, Tom saw that the satellite was still intact and apparently undisturbed. "I don’t know what it was," Tom murmured. "Maybe the same thing that caused the GenRev to break down originally. But it seems not to have hurt us, thank goodness."

"Yeah, well — speak for yourself. My suit jets got a little screwy for a second, and now they don’t work at all. I’m afraid you’ll have to come pick me up — Dad."

Tom rotated and saw that Bud was now drifting several score yards away. The young inventor activated his jets and approached slowly, hand outstretched.

"C’mon Tom," Bud objected impatiently. "I’m not on any pick-up schedule. Why’re you slowing down?"

Tom was puzzled. Slowing down? Yet he did feel a slight nudge of deceleration at that. What’s going on? he wondered.

"Wait a sec, pal," Bud radioed suddenly. "You’re not just slacking off — I’m moving faster away from you, too." And then an edge of panic crept in. "Jetz! Tom, something’s got hold of me! It’s dragging me off into space!"

CHAPTER 4

DARK LIGHT

"IF there’s something there, I sure don’t see it," Tom radioed, striving for a calming voice.

"Okay, it’s loosening up," replied Bud in relief. "But I sure felt it. It accelerated me with a yank backwards — you’ll have to catch up."

Tom gunned his microjets. Again he began to draw near — and again they both felt as if some phantom force had taken hold of them, pushing Tom gently back while pulling Bud away from him. And again, as the distance between them widened, the grasp faded away. "It’s great for the ego to be wanted," the Californian wisecracked nervously. "But if some alien has a yen for me, he’s got slippery fingers."

A hunch led Tom to check — and recheck in surprise — his suit instruments. "Good night, now I get it. We’re repelling each other!"

"Since when?"

Tom grinned. "No mystery. Since that flash. It’s given us both a powerful electric charge — and charges of the same polarity repel one another."

"Oh yeah?" came the skeptical comment. "I don’t feel particularly electrocuted."

"It’s static electricity, not a current. But how in space could it have penetrated the Tomasite and Inertite of our suit material? — Wait! Flyboy, unhook that tool belt and let it drift free." Tom did the same. Instantly both belts began to accelerate away in opposite directions! "That settles that. The belts have no protective coating. The flash phenomenon charged them up like capacitors. But we’re still our normal neutral selves."

"Maybe. But my limpid gray eyes may never be the same."

Tom snagged his chum and was quickly able to readjust and reactivate Bud’s microjet system. They resumed the satellite retrieval, and in seconds had their hands on the GenRev’s hull. "No sign of obvious damage or scorching even up close," Tom muttered. "Of course, the coating wouldn’t necessarily carbonize in a vacuum. Well, let’s wrangle her back into the Kite. Without those linkage tools it’ll be awkward, but we shouldn’t have much trouble doing it by hand."

In minutes the GenRev was safely stowed away and the Space Kite was arcing back toward Earth and Swift Enterprises. "O’Malan asked me to check it out with our special instruments before freighting it to Toronto," Tom told his pal. "I’m anxious to see what I can make of it."

The trip back was worry-free. In one of his laboratories, Tom examined the satellite with a platoon of unique detection devices as Bud Barclay hovered near Tom’s shoulder. "It’s clear that whatever ‘flashed’ us up in space is the same thing that disabled the GenRev," Tom announced at last.

"You mean it’s all charged up?" responded Bud in surprise.

"Not any more. But there are plenty of clues that the circuitry was victim to a very powerful surge of electromotive force — so powerful that it came right through the insulation and overwhelmed the suppressors. Matter of fact, the ionizing effect literally boiled the insulation materials right off the components!"

Bud’s brow knitted beneath his floppy lock of jet-black hair. "But it wasn’t some kind of heat blast, like from a laser?"

Tom shook his head. "Not a trace of external burning. Whatever heat was developed was internal, as a consequence of the electrical surge. In fact..."

Bud had learned long ago to read the signs of a dawning idea. "Is this one gonna knock me over?"

"Maybe! People can get knocked flat by lightning."

"Lightning?" Bud gasped. "In space? Don’t you need thunder clouds for lightning?"

Tom perched on the edge of a stool. "I know how fantastic it sounds. But way back before the first satellites went up — they call it the ‘pre-Sputnik era’ — some scientists speculated that clouds at extreme high altitudes might develop sufficient excess charge, mainly from particle bombardment, that low-dipping satellites might get hit by lightning-like phenomena."

"Gosh — lighting from below!"

The young inventor smiled at his chum. "Actually, most lightning — that is, the visible bolts — does come from below, shooting upwards from the ground to the clouds. Of course, this is a very different situation. And I’m not so sure Mother Nature is the culprit, either."

"Neither am I," Bud agreed; "on general principle! Bet we find that somebody’s doing target practice with some kind of lightning-cannon."

"It could even be something similar to our own Enterprises electric weapons," mused Tom. "What makes the matter very suspicious is this, flyboy — it’s happened twice now at the same point in orbit."

"In other words, over the same spot on Earth! So where is that spot, Tom?"

The scientist-inventor fed the data into his computer and soon had a map on the screen. "The position wasn’t precisely the same, and if it is something like lightning it would’ve zigged and zagged along the way. So we’re dealing with a general area, about a hundred mile radius." The map showed a region in the Himalayas, mainly Tibet, claimed by China, but also nipping the borders of India, Nepal, and —

"Vishnapur!" Bud exclaimed.

"Yup! We may have some detective work to do when we rejoin the others."

The two went their separate ways for a couple hours as Tom reported to his father, to an astonished Professor O’Malan, and to Harlan Ames. "Tom, if Vishnapur — of all the lousy luck! — is tied up in this, it invalidates my earlier recommendation. The place may not be safe for the girls after all."

Tom sighed ruefully. "I’d hate to see their trip cut short."

"Well, boss, if I haven’t completely trashed my credibility, I have another recommendation."

"What?"

The former Secret Service agent looked uncharacteristically meek. "I — er — could go along with you and Bud to Vishnapur. Now before you say anything — "

"I’m not objecting — "

" — let me just point out how I could help the local police, or the royal guard, or whatever, organize themselves to accommodate the habits of Western tourists, which they’re not too familiar with, as I understand. I could — "

"Harlan, you don’t — "

"Of course Phil Radnor would be on duty here at the plant the whole time."

"Sure, I — "

"Tom," said Ames very soberly, leaning forward across his desk, "I need a vacation. I really do. It’s been — I don’t know how long. One thing after another. Li Ching, lab explosions, chameleon suits, flying starfish, pirates, voodoo dolls, that kid over in Thessaly... It starts eroding a guy’s judgment. I mean, I snapped at Munford Trent yesterday! He’s a sensitive guy. With my daughter away at school, right now is — "

Tom interrupted by leaning forward to meet the security chief mid-desk. "Harlan, won’t you please join us on our trip to Vishnapur? — and that’s an order!"

As the youth left Ames beaming in his office, he thought: We forget he isn’t just steel and concrete — he’s a human being. He felt a little ashamed.

After a late lunch prepared by Chow’s second in command Boris, Tom showed Bud the polar ray test device he had been working on. Crudely assembled, it consisted of two thick crystaline plates, upright and facing one another across a gap of nine inches or so. A shiny metal ring was embedded inside each plate.

"Want to predict what I’ll say it looks like, genius boy?" Bud invited Tom.

"A very expensive napkin holder?"

"Hey! Pretty swift."

Tom switched on the power and adjusted the controls. "Stand over there and look through the gap between the plates."

Bud complied. "Okay. I see that lightbulb you’ve got going on the other side of the lab."

He blinked in surprise. As Tom twisted the dials, the white light took on various colors, became brighter and dimmer, shrank down to an intense point, and became encircled with glowing rings of different rainbow hues. "Now watch this!" Another click, and the light disappeared completely — the gap was suffused with a hazy black shadow.

"That’s great!" Bud exulted. "Like stopping down a camera — except there’s no lens, no shutter, no camera — just empty space!"

"But what we call ‘space’ isn’t empty, not exactly." He told Bud to stand aside and move to a corner of the room. The athletic youth watched in gleeful amazement as a faint cone of shadow — dark light! — flashed from the gap in the device. Tom swung it across the lab wall like a flashlight beam, where it produced not light but a small circular area of moving darkness. He maneuvered the beam so it struck Bud in the face. His face, which had been brightly illuminated by the overhead lights, was suddenly wrapped in dense shadow. His features were scarcely visible.

"Jetz, who turned out the lights?"

"What do you see?"

"In the middle, nothing. It’s like looking from a lighted hall into a dark room."

Tom switched off the instrument. "The field produced between the plates selectively modifies the dipolar conduction and transmission characteristics of what they call free space. The field can be extended a ways like a beam, as you saw. In this case, I tuned the dyna-field to affect waves in the optical spectrum, but it can just as easily modulate microwaves, X-rays, infrared heat rays — you name it, the whole range of ‘polar rays.’ And the larger version that Arv Hanson is working up can do even more!"

"Fan-flukey-tastic!" chortled Bud. "Me, I can’t imagine what’s left for it to do!"

The boys turned as a door burst open. Phil Radnor, Enterprises’ stocky, red-haired assistant security chief, came striding in with a piece of paper in his hand. "Tom!" he said. "Take a look at this!"

Tom glanced at the sheet. It bore a message, hand-printed in letters that seemed to suggest that the writer was more familiar with Oriental-style writing than English:

CHAPTER 5

THE PROUD PRINCE

TOM groaned at the unwelcome development. Two space mysteries, and now another one on Earth! "Did this friendly warning come through the mail, Rad?"

"Yes — postmarked New York City."

"Which may mean little, of course. Have you checked with Vishnapur’s representative in Washington?" Tom asked.

The security man nodded. "The official himself got a similar note hours ago. He was very much upset — seemed to think the warning may be authentic, since Vishnapur is in a state of political unrest."

"Right, because of the succession controversy, I guess." But Tom recalled that Prince Jahan has assured him that matters had been settled, making it safe for the Shoptonians to visit. What was the truth of the matter?

Radnor asked, "What exactly is this ‘mission’ business, anyway? Why are these people coming to Enterprises?"

Tom soberly, and Bud excitedly, described how Bashalli’s brief kidnapping in Pakistan had led to the favor Prince Jahan had asked of Tom. "I did a little Net research on the flight back to New York," Tom said. "Vishnapur puts out an English-language newspaper for the international community called Enlightened Times. This current ‘mission’ is part of a continuing effort to teach members of the leading class, the educated people, about the Western world — especially as regards scientific research, engineering, and technology. It’s hoped that they might modernize their country and raise its living standards. I guess most Vishnapuris are poor." The new ruler’s son, Crown Prince Vusungira, had been sent to America with the group not only as part of his education as an engineer, but to better prepare him for his eventual political role.

When Radnor commented that the visitors were scheduled to arrive the next morning, Bud asked, "Did anyone check out these brain boys before they made final arrangements to come to Enterprises?’’

"As thoroughly as we could," Radnor said. "Harlan took charge of it. But you know," he continued, "Vishnapur is located deep in the Himalayas. Hardly any Westerners are allowed to enter, though that seems to be changing now. Our State Department got a rundown on each of the students, but mostly had to take Vishnapur’s official word that they were okay."

Tom looked thoughtful. "Rad, we shouldn’t take any hasty action in response to that mailed warning. If we turn back or restrain the whole group as security risks — especially when one’s the son of the King — it could wreck friendly relations between our countries and set back their own policy of modernization. Let’s check into this tip-off first."

"But what if one of them is a spy?" Bud demanded.

"They’ll all have the customary security scans with our detector instruments," Tom pointed out. "Besides, he can’t do much harm even if we wait a bit. The students won’t actually have the run of the plant, and it’ll just be for a few days. As far as my lecture-demonstration goes, and my — mm, tour-guide work, I won’t be giving away any great secrets. If somebody wants to copy my electrodynamic controller device, more power to ’em!"

But Tom did agree that Ames and Radnor should keep the student engineers discreetly under watch. "Especially since one of them is supposed to be deadly!" he joked. "Oh — any leads on who might’ve been behind the kidnapping incident?"

"Not yet," Radnor replied. "According to Ames, the consensus of opinion is that it was just another of the incidents perpetrated by the many competing factions there. It’s like street gangs defending their turf and one-upping each other. There’s probably no real ‘mastermind’ behind it."

Everyone ended up sleeping on the problem; whichever problem they chose.

The eight young men from Vishnapur — Tom gathered that it was not yet considered suitable for women to enter the field — arrived in Shopton the morning following, and were greeted at Enterprises by Tom’s father. After some words of formal welcome, the Vishnapurians filed into Tom’s lab. Crown Prince Vusungira came first, the others following respectfully. All wore Western-style slacks and sportcoats and were bareheaded and mostly bespectacled, except the prince. He always appeared publically in a white turban, which was studded with a large star sapphire to mark his royal rank.

"Namaste!" The students smiled at Tom and Bud and made the usual gesture of greeting — bobbing their heads and pressing their palms together with the fingers pointed upward, as was their ancient custom.

Of the eight students, most looked like typical, handsome East Indians, with olive complexions, jet-black hair, and flashing white teeth. But a couple were almond-eyed, and seemed more Asiatic.

After acknowledging His Majesty the Crown Prince, Tom took his place at a central workbench and explained, "I thought you might like to start off by seeing some experiments I’ve been working on lately."

A device stood on the bench in front of Tom. It consisted of a round, insulated base with a slender metal rod sticking up which served as the axis for two spheres of crystal, one inside the other. Two coils were mounted on the machine, one above and one below the assemblage of crystal globes and wrapping about the axis. Within the gap that surrounded and separated the two spheres could be seen an encircling silver ring. A thick cable led from the base to a portable electronic console.

"Ah! It will be most rewarding to see the latest invention of the famous Tom Swift!" said a big-haired student named Rakshi, who appeared to have become "westernized" already. "These globes — made of quartz?"

"A special kind of quartz, doped with fine filaments of semiconductor material from our source in New Guinea."

One of the young men nudged another and said softly in English, "The rare-earths mine — Ultrasonic Cycloplane!"

Bud grinned. "Right!"

"And this isn’t an ‘invention’ yet," Tom said. "It’s a test prototype our miniaturization engineer, Arvid Hanson, prepared to allow for some research into advanced electrodynamics theory. I’ve already begun the research with a simpler version. This one is more powerful."

"And what shall we call it?" asked Vusungira rather haughtily. "You see, I must prepare reports each day of what I see and learn, to send back to my country."

Tom was silent for a moment, and Bud suddenly realized: Good night, Tom hasn’t given it a name!

"I’m calling it a — a polar-ray dynaxializer," Tom said in a mumble. " — tron."

Not for long! Bud promised himself.

"Anyway, I’m working with a physicist in Australia to carry out some experiments in the area of electromagnetic radiation and its propagation through space, based on his recent findings. It’s another aspect of what they call the ‘new physics’." Tom explained that the device used a novel principle to control and change the shape of electrical and magnetic fields and related dipolar phenomena.

Another student spoke up. "My name, sir, is T’yaghokya, and if I may inquire — how is such a thing possible? We have learned that what you refer to involves fundamental constants of the universe. The photons by which electromagnetic energy is conveyed are bound by the strictest of laws. Is this not true?"

Tom accepted the challenge with a smile. "You’ve been well taught. You’re referring to laws involving such physical constants as the magnetic permeability of free space and the dielectric constant, which nowadays is more often called the absolute permittivity of free space. As you know, both are regarded as fundamental properties of space itself — of the vacuum.

"But over time other such presumed constants have been found to be subject to modification under certain circumstances. For example, the constant found in the equations of momentum, mass, has been shown to vary at the extremes of velocity, as has the supposed constant of the passage of time. Dr. MacIllheny has discovered a more comprehensive conservation principle that allows electrodynamic permeability and permittivity to be modulated and distorted under the influence of an intense field of space-stressing force." The young inventor noted that he had previously found a way to do something similar in connection with the anti-inverse-square-wave technique utilized by his megascope space prober.

"We have studied that technique," stated the Crown Prince.

Tom reminded the students that the megascope’s method focused artificially generated waves into a beam of constant signal strength, instead of allowing them to radiate outward in all directions, by bending them into a self-containing helical course. "The new approach utilized by this instrument applies to existing electromagnetic waves as well — photons already en route, you might say — and also to electrostatic and magnetostatic fields. Now, I’ll demonstrate it."

As the students murmured in anticipation, a number of electroscopes were placed about the room by Bud, who was serving as Tom’s assistant. These were glass jars, each with a metal rod passing through its sulfur stopper. Every rod had a metal ball on top and two thin gold leaves hanging at the bottom inside the jar. Tom took a plastic wand with a metal ball on one end and put an electric charge on the ball by touching it to a high-voltage terminal.

"Of course you all know what will happen when I bring this near the electroscopes," he said.

Tom held the wand near the ball of each electroscope in turn. In every one, the gold leaves swung apart as they became similarly charged by the ball’s induced electrostatic field and repelled each other. The young inventor smiled, knowing that he and Bud were sharing the same thought. A vivid demonstration of the same principle had recently taken place in space!

"As you see, the charged wand has to be very close to the electroscopes because its field is so weak. But now watch what happens when I place the wand next to my dyna — er, my machine here."

Tom put the wand into a clamp, its metal ball-tip almost touching the outside of the crystal globe. Then he twirled several tuning knobs on the console. He swiveled the ring inside the sphere, which pivoted on the spheres’ shared axis rod. As he aimed at each electroscope in turn, its leaves swung open!

"I must say, quite amazing!" Prince Vusungira pronounced with minimum emotion, as if his royal dignity were at risk. "It seems your device has focused and beamed the little ball’s electrostatic field as far as ten meters."

"Ya got it, Vusungira," nodded Bud.

The Crown Prince frowned coldly. "‘Your Highness’ is appropriate. If you please."

Tom rushed in verbally. "But His Highness is correct. The distortion field extends across the lab, and in theory, with a more advanced machine, the range can be almost unlimited," he said. He now made some adjustments to the instrument. As Tom switched it on again, the nested spheres glowed with a bluish-red radiance.

"The space between the inner and outer spheres contains a mixture of gases, including neon and argon, which of course glow under electrical stimulation. When wanted, this model produces its own electrical or magnetic fields, so there’s no need to use an external charged object."

To preface the next part of the demonstration, Tom explained that by shaping the distorting dyna-field into paraboloidal form, he could make use of its ability to bend and reflect electromagnetic radiation. "For any frequency, not just visible light, the field can act as lens, mirror, or prism."

The young inventor demonstrated this by turning on a portable TV set. He tuned his device to the proper frequency and the screen promptly went blank. When Tom turned off his device, the picture appeared again as clearly as ever.

A student spoke up. "The electronic field drew in the whole picture signal so that none was picked up by the TV antenna — is that it?"

"Right, dispersing it away into space," Tom said. "And now for an even more interesting experiment. As you know, white light is made up of the whole spectrum of colors — red, yellow, green, blue, and violet. I’ll tune the field to ‘trap’ light waves of the frequency of green, leaving the other colors unaffected — and watch what happens to the ambient light in the lab."

Everyone stared with wide eyes as the light from the windows and the overheads began to darken and take on a reddish-purple hue.

Suddenly the light went out completely! Even the morning sunlight flooding in through the windows faded. In a moment the room was plunged into pitch-blackness except for a pearlescent glow from the sphere!

"Hey!" Bud cried. "What’s happening?" Everything had been swallowed by darkness. Weirdly, the sphere’s steady glow was visible to the eye but powerless to illuminate anything else. It seemed to be hanging unsupported in black space.

There were mumbles of alarm. Suddenly came a loud crash! "It’s the spy!" Bud cried. He leapt toward where he had last seen Tom, ready to protect his best friend though he couldn’t even make out his own feet.

Bud collided with a flailing pair of arms. Two bodies thudded down to the lab floor.

"Don’t move, everyone!" a voice called out.

Light dawned again suddenly.

"P’tul! Arise!" demanded a furious voice somewhere beneath Bud’s musculature. He had taken down Crown Prince Vusungira!

"Oh man am I ever sorry, Your Magnitude!" gulped Bud, scrambling off the royal personage fast enough to forestall war.

Tom was working frantically to correct the trouble with the electrodynamic modulator as the room filled with a smell of burning insulation. Though the blackout had ended, he seemed momentarily unable to switch it off completely. Sparks flickered about the coils.

Finally control was restored. "I’m afraid my experiment misfired — er, obviously. Instead of trapping light of one wavelength, the dyna-field pulled in a wide band of frequencies — the whole visible spectrum!"

"And in doing so blacked out the whole plant?" huffed Vusungira with a supercilious smile as he adjusted the royal turban. Bud thought the smile looked a bit too much like a frown.

"Just in here, but it was enough. My device absorbed so much energy it burned out the control circuits," Tom admitted.

"Well," Bud joked weakly, "Maybe the Defense Department could use that gadget for air-raid blackouts, Skipper."

"Very funny." Tom turned to Vusungira. "Your Highness, please accept our apologies for this embarrassing incident."

"Of course," he replied with brusque dignity. "But I suggest, sir, that we proceed to more sedate pursuits for a time."

Tom called George Dilling, head of Enterprises public relations, to take charge of the guests. As they waited silently, the prince said abruptly, "Am I to understand that we are suspected of spying, sir? For I heard what your assistant shouted."

Their youthful host struggled for the proper diplomatic language. "Bud had in mind a comment we received from an anonymous source, perhaps someone unfriendly to Vishnapur. We don’t mean to imply any sort of accusation."

The Crown Prince nodded but withheld any trace of a smile.

Dilling and an assistant arrived, and the eight Visnapurians were guided away to their quarters.

"S-sorry, Tom," Bud muttered. "I was just trying — "

"I know, pal. It was my fault that you couldn’t look before you leapt. Anyway, look at this mess." One of the panicked visitors had evidently knocked over a shelf of test tubes and equipment. "I’ll contact Custodial."

The young inventor plucked the phone from his pocket and pressed the button — and he and Bud winced as it erupted in a shrill, high-pitched squeal like a full-throated warning of danger!

CHAPTER 6

BUDDHA IS LISTENING!

HIS FINGERS fumbling, Tom switched off the phone unit and the lab fell silent.

"Are you giving me the razzberry?" Bud asked.

Tom examined his phone. "Strange. How could it..." He switched it on again, with the same alarming result!

But now Tom noticed something further. "Flyboy, something’s screwy," he stated as he switched it off. "Don’t you hear it? That screech is coming from two places!"

By switching the cellphone on and off, the boys finally discovered the other source, hidden on a shelf behind some equipment, next to the shelf that had been overturned.

Brushing asides some shards of glass Tom held up what he had found. It was Buddha! — a tiny bronze figure.

"One of the students must have put it there!" Bud pronounced.

"Maybe during the blackout."

"So what’s up with the thing?"

Tom tapped on the figure. It was heavy yet rang very slightly, as if hollow. He then commenced an examination with the lab’s detector instruments, including a device, called the leptoscope, which combined the key features of a microscope, telescope, and X-ray scanner. "There’s the answer," Tom declared, nodding  toward the monitor screen. "Crammed with electronics!"

Bud rolled his eyes. "I get it. Our bi-weekly encounter with a bugging device. So what’s the gimmick with this baby?"

It took another half-hour of careful scrutiny before Tom had a confident response. "Buddha here is meant to listen in on cellphone conversations — namely mine!" He explained to Bud that the statue had super-miniaturized diode antennas behind each eye sockets. "It’s clearly intended to pick up a cellphone signal. We were just plain lucky that the antenna response set up a feedback resonance affecting the cellphone itself as well as the metal surface of the statue."

"I thought your cell signals were encrypted," Bud objected.

"They are. The local phone output, calls within the walls of the plant, is picked up by repeating transponders which rebroadcast a ‘scrambling’ signal that covers it up to outside receivers. What Buddha does is repeat the original signal in a way the transponders don’t pick up. A backup signal, in other words."

"Not bad for a guy in the lotus position. Think you can tell which of the students planted the statue, or where the signal’s going? It must be the spy you were warned about."

But Tom shrugged, hesitating for several long moments. "Unless that’s only what we’re meant to think, Bud. The message could have been a fake, with this to make it seem credible."

"But why?"

"Well, how about the business of the satellite knockout? Vishnapur was in the vicinity of the apparent source of that space-lightning bolt, if that’s what it was."

"True. Maybe Buddha has a thing against satellites." As Tom grinned, Bud added seriously, "At least you caught it before it caught you."

His chum raised an eyebrow. "Ah, but I’m going to let it catch me, flyboy! I’ll just set it right back in place. Now that we know what’s going on, we can let the plot go forward and let the plotters trip themselves up." After replacing it, Tom said, "Come on if you want — I need to report all this to Harlan Ames." The two left, continuing to discuss the matter in low tones.

The students had a busy day at Swift Enterprises, with Tom only one of their tour guides. At the end one of them said to Tom, "What wonders you have shown us! If only our own people could be shown such things."

"It’ll happen," Tom replied. "The tools of science are provided by nature, and can be found anywhere and everywhere."

That night Boris prepared a dinner in honor of the eight visitors, promising that the meal would consist of native dishes from their Himalayan homeland. "Pfah!" sniffed the native Russian. "I cannot account for how they can eat such things. Yak butter! Absurdity."

Tom smiled. "Thanks for preparing it, though, Boris."

"I did my duty, holding my nose."

To give the Vishnapurians some contact with American family life, Tom’s mother joined his father at the dinner, as did the young family of his friend and chief engineer Hank Sterling.

The foreign visitors seemed delayed. As they waited, Mrs. Swift wandered over to the window and suddenly exclaimed in alarm:

"Oh my — look!" The others ran to her side and gaped at what they saw in the twilight.

A weird procession of prancing figures was approaching the administration building. The creatures had huge, fantastic heads and wore gaudy robes of red, gold, and black!

"They’re coming inside!" gasped Hank Sterling’s wife.

They heard a thunderous pounding on the door. Then it was thrown open and in surged the nightmarish group, playing bells, drums, and cymbals. The crazy din continued as the people capered about the room.

Suddenly Mrs. Sterling giggled in slightly chagrined delight. "It’s a masquerade!"

Some of the figures wore grinning, goggle-eyed demon masks, each topped with a ring of tiny skulls. Another had on a deer’s head with flowers blooming from its antlers. Two more were giant-headed buffoons — a white-faced woman and a blue-faced, mustachioed man.

The invaders swirled around their audience, energetic yet graceful, with sudden lunges that startled. At last the wild dance came to a halt and the figures pulled off their masks. Tom and his companions applauded and cheered. The panting, laughing masqueraders were Crown Prince Vusungira — as a kingly figure — and the other young men from Vishnapur!

"Terrific!" Tom exclaimed as the dancers bowed.

"It’s the most exciting thing I’ve seen in ages," declared Mr. Swift.

"Then our humble efforts are more than repaid," Vusungira said with formal gallantry.

"But what brought this on, if you don’t mind my asking?" Bud put in.

The young prince bowed his head slightly. "This night is the beginning of the lunar month in which we celebrate the Festival of Chogyal."

The Americans looked interested, and Hank Sterling asked, "Respectfully, Your Highness, who or what is Chogyal?"

"The highest mountain peak in Vishnapur," answered Vusungira. "The name Chogyal means ‘god-king’ in the various Himalayan dialects, and the festival is proclaimed by our priests every seven years in honor of the gods and spirits of his mountain."

"The mountain watches over our country," added one of the men reverently. "It is our protector. By honoring him, perhaps he will take back the curse of the lake that has — "

"There is no need to discuss these superstitions of the uneducated," Vusungira brusquely interrupted. "We wish to become a modern nation." He went on to explain that the homesick students had brought the costumes to America, since they would be far from Vishnapur when the festival was celebrated. "Your Enterprises policeman Mr. Ames gave us permission to bring them onto the grounds, and promised to refrain from telling you ‘bigwigs’. It was to be a gift of surprise and, we hoped, an entertainment."

"The great festival itself is still more than two weeks away," added the engineer named Rakshi, "but we hoped that a small preview might cheer our young professor. Your morning was perhaps a bit disconcerting."

"And besides," said Vusungira with raised eyebrows, "is it not right that the spirits should honor a scientist who can even blot out the sun’s light?" Then he chuckled.

Tom took the sly ribbing good-naturedly and asked what the masks portrayed. The young Asians told him the deer represented a former incarnation of the lord Buddha. The chief demon, black-faced, was called Mahakali — Lordly Kali, ruler of the dead. He and his cohorts were made to look as horrible as possible to help the watchers overcome their fear of death.

"And the blue-faced man and white-faced clowns," Prince Vusungira added, "are really acharyas, or wise men, who keep the demons amused until the good spirits can defeat them."

Tom now introduced the individual students to those who had not yet met them. "Your country is almost a part of India," Tom’s mother remarked to Prince Vusungira, "and yet those aren’t Hindu masks, are they?"

"Quite right, Mrs. Swift. The people of Vishnapur are a mixture. Many, like myself, are of Indian descent, while others, like my friend Gyong" — Vusungira indicated a student with high cheekbones and Oriental features — "are of Tibetan stock. But all celebrate the Festival of Chogyal. As is the case in much of that part of the world, our traditional religions are combinations of many customs and rituals. The common religion of Vishnapur has features of Hinduism as well as Buddhism."

At the mention of Buddha Tom and Bud exchanged meaningful glances.

The fussily authentic Russo-Tibetan dinner was now served up by Boris, with a polite if pinched expression. The meal began with wheat pancakes, called chapaties. This was followed by kabobs, a highly spiced mutton curry, along with rice pihin and two vegetables — brinjals bhurta, which was mint-flavored eggplant, and fried bhindis, or okra. Before dessert came another meat dish, a sort of souffle with a wisely unidentified meat mixed in and a powdered topping, blue in color.

"It is called jabnob’r," said Rakshi, who seemed to be the youngest of the visitors. "Always served last before the sweets."

Mr. Swift sampled it tentatively. His eyebrows rose in surprised pleasure. "Why, it’s quite wonderful! The flavor is most unusual to my American palate. What is this topping on it?"

Crown Prince Vusungira answered. "It is hoobragam, and your chef has my commendation for including it. It is specifically Vishnapuri."

"The blue color is very striking," commented Tom.

Bud added, "I don’t think I’ve ever even seen a shade of blue like that, not even on Chow Winkler’s shirts."

Vusungira gave one of his rare smiles. "Exotic, is it not? The blue spice that gives it its color is called yorb, and it is used in many dishes, as our Hindu cousins to the south use curry. Indeed, yorb is called ‘the heart of Chogyal.’ From it one derives not only food spices, but a kind of beer, incense, even a blue dye for our fabrics and ritual body-paint."

One of the engineers said, "An ancient traditional song begins, O Buddha by your light we see the yorb that is our savior."

Mrs. Swift asked if yorb were only produced in Vishnapur. "No," responded Vusungira, "although it is something we are known for. It comes from a plant, a sort of algae growth, that only flourishes at very high altitudes and needs long periods of cold. But it is also harvested elsewhere in Tibet, and I believe it has been introduced into the Andes region."

"Also in the high Urals of Russia," noted Boris, pouring tea.

"One can order it on the internet," Gyong declared. "It has stimulating medicinal properties well regarded by men of years."

The dessert was called rosagollah. It consisted of sugar-soaked lumps formed from curdled milk and covered with a thick, saffron-flavored syrup.

"Mmm! Delicious!" Tom said enthusiastically.

The others agreed, and Bud said, "Your Highness, if this is typical of your country, make room for one more!"

The prince beamed. "My father would be horrified if he found out, but cooking has always been a hobby of mine."

As they left the table, Vusungira said, "And now, I should like to present Mrs. Swift and Mrs. Sterling with small mementos of Vishnapur." He withdrew from his briefcase two small wrapped packages, which turned out to be figurines — elephants carved from ivory and enameled in gorgeous colors. Each bore a brass howdah. As the ladies expressed their gratitude, Vusungira said: "We Vishnapuri also use the services of the faithful elephant, as do those of India."

One of the students, who doubled as the assigned bodyguard for the Crown Prince, stood next to the door to the makeshift dining room. At a knock he opened the door and announced: "Your Highness, honorable hosts, it is Mr. Ames from the security department."

Vusungira nodded to the new arrival. "Then you have been able to join us after all."

"I’m afraid not," Ames replied tersely. "This is not a pleasant matter, Your Highness."

"What is it, Ames?" asked Damon Swift.

"My office was contacted earlier by Mr. Patil Ram, Vishnapur’s representative in this country. The Vishnapur government has received some alarming information, which he passed along to me and asked me to deal with. It involves a matter of security, Your Highness, and I am obliged to investigate it on behalf of both our countries."

Vusungira frowned gravely. "Then do as you must, sir."

As the students muttered in surprise and worry, Ames commenced to search them one by one, then the huge masks they had worn when entering.

The security chief approached Prince Vusungira last. "I’m sorry, Your Highness."

"You intend to search me as well?"

"And the mask you wore."

The prince remained stoic as Ames patted him down and searched his pockets, even taking the turban from his head. Finding nothing, Ames’s eyes roved about the room. "I take it this is your mask? The King?"

He felt about the inside surface. When he drew his hands into view again, they were filled. "This is the evidence we’re looking for," he said quietly.

CHAPTER 7

A HAIR-RAISING CAPTURE

"WHAT’S this all about?" Tom demanded.

"You’d better see for yourself," Ames replied. He opened his hands in the light.

Ames turned to Vusungira. "I presume these belong to you, Your Highness? Unusual place to keep them."

The glare of the Crown Prince was glacial. "I know nothing about these objects. What is the implication, sir?"

"Here is what your consulate provided me, passed along to them by channels they regard as credible. Shall I read the translation aloud?"

The prince’s dark eyes blazed in fury. "I deny this insulting insinuation! I know nothing of these statues, or of any supposed ‘plot’ against my father, whom I honor with my soul! How did these channels receive this false message?"

"It was explained to Mr. Ram that the message is a copy of one acquired in Burma by agents of the Burmese security apparatus," Ames answered. "It’s thought the originators are still unaware that the plot has been broken."

"Preposterous!" Vusungira exclaimed. "What have these little statues to do with spying? You have found them in a mask, evidently concealed but hardly of any use."

Ames handed one to Tom, who scrutinized it with a scientist’s eye. "Good gosh — electronic circuitry! Set down in the right spot, it would look like a common souvenir or knick-knack but could monitor our conversations!"

"Then it’s most fortunate you discovered these implements before they had been placed," said Prince Vusungira coldly. "Yet I insist that I know nothing of the matter. Someone has hidden these in my mask without my knowledge."

Harlan Ames was unyielding. "It’s for others to determine, sir. For now I must ask you to come with me. Let’s not make this more difficult than necessary."

The prince snapped off a grim nod and Ames led him to an adjoining room, followed by Tom and Bud, and Mr. Swift.

Mr. Swift pulled the door shut behind him. Vusungira let out his breath and smiled slightly. "I trust my theatrical performance was adequate?"

"You belong in Hamlet, Your Highness," Bud joked and Tom shook the man’s hand.

"All right," said Mr. Swift. "Now we’ve got the others believing that the figure in the lab hasn’t yet been discovered, and that the statues planted in the mask have succeeded in casting suspicion on His Majesty."

"As Tom reasoned when we found them earlier, that’s the obvious purpose — to falsely implicate the Prince," Ames nodded.

Damon Swift frowned. "But I don’t quite follow the thread of all this. How were you able to satisfy yourself that this plot was directed against our royal guest, son?"

Tom explained, "Because I was able to put together a sequence of events that didn’t make much sense otherwise. Some glass fragments underneath Buddha showed that the nearby shelf had been shoved over first, before the statuette was put in position."

"Which my royal personage could not have accomplished," interjected Prince Vusungira, "as I was being sat upon at the time."

"Unless it was just a careless accident, I’d guess the shelf was knocked over so we’d discover the figure while cleaning up," Tom continued. "Whoever’s behind this is quick at thinking on his feet, taking advantage of my inadvertent blackout — but he didn’t know that what was happening in the dark would foul his plans."

Harlan Ames chuckled. "These young engineers need some seasoning before they go seriously into the espionage game."

"Genius boy’s had a lot of seasoning since his first invention," noted Bud gleefully. "Jetz! I was ready to do a little of that fancy bowing when Tom told me about it after we left the lab."

"As was I," stated Vusungira; "redoubled when our search revealed the two hidden ones in my mask. Yet who is the culprit?"

Tom responded thoughtfully, "Perhaps someone who wishes to alter the new line of succession." His thoughts were: And it’s Prince Jahan who has a special interest in that issue! "Now on to Phase Two!"

"Mighty smart of you, boss, to make the group think you hadn’t yet discovered the first statue," nodded Ames.

"And smart of you to come up with a way to use that fact to apply a bit of pressure, Harlan," commended Mr. Swift.

Bud grinned. "Let’s go make somebody sweat!"

Leaving Ames and Vusungira behind, the other three reentered the room. Tom announced soberly, "Fellows, you need to be aware that His Highness is now in custody and will be turned over to federal marshals."

"He is surely innocent!" protested Gyong.

"Then we’ll trust his innocence will be proven," the young inventor replied. "I intend to use a special detection device to learn if it was the Prince who handled the statues."

"What sort of device, sir?" asked one of the students. "For fingerprints, perhaps?"

"No, it’s my new photronic ultra-DNAlyzer, which detects the traces of individual DNA emanations that are picked up and stored by metal molecules through skin contact."

"Yet surely he would have taken precautions?" objected Rakshi. "To prevent fingerprints, he would surely have worn gloves."

Tom shrugged. "Then the test won’t show anything. It only works if there was direct skin contact. We’ll see."

The students filed out glumly, and Tom’s father quickly apprised the others of the series of events. "Holy Moe!" gulped Hank Sterling. "So what happens now?"

"Everyone was bare-handed this afternoon in the lab," Tom replied. "As he had to act quickly, without planning, I’m betting our spy didn’t think to slip on gloves or use a handkerchief. So right now he’s in a panic, thinking we’ll identify him with my Magical Mythical Machine when we run across the statue."

Bud’s grin was almost wicked. "So later tonight the lab will have a secret visit — from an unseasoned spy in a cold sweat!"

Two AM was passing across the Enterprises sky when a click announced that someone had unmade the lab’s door lock. A silhouette snuck across the tile, and a tiny beam, from a pencil-flash, pinned down a solemn bronze figure seated on a shelf in lotus position.

"Trying out a new style, Rakshi?" asked Tom Swift dryly, crouching next to the controls of his electrodynamic modulator.

Rakshi’s stylishly combed black hair stood out from his scalp like a gigantic dandelion puff!

Bud rose into view, holding one of the electric impulse guns developed by the Swifts. "Or are you just glad to see us?"

"Wh-what have you done to me?" gasped the young Vishnapurian, his hand feeling about the crown of his head like a weasel darting through tall grass.

Tom switched off his machine. "Just a slight electrostatic charge I thought I’d beam across the lab — to add a little drama to the dreary lives of after-hours intruders."

"Back away from Buddha, pal," Bud commanded.

Rakshi raised his hands, glaring in fury. "Okay, guys, so I’m caught. I’m also a foreign visitor in America with permission and diplomatic papers. Get it? I’ll be shuffled back to Vishnapur before the sun has a chance to get up!"

"Maybe," said Tom. "You may not enjoy what happens back home, though. I think your secret sponsors will be even more upset with you than the King." Rakshi’s sudden flush of white indicated his unvoiced agreement.

Raksi was indeed gone by sunrise, leaving a tired Tom and Bud to review the matter with Prince Vusungira over breakfast. "Evidently political matters in my country are not as settled as we have believed," mused the royal. "But I can’t accept the notion that my cousin Jahan is involved in this. He is a good man."

"But it could be someone who would gain if Jahan became King," Tom pointed out. "Or it might be a faction who only intend to use the issue to block the modernization program."

"Yes, Tom," Vusungira conceded, "for there are those who object to westernization on grounds of religion and tradition."

"Your Highness, what was that you mentioned?" asked Bud. "About a clue?"

"Perhaps I myself am a bit of an amateur sleuth as well as a cook," chuckled the Crown Prince. "I noticed at once that these Buddha figures are not merely trinkets of the sort mass-produced for tourists. You see, by tradition there are many different ‘Buddhas,’ differentiated by certain details of how they are portrayed. The common one, the ‘Happy Buddha’ giving his blessing, is the one most people know. But these statuettes portray something quite rare, the ‘Mocking Buddha,’ who holds a branch to chastise fools."

"Is this sort of figure unusual enough for us to be able to track down where it came from?" Tom inquired.

"If we were in Asia, no. But all of us — myself excepted — passed through our own stringent security procedures upon leaving Vishnapur for America by plane, and I feel certain the three figures would have been detected if they were being carried at that time. Assuming I myself am not the guilty party," he added with a wink.

"And so," Tom noted, "they must have been picked up by Rakshi while you were all in New York."

"That is my thinking as well. We all had some private time to engage in sightseeing. If there is a place in New York that sells the ‘Mocking Buddha,’ it could well be a front for this group of subversives. Someone working there might have inserted the listening circuitry and is involved in this distasteful plotting."

"True," said Bud. "Of course — they might just be importing these things from a supplier someplace without knowing what they’ve got. Tom had to use his prying-eye gadgets to look inside."

"But perhaps you will get, at least, a lead."

Some investigations the next day produced the desired result. As it turned out there was such a place in Manhattan — one only.

"‘Treasures of Tibet.’ I think Bud and I will pay that place a visit," Tom told Harlan Ames and Phil Radnor.

Bud remarked, "This office could use a few more Buddhas."

Late that afternoon the two boys flew to New York City in the Skeeter, a jetrocopter — a VTOL jet heliplane which Tom had designed. From the marine facility on Long Island leased by Swift Enterprises they taxied to East Twenty-Eighth Street and entered the import shop, Treasures of Tibet, whose window bore a sticker: China — Hands Off Tibet!

Its interior was dim and musty. The front section displayed silken saris, rugs, jewelry, and Oriental art objects. Its back wall shelves were piled high with jars and cartons of East Indian foodstuffs, such as ginger, saffron, and spices. Bud nudged Tom and indicated the label on one container — "Yorb from Vishnapur."

A man came round the counter and shuffled forward to greet the youths. He was an elderly, dark-skinned man with a kindly face and gentle eyes. "Welcome, young sirs. How may I help you?"

"Are you the owner, sir?" asked Tom.

"Indeed yes. I am Mr. Singh," he replied.

Tom pulled out one of the Buddha figures from his pocket. "I believe you sell these ‘Mocking Buddha’ statues, don’t you? I received one as a gift, and would like a companion piece for it. I know it was purchased here in Manhattan."

"Why yes, we do import these," he said. He pointed to a small mark on the underside. "This one is from Vishnapur, and we have others that are identical."

Bud spoke up. "Er — this was given by one of our friends who wanted to be anonymous. The note challenged us to try to figure out who it was — sort of a joke. We were thinking you might help us win the contest."

"Oh, I see, I see," nodded the man. "I believe we did sell one the other day — ah, even several. Rather odd, as few know of this ‘Mocking’ style of Lord Buddha."

Smiling, Tom asked if Mr. Singh had retained any information about the purchaser. "I saw only the record of the sale. It was handled by my clerk, Mr. Susak." He gestured, and for the first time Tom and Bud realized that there was a fourth person in the shop — a thin, sallow-faced young man — who had come out of the back room and was listening closely. "Benni, do you recall — ?"

Susak shrugged. "Yes, sir. I remember him asking for the Mocking Buddha quite definitely. A rather young man."

"Narrows it down," Bud commented.

"I’m afraid he gave no name. He purchased three of them. We are almost out, now."

"I’d like to buy one more, if I may."

Benni Susak suddenly appeared flummoxed. "Oh! I see. But pardon me, I meant to say that we are out of them — we have no more at present. Too bad."

Mr. Singh laughed. "But where is your mind, Benni? I saw one upon the back shelf just this morning." He turned to his visitors. "I’ll get it for you."

Tom asked a few more questions in a casual manner and learned that all goods carried by the shop, produced in India, Burma, Nepal, and Vishnapur, were obtained from the firm of exporters in Mumbai — Bombay — who were the actual owners of Treasures of Tibet. "If you are curious, you might wish to contact Mukerji and Sons," suggested Mr. Singh.

Purchase completed and neatly wrapped, the boys left with expressions of thanks.

"That clerk looks like a phony to me," Bud muttered as they walked away. "He sure wasn’t thrilled at selling that statue. I’ll bet this Buddha has an unenlightened stomach too. An overstock on bugware."

Tom agreed. "And our visit may worry him. It’s almost closing time. Let’s see where he goes after work. Maybe to warn someone the plot’s in danger."

After circling the block, Bud found a lookout spot in a dark doorway across the street, next to a movie theater that had seen better days and a higher caliber of entertainment. Tom stationed himself in the alleyway behind the shop. A pile of trash — steel drums and discarded crates — hid him from view.

Presently Susak came out the back door. He glanced around furtively, in the traditional suspicion-provoking manner, then scurried off down the alley. He appeared to be carrying something in the crook of his arm, slouching to conceal it.

The man rounded a corner, ducking into a narrow gap between the old buildings. After waiting a moment, Tom started in cautious pursuit. Edging his eyes around the corner, he stifled a surprised grunt. To his amazement, Susak was already out of sight! Had the clerk slipped into the alley entrance of some other building?

As Tom darted forward to investigate, he passed a grime-laden door. A slight noise made him turn his head just enough to see an arm lunge into view — an arm clutching a heavy stick!

In an instant Tom was sprawled on the pavement, dead to the world!

CHAPTER 8

SPACE WEATHER

TOM stirred and opened his eyes as consciousness painfully returned. "What happened?" he wondered dully.

A huge gray rat scuttled across his line of vision.

"Ugh!"

Wincing, Tom forced himself to his feet, and rubbed his throbbing head gingerly. He struggled to collect his wits while looking around the alley.

Suddenly he remembered what had happened. "That clerk — Susak! He must have guessed he was being followed and was lying in wait for me!"

Tom was disgusted. The suspect had slipped through his fingers! And as it developed there was worse to come — both the Buddha Tom had brought, and the Buddha Tom had bought, were gone!

Good night! he thought in self reproach. There was nothing to do but join Bud and return to Enterprises.

Brushing himself off, Tom strode through the alley and across the street that ran in front of the import shop. He darted to the dark doorway which Bud had selected for his stakeout — but he was no longer there!

Tom was perplexed. Could Bud have spotted Susak after the man emerged from the alley? The young inventor knew Bud would call him on his cellphone. Fishing the instrument from his pocket, glad that it hadn’t also gone missing, Tom noted that a new voicemail message was waiting. "Hey, pal, you don’t need to stake the guy any more — he came running out the alley and grabbed a cab. I’m following him now — you know, ‘follow that car!’. Call. I’ll put the phone on vibe, but if I don’t pick up, I’m probably in the middle of a shootout! Anyway, don’t get clunked on the head this time, okay Skipper?"

Tom called and found his friend available. Bud said the taxi had dropped Susak at a cheap rooming house near Battery Park. "His name’s not on the doorbell cards, but there’s somebody who sounds like a countryman — J. Radamantha, Apartment 305. The other names are hispanic."

As he told his chum what had happened, Tom’s brain was working fast. "Bud, I have a hunch Susak doped out that I was waiting for him and panicked. So he dropped me to give himself time for a getaway."

"Then why would he risk stopping here?"

"Maybe to clear out some incriminating evidence. Are you sure he didn’t spot you?"

"Fairly sure," Bud replied. "Which I guess means, No."

"Where are you now?"

"A little cement playground down the street. I have the rooming house in plain sight."

"Okay. I’ll call the FBI and get there fast." Tom recorded the address Bud provided and added, "Don’t let him get away!"

Bud chuckled. "You’re not gonna warn me not to get knocked out?"

"For all the good that ever does."

Tom made a quick call to the FBI field office, then took a taxi to the street Bud had given him. He got out some distance down the street and started walking back toward the rooming house. He quickly found where Bud was waiting, next to a forlorn swingset.

Minutes later a black car glided to the curb. A square-shouldered, gray-suited man in a snap-brim hat leaped out and walked over to Tom. "Hello, boys," he said.

Tom nodded. "Thanks for coming so quickly, Agent Martin."

The man looked surprised. "Excuse me? I just stopped to ask for directions."

As the man drove off again, Bud groaned. "Good grief, our boy Benni’s going to lose himself before the FBI gets here!"

"Let’s consider ourselves deputized. Maybe we can find out something about that rooming house."

They strode toward the rooming house, hurried up the steps, and walked in the front entrance. The tenement building was shabby and dirty. A spring lock on the inner door did not work.

"Whether or not he lives here, apparently our chum had no trouble getting in," Tom observed as he pushed the door open.

Inside was a long hallway ending in a flight of stairs. Tom and Bud hurried up the steps as cautiously and quietly as possible, earning a few suspicious stares through some half-opened doors. The wailing of babies and the clamor of television was everywhere.

As they neared 305, weird East Indian music reached their American-tuned ears.

"Susak’s in the room," Bud declared in a whisper. "With that racket going on, we could slip in and take him before he knows we’re there!"

Tom was puzzled. If Susak were eager to make a getaway, why would he be lingering in his room? Then a new thought occurred to him.

"Did anyone else arrive here after Susak?"

Bud shook his head. "Nobody except us. Why?"

"Susak may have called someone — maybe his boss in the spy setup — and now he’s waiting for that person to pick him up."

"Good hunch, Tom," Bud agreed. "Maybe we should wait and see who comes up."

They found that the landing halfway up the stairs to the next floor afforded a good hiding place, with a peep view of the door to the suspect apartment. Here they waited, tense and silent. Minutes dragged by. Suddenly Tom gasped in dismay.

"What’s wrong?" Bud hissed.

"That music! The same piece has played three times now — the player must be on auto-repeat!"

Bud’s face fell. "Good grief! You mean Susak’s not even in there?"

Tom was already on the move. He hurried down to the door, Bud behind him, and found to his surprise that it was not only unlocked but open a slit. With a gulp Tom inched the door open.

The furnished room was vacant! It was clear from the turned-out drawers and general disarray that Susak had made a hasty flight. "Aw jetz, he’s off on his merry way to somewhere!" Bud groaned.

"My lousy attempt to tail him must’ve made him extra alert. I’ll bet he noticed your taxi following him, Bud, or else he spotted you after he got here," Tom speculated. "So he ducked out either by the roof or the rear fire escape."

Chagrined by the suspect’s escape, the two entered and looked around, careful not to touch or disturb anything. "These magazines are in Hindi," Tom pointed out.

"No surprise with this incense in the air. And look." Bud was leaning down over a trash basket. "I see a trashed envelope with a name handwritten on it — Jaisit Radamantha. And the return address — "

Tom’s face was right next to his friend’s. "Mukerji and Sons, Ltd. — Mumbai, India!"

The delayed and embarrassed FBI agent, Martin, finally arrived. His search of the room failed to turn up any further clues. "Our guys’ll go over it, of course," he said. "Fingerprints, hairs, the works. But for now I don’t see anything screamin’ out at me. And I have to point out," he had to point out, "Mr. Susak is only a ‘person of interest’ at the moment."

"True," conceded Tom. "I don’t even know if he’s the one who slammed me in the alley."

"Right. This is New York, you know."

"I hear it’s a lot better, though," Bud remarked.

The FBI agent telephoned the police, requesting that all prowl cars be on the lookout for the fugitive "person." Then he drove Tom and Bud to the jetrocopter and they returned to Shopton with their freight of mystery.

Next day brought Tom both possibilities and disturbing news. A call alerted the scientist-inventor that the Kronus probe had begun to orbit Titan in an even more erratic manner, giving Tom a renewed sense of urgency. If anything could be done, it would have to happen sooner — not later!

Bud dropped by the laboratory and found his pal deeply engrossed in an experiment. Tom was just switching off a vacuum pump connected to a thick-walled chamber with a view-window of ultrastrong Tomaquartz. Inside the chamber, a small object, like a ping-pong ball, hung from a nylon cord, while the large model of the electrodynamic controller glowed on the workbench at Tom’s elbow.

"What’s this — a new game?" Bud asked.

Tom chuckled. "No, a demonstration of how I hope to rescue that loopy satellite. I guess my head-bang yesterday shook down a few fresh thoughts."

"It should happen to me. Give me the lowdown, prof."

"Well, let’s pretend that the ball is the satellite," Tom began. He switched on his dyna-field device and trained the sphere’s inner focusing ring toward the chamber.

Instantly the hanging ball swung toward Tom!

"Neat, genius boy. How does it work — by magnetic attraction?"

"Nope. You might say I’m using the machine to turn the