"SO YOU’RE the famous Tom Swift!" said the pretty girl—no, the very pretty girl—behind the counter. She pushed a tray bearing two steaming coffees across the countertop as she eyed the two young men standing in front of her. One of them, whom she already knew as a "regular," was the taller of them by a shade, with black hair and gray eyes and the square muscular build of an athlete. He seemed on the verge of breaking out laughing.

But her words were aimed at the other one, whose blond hair was close-cropped but carelessly ragged and whose deep-set blue eyes were, it seemed to her, full of thought. This one was more slender, like a swimmer or a runner. At the moment he seemed to be struggling to come up with something to say.

"Um, yes, that’s right," replied Tom Swift. "I mean—about my name, not the famous part. I’m not famous."

"Not yet," interjected Tom’s friend Bud. "But just wait until the world sees that new Flying Lab of yours!" After a moment of awkward silence, Bud suddenly whacked the back of his hand against his forehead. "Oh, sorry—manners! Miss Bashalli Prandit, allow me to introduce my good friend Mr. Thomas Swift. Mr. Swift, Miss Prandit."

Tom shook Bashalli’s hand as a grin broke out on his face. "Pleased to meet you. Bud here makes it his personal mission to introduce me to—to—"

"To all the pretty young girls in Shopton?" Bashalli smiled reassuringly. "It’s really a nice compliment, isn’t it? And I have wanted to meet you, Thomas Swift."

Tom looked blank. "You have? By the way, how did you know my name?"

"You mean, besides the fact that you look just like your pictures in all the papers? Besides the fact that you came in with Bud Barclay, who promised to bring you by? Besides—this?" She pointed a delicate finger at Tom’s chest and he tilted his chin down to look.

"Oh, right," said Tom; "my name tag. We were just leaving from a lecture up the street when Bud said we should—"

"And here we are," finished Bud. "I told Tom The Glass Cat has the best fresh-brewed coffee in town."

"You told the truth, then," commented Bashalli with a quaint, clipped accent. "The coffee is very good; the tea is better; and the scones are—what is it you say here?—to die of."

Tom started to correct her, but got only as far as "To die f—" when Bud coughed loudly and unconvincingly, cutting him off. Getting the point, Tom asked instead, "So, your name, um—Greek, isn’t it?"

Bashalli shook her head, beginning to wipe the counter as the boys sipped their coffees. "I hardly think so. It is Pakistani, and Pakistan is where I was born. My mother was from India, though, and her mother was a British nanny from the old times when the British ruled in Calcutta. So this charming accent you hear is a mixture of many things—even American, because I have been in this country since I was twelve years old."

As Tom and Bud moved to sit down at a little table near the coffeehouse door, Bud motioned for Bashalli to join them. She cast a quick look around—there were no other customers at the moment—and back toward the kitchen. Then, deciding, she tossed her cloth aside and gracefully eased down in a chair. "Well, it does feel good to sit down," she said. "My older brother Moshan, who is boss here, is very sweet and dotes on me, but he says we must show Good Old American Industriality at all times. And what is it, do you know?"

Bud nodded in Tom’s direction. "It’s sitting right there, personified as Thomas Edison Swift."

Tom reddened at this, and Bashalli said, "Ah, how sweet, a man who blushes!" But seeing that Tom was embarrassed, she quickly added, "Now then. Thomas Edison—your third President, I do believe."

"No," Tom replied, "though that was a good guess. Edison was a very great inventor. The light bulb, the phonograph—that was how music was played before CDs—all sorts of improvements to the telegraph; electric dynamos…"

"Then he was a very important man," said Bashalli, "and I think you have his name because you too are to be very important." Tom started to shake his head modestly when Bud chimed in with enthusiasm. "Believe it! Tom comes from a whole line of important people, people who have changed the world by—by inventing most of it!"

And as Bud Barclay explained it, with Tom correcting him now and then on a point of fact, it seemed to be just as he had said.

"First was Henry Swift, who came to America in 1751 with his young bride," began Bud, as if reciting. "He claimed to be a grandson of Jonathan Swift, the writer, but nobody really knows."

"Jonathan Swift," mused Bashalli. "I have heard that name. I know! The story of the little people."

"Right, Gulliver’s Travels. Which was a pretty fantastic story—maybe that’s where the family got its inventiveness."

Bashalli nodded. "I believe it could be possible."

"A few generations later," Bud continued, "there was Lewis Swift, who became a famous astronomer."

"He discovered comets," said Tom.

"The science element," commented Bashalli.

Resuming the list, Bud said, "Barton Swift, he’s the one who really made the family fortune in the 1890s with the first Swift patent, the… er, it doesn’t sound like much, but it saved a lot of labor—a motorized butter churn."

At this Bashalli put a hand to her mouth to suppress a giggle. "Please forgive me," she said. "It was the way you said it, Bud."

"That’s okay," said Tom with a grin. "Now we get into the twentieth century, and Barton’s son, the first Tom Swift—Thomas Archimedes Swift. My great-grandfather."

"Ah, that must be the one we read about in the books," said Bashalli thoughtfully. "All those marvelous inventions!"

"That’s right," Tom responded; "his adventures were more like fiction than fact. There were lighter-than-air dirigibles—"

"Blimps," Bud explained.

"And also regular motorized aircraft, electric automobiles, submarines, a giant cannon—the forerunner of the spent-plutonium cannons we use today—an x-ray television, his electric rifle—"

"The TASER used by police stands for Tom A. Swift Electric Rifle," interjected Bud.

"Then there was his magnetic silencer for airplane motors, and what he called his ‘photo telephone’ which is like an early version of the videocams people attach to their computers!"

"I am overwhelmed!" cried Bashalli. "Is there anything he didn’t invent?"

"Oh, sure," replied Tom blandly. "The jet engine, the home computer, the atom bomb…"

"A pity," commented Bashalli dryly.

"Old Tom’s kids were kind of a dud generation," Bud resumed, hastily interrupting Tom. "They mostly managed the Swift Construction Company, which Barton had started here in Shopton with the proceeds from the—from his invention—and later on, Swift Enterprises."

"But my father, Damon Swift—"

"Named after a pal of the first Tom Swift," said Bud in a mock-whisper.

"Dad had a lot to do with the early development of the space shuttle; and then later he worked under contract on several of the automated Mars probes."

Bashalli smiled with just a touch of mischief. "The ones that worked, I would suppose."

"Sure," Tom responded. "That is… mostly."

"And now this Damon Swift runs Swift Enterprises, that wonderful huge place that goes on and on at the edge of town. And you, the new Tom—you are the genius inventor in residence?"

"You got it!" exclaimed Bud. "My pal has brains where most of us have bones. Wait’ll he tells you about the Sky Queen, his new—"

But the conversation was interrupted as Tom, who was sitting nearest the open door, abruptly rose to his feet, a strange expression on his face.

"Listen! You hear that?"

Setting his coffee cup on the table, Tom dashed out onto the sidewalk, followed by Bud and Bashalli. All along Commerce Avenue—Shopton’s major thoroughfare—people on the sidewalk were looking right and left, up and down, seeking the cause of the uncanny whistling sound that seemed to be coming from some long ways off, but which was steadily getting louder.

Suddenly Tom pointed. "Look!"

Toward the northeast Commerce Avenue ended at the recreation pier on Lake Carlopa. In that direction, above the lake, a dark speck was silhouetted against the pale blue afternoon sky.

"What is it?" asked Bashalli, shading her eyes against the glare.

"I don’t…" Tom began. And then his face blanched. "It’s coming this way!"

Reacting quickly, Bud instinctively yanked Tom and Bashalli back toward The Glass Cat. "It must be homing in on Commerce Avenue!"

The three young people had no time to think. Something fiery-white and oblong flashed by them at second-story height, and they felt a sharp blast of heat, as if a furnace door had briefly opened and shut. In an instant the object had passed beyond the southwest end of the avenue eight blocks distant, vanishing from sight behind a stand of tall trees that blocked their view.

Suddenly the ground trembled from a massive shock! The plate glass window of the coffeehouse split into a spiderweb-pattern of cracks, and a deep, full-throated Boom! rolled over Shopton.

"Tom!" whispered Bud, breathlessly. "That’s—"

"I know, Bud," Tom said, his voice heavy with concern. "That’s the direction of Swift Enterprises!"

CHAPTER 2

"I’D BETTER check in with Harlan," Tom said tensely.

"If you want to use the phone in—" Bashalli began; and then she paused. Half-turning to Bud, she asked in a low tone, "Is he all right? What is he doing?"

Tom was standing motionless on the sidewalk, a somewhat far-off look in his eyes. Bashalli could see barely-perceptible twitching movements in Tom’s jaw and lips, which were slightly parted, and now and then he frowned and nodded his head as if listening to a voice. But there was not a sound to be heard!

Despite the gravity of the situation Bud chuckled and drew her aside, speaking softly. "It’s just science, Bash. See that little metal thing on his shirt collar?"

Bashalli nodded. "Yes. You have one as well. I thought it was just a decorative pin."

"That’s what you’re supposed to think. But it’s really a kind of telephone."

"Aha! An electronic mind reader?"

Bud laughed softly. "Not yet! The gadget picks up the movements in your jaw, tongue, and throat that correspond to spoken words, puts the words into your stored ‘voice’ pattern, and then sends it by digitized signal to the receiving unit. You touch it to activate it, then tell it what ID number to ‘dial’. When you’re using it for listening, it beams a signal right into your… your hearing nerve in a way that blocks-out extra-neous sounds. It’s called a TeleVoc."

"I much like the idea that no one will have to yak on a cellphone while waiting in line," said Bashalli with a smile. "By the way—‘auditory nerve’."

"Bud—listen!" Tom called out. "I’ll put Harlan on your TeleVoc." But as he moved to touch the tiny device, he glanced in Bashalli’s direction and paused. "No—I’ll put it on audible mode, so we can all hear."

At a touch of his finger, the air around Tom—but only up to a distance of about ten feet—was filled with the deep and harried voice xxxxxxxxxxxof Harlan Ames, Swift Enterprises’ longtime chief of security.

"—so the damage appears minimal, as far as what I see out my window," Ames was saying. Tom cut him off.

"Harlan, Bud’s online now. Would you summarize what you just told me?"

"Sure," Ames replied. "In fact, I’m starting to get in some reports now, so I have more information for you too, Tom. About three minutes ago something blew a big hole in the dirt field just off runway eleven. I thought it was an underground pipeline accident, or maybe a bomb. What you describe sounds like a missile—and I’m getting calls from all over the plant that our crews saw something zoom over the outer fence and dive right into the ground. Thing is, this object never showed up on Enterprises radar, not the GH nor the FH."

"What are those?" whispered Bashalli to Bud. "GH and FH?"

"GH stands for ‘ground-hugging’," Bud whispered back. "It’s our special radar security system that we use inside the Enterprise grounds. ‘FH’ means ‘far-horizon’. We use it to keep an eye on aircraft."

"Is there any reason Bud and I shouldn’t come in?" Tom queried Ames.

"Knowing the two of you, I doubt I could stop you. At any rate, there’s no indication of any further danger at the moment."

Unless there’s another phantom missile attack! thought Tom as he broke the connection with Swift Enterprises. "C’mon, Bud!" he said. Then turning hastily to Bashalli, he added, "Sorry to run off, but… come by some time and I’ll give you the tour of our Swift Museum."

"Thank you, young Mr. Swift," she responded blithely. As the two took to their heels, she added to herself, "It’s a ‘date’!"

In moments Bud’s sleek convertible was arrowing down Commerce Avenue toward the grounds of Swift Enterprises. Although knots of people were standing and talking here and there, puzzled and alarmed, there was no sign of ser-ious damage, and no emergency vehicles were in use.

"Well, the stoplights are all in working order," murmured Bud as he ignored one, swerving around a stopped pickup. "I guess that’s a good sign."

Taking the private Swift-family drive from the main road, Bud pulled up to the perimeter fence of Enterprises, slowing only slightly as the gate sensed the transponder in his car and slid open. Parking in Bud’s reserved space, the boys leapt out and quickly made their way to the nearest "ridewalk"—the system of flexible moving ramps that criss-crossed the facility. Stepping over to a second ridewalk that curved elegantly around the main administration building, spiralling up to third-story level, they were in Harlan Ames’s large office in less than a minute. Tom was pleased to find his father and several others already present.

"Dad!" Tom exclaimed. "Do we know what’s going on yet?"

"Tom, Bud." The elder scientist nodded at his son and his son’s best friend. "What we do know is good—there were no injuries reported, and no obvious damage to any structures. Beyond that…"

Ames gestured at a large, flat screen mounted on the wall. "Take a look. We’re getting a feed from the airfield security cams, which are mounted high enough to give us a good angle."

Tom stroked his chin thoughtfully, frowning. The monitor showed a deep elongated scar in the earth, beginning just beyond the edge of the runway tarmac. Though a smoky haze obscured the view somewhat, the fissure appeared to xxxxxxxxxxxbroaden-out over a distance of several hundred feet, ending in a craterlike gash.

"Man!" Bud burst out. "Now I really know what they mean when they say something plowed into the ground. You could plant a firehouse in that hole!"

"Can you see anything of the missile?" asked Tom, his eyes glued to the screen. In response Ames upped the magnification and zoomed in on a small section of the crater wall.

A round tunnel-like opening showed black against the charred dirt and debris!

"The missile—or meteor—was white-hot with friction when it sheared into the ground," explained Mr. Swift. "It not only forced the earth aside by its trajectory but turned the soil partially molten. The object slowed but continued forward right into the compressed solid ground, creating its own ‘lava’ tunnel, which is now cooling and hardening. We’ll have to wait for the cooling process to finish before we can enter the tube and retrieve the object."

Tom cast an impatient look at his father. "RobiTec could go in there right now."

Damon Swift chuckled and nodded his agreement. "I didn’t think you’d care to wait, Tom. Yes, Harlan and I have already agreed to ‘turn the dogs loose’ on our mysterious visitor."

"RobiTec" was the nickname Tom had bestowed on a remote-controlled robot-mobile Swift Enterprises had developed from his concepts and sketches. The compact, agile machine was designed to assist the police or military in examining and containing explosive devices, and could withstand devastating blasts.

"It’ll take about an hour to get RobiTec up and running," declared a technician after a brief TeleVoc conversation with his department. "We don’t want him going on the blink somewhere inside that crater."

"Then we’ll have time to visit the Sky Queen." Tom motioned to Bud to join him. "I want to make sure the hangar wasn’t compromised by that shockwave."

Harlan Ames held up a hand, signaling Tom to wait. "Hold it a sec, Tom. I’m getting a message from the employee gate—someone is trying to get in without proper ID, and he’s demanding to speak to you!"

A smile slowly broke out on Tom’s face, which spread, in a glance, to Bud. "Oh? Well, I think we can spare a moment to drop by."

Long before the ridewalk carried them within sight of the gate for employees, Tom and Bud could hear a booming foghorn voice rebounding from the nearby buildings—a voice with a very pronounced Texas drawl.

"Brand my fuselage! Looks like I jest got home in time—in time fer every dang thing to get turned six ways from Sunday! You let me in there, young feller, an’ mebbe I’ll fergit t’tell the boss you kept Chow Winkler from his kitchenly duties!"

As the boys came into view, Chow’s face lit up in a big malicious grin, and he waved at them jauntily. "Sorry, pard, too late," he said to the youthful uniformed guard blocking his way. "Might as well stick a iron skillet on yer backside an’ head fer the woodshed."

"Mr. Swift, do you know this man?" cried the security guard, red in the face. "He says he doesn’t need an amulet, won’t take one, called me a low-down—"

Tom tried to look sympathetic, but could barely suppress a laugh. "Yes, I… think I grasp the concept, Mitch. You’re new here and Chow’s been on vacation. He’s a good friend and a trusted employee."

Chow beamed, adding: "And the best durn cook east of the Pecos’n west of the sun!"

Chow, whose real name was Charles, had been a chuck-wagon cook, employed for many years by a ranch in New Mexico. He had become acquainted with Tom and his father while they were building Enterprises’ atomic research station, the Citadel, located in an isolated spot in the southwestern desert to which Chow’s ranch was a near neighbor. It had not been long before Tom had become fast friends with the colorful roly-poly westerner, and when the Swifts returned to Shopton in upstate New York, Chow had attached himself to the party. He was now employed as private chef for Tom and Mr. Swift, not only at the plant but when off on their frequent travels around the globe.

"Say, this here feller at the gate tried t’put this li’l ole good-luck charm on my arm—an electric armpit!"

"You mean one of our electronic amulets." Tom laughed. "Without that little bracelet, Chow, you’d have our ground-hugging radarscopes working overtime."

"How come?" Chow asked, eyeing the bracelet.

"It sounds complicated, but it’s really simple," Tom explained. "That little bracelet ‘traps’—cancels out—radar impulses and keeps them off our scopes. We not only have the big radar dish on top of the main building for everyone to see, but another one set up in the new underground hangar where we’re building the Flying Lab. So," Tom went on, as Chow looked a little perplexed, "anyone who doesn’t wear an amulet causes a little dot of light to show up on one scope or the other. That’s how we can tell if we have an unwanted visitor."

As Tom concluded, he shot a glance at Bud that seemed to say: Of course, the system has already failed to warn us of a very important intruder.

"Well, your ole radar kin have the day off, far as I’m concerned," Chow chuckled. "Guess I’ll get useta havin’ a piece o’ jewelry on my arm—leastwise as long as it don’t get in the way when I’m flippin’ flapjacks."

"That shirt of yours might set off alarms all by itself!" Bud exclaimed, jokingly covering his eyes. "Tom, I don’t think anything could cancel out those radiations!" Chow’s taste for wildly colored shirts in the southwestern style was notorious throughout Swift Enterprises, where he was regarded with affection as the Swift "mascot." This particular shirt, which somehow managed to combine lime-green with a fiery orange, was his most vivid yet.

"Picked up this li’l number in Fort Worth," Chow said with evident pride. "One of a kind!— in this size."

The three began ride-walking toward the underground hangar. Chow’s weathered face turned grave when Tom told of the mysterious missile attack upon Swift Enterprises. "Dang sidewinders!" muttered the old cook. Then his face brightened. "But say, boss, if’n you’re gonna take a look at the Sky Queen, how’s about me dogeyin’ along? When I left t’go, she was purty much jest a skeleton."

"Sure," agreed Tom. "Besides, I want you to give the galley the once-over."

The three transferred to another moving walkway which smoothly slanted downward into a broad underground corridor. They hopped off in front of a closed sliding panel. The next moment Chow’s jaw dropped as the panel opened for Tom and the whole of the vast underground hangar came into view. Under a battery of high-intensity worklights, a majestic silver-skinned craft gleamed and beckoned—Tom’s amazing Flying Lab!

"Wait until you see her insides, Chow," said Bud, bubbling with obvious excitement. "This baby not only has the kitchen sink, but the whole kitchen!"

The enthusiasm was infectious, and Tom grinned broadly in spite of himself. "I like to xxxxxxxxxxxthink our three-decker has everything, including—"

"Three-decker? You mean this here Sky Queen has three floors?" Chow leaned so far back to look up at the big ship that he almost fell over on his balding head.

"That’s right," Tom answered. "Come on. I’ll show you around."

Weaving through a crew of technicians busily at work on the Flying Lab’s outer hull, Tom climbed a ladder through a utility hatch on the underside, Chow and Bud following.

"This first level is partly for storage," Tom explained as they stood inside. "We’ll keep spare equipment, experimental supplies, and luggage down here. But look back there—see those sliding doors? Behind the doors is our flying hangar. We’re going to carry two baby aircraft—a micro-sized jet plane we call the Kangaroo Kub and a jet-assisted helicopter, the Skeeter."

"That name’s in your honor, Chow," commented Bud. "Last summer you had a few words to say about the ‘skeeters’ swarming around Shopton."

"Uh-huh." Chow’s eyes widened as he took in the sleek modern curves of the ship’s interior, xxxxxxxxxxxwhich projected a feeling of luxury and open space. "Y’know, this ain’t nothin’ like one o’ them cramp-sided air buggies I took back to San Antone." Then he added, "Where’s the galley? We got to eat!"

"We’ll come to it."

Next, they went up a flight of narrow, steel-ribbed stairs and into the largest sector of the ship’s interior. Forward was the control deck containing the pilot’s and co-pilot’s seats. The seats faced a wide, multi-layered plexiglass viewport, tinted against the blinding sunlight of high-altitude travel. The viewport curled around the corners of the fuselage to the right and the left, providing a degree of sideview, and at the middle between the seats it dipped downward to the floor in order to give the crew a view downward.

Every bit of wall space was covered with dials, switches, and gadgets. Chow rubbed his eyes. "Say, you’ll need a crew the size of a trail-drive to push an’ pull all those buttons an’ levers."

Tom smiled. "Chow, this is so simply arranged and computer-assisted that the Sky Queen could almost fly itself."

The cook, utterly amazed, shook his head.

"Since this here’s a flyin’ lab, where’s the lab part?"

"Mid-fuselage. It’s partitioned off from the rest of the ship and is a soundproof, air-conditioned room, or series of rooms. One’s my physics lab, another’s for chemistry. Then there’s a place for experiments with animals—"

"Hold on!" Chow begged. "We goin’ to carry a zoo along?"

Tom and Bud laughed. "Just wait!" said Bud.

Tom slid back the door and switched on a light. The large room, still under construction, was partitioned off into cubicles with walls shoulder high. Chow gazed in awe at the physics division with its six-foot electron microscope and x-ray, ultraviolet, and infrared absorption ap-paratus.

He shook his head. "Mighty fine," he said, "but it’s beyond me. I’ll stick to my galley. Where is it?"

Tom chuckled at the cook’s impatience as he led the way up to the third deck. Forward was a comfortable windowed lounge, complete with easy chairs, sofas, and a small library of scientific books and magazines. Back of this were the sleeping quarters, and in the rear was the galley. Chow surveyed the layout of modern equipment in pleased astonishment.

"Wa-aal, brand my skillet!" he said. "Will I cook up some fancy dishes up there in the stratter-sphere!"

He was about to inspect his new domain when the ship intercom crackled on an override-link to the exterior. "Tom! Tom! Come to the hangar security office! Quick!" The anxious voice belonged to Tom’s father!

TOM RACED down the stairways and ladder and across the concrete floor to the hangar office where his father stood with his hand on the monitor console for the secondary radarscope.

"What’s up, Dad?" Tom cried as Bud came clattering up behind him.

"Our security radar equipment—it’s been disabled!" Mr. Swift exclaimed. "And look at the backup printout. An intruder was registered at 4:19 this morning!"

Bud whistled. "Hours ago!"

"Someone without an amulet broke in here?" Tom cried incredulously.

Mr. Swift’s face was stern. "Yes. And according to the time imprint, someone who was looking around for five minutes before he cut the radar apparatus. We didn’t know the system was out until just now, when I double-checked it to see if I could discover why the projectile hadn’t been detected. No telling how long he was here after that, nor what it was he wanted."

"He’s not hiding aboard the Flying Lab," Tom remarked. "We’ve just been through the parts an outsider could get into. Say, it’s funny no one reported a dot on the other radarscope, the main one. Maybe the intruder’s still around!"

Mr. Swift immediately contacted Harlan Ames on his TeleVoc to initiate a plantwide search and have the security alert announced to all the employees.

"I think he’ll have a harder time getting out than he did getting in," remarked Mr. Swift after breaking contact with Ames.

Bud Barclay suddenly let out a cry. "Tom, we left the Skeeter on the test helipad beyond the runways!"

Tom groaned. "The ground crew wouldn’t have hangared it yet." Tom and Bud had taken the craft on a short test flight just before noon, prior to the lecture in town. "If that guy can fly, he may try to get away in it! I’ve got to—"

But before Tom could raise his foot, Bud had already bolted out the hangar door and was sprinting toward the trees beyond the main airfield. An excellent football and track man in high school, he covered the distance in record time, leaping over the ridewalks as if they were competition hurdles. As Bud entered the untended, wooded field that bordered the runways, an engine throbbed to life some distance ahead of him. Between the scraggly trees he could see the Skeeter. Her rotor blades were beginning to turn!

"That’s got to be our guy," he thought, desperately redoubling his speed.

With a frantic thrust of energy, he burst onto the paved test helipad. The new chopper was just taking off. Bud made a dash for the Skeeter, trying to grasp the edge of the still-open cockpit door and pull himself up before it rose out of reach, but he missed by inches. Nevertheless, he got a good look at the dark, slick-haired pilot. Then the helicopter rose and swung out of sight over the trees.

"He can’t get away with this!" Bud set his jaw. Dashing back to where Tom and his father waited in the hangar office, he gasped out breathlessly, "He stole the Skeeter! But I’ll take up a jet and try to force him down!"

"I’ll go with you!" Tom exclaimed.

"Hold on!" Mr. Swift warned him. "There’s no need to go charging into danger. We’ll send xxxxxxxxxxxout some of our Enterprises pilots for a search by jet. I’ll alert the local commercial airports, too."

Tom frowned, his reluctance showing on his face. "Did you get a good look at him, Bud?"

"I sure did!" Bud replied. "Thin, dark, short. About twenty-five. Had black greasy-looking hair and eyes like a rat."

"That’s enough to get the professionals started. Besides, son," said Mr. Swift, his eyes twinkling, "you don’t want to miss RobiTec’s trip down the rabbit-hole, do you?" He knew Tom would rather be in on a scientific discovery than almost anything in the world.

Soon Mr. Swift, Bud, and Tom had gathered in Mr. Swift’s private laboratory suite next to his office. A monitor and remote-control setup had been wheeled in.

"Hey, hold on, hold on!" came the voice of Chow Winkler as the rotund cook came bobbing into the lab. "Brand my shootin’ stars, you gotta let me take a gander too—’specially after the way you boys ran off an’ let me find my own way out o’ that big plane!" Harlan Ames also joined them, but Mr. Swift decided not to admit any others.

The robot-mobile was deposited at the edge of the fissure by a small utility truck. On the xxxxxxxxxxxvideo screen, the onlookers could see RobiTec waiting motionless, captured by one of the runway cameras. About the size of a large lawnmower, the machine had four flexible tank-tread "feet," retractable tubular arms of various sizes and shapes, and a boxlike framework, outfitted with various sensors and intake vents, as its "head."

Mr. Swift touched the controls, and the image on the monitor changed to the view through RobiTec’s camera eyes. "Here we go!" he said, easing the control joystick forward. RobiTec responded instantly, rolling over the edge of the ditch without difficulty and rapidly making its way forward to the large crater.

Tom switched to the onboard forward cameras. "There’s the tunnel entrance up ahead," he observed. "Look how smooth the sides are! What’s the temperature of those walls, Dad?"

"Only 130 degrees Fahrenheit now, and falling rapidly," said Mr. Swift, checking RobiTec’s sensors.

"Great coyotes, my cookstove gets hotter’n that!" Chow remarked.

As RobiTec entered the tunnel, Mr. Swift slowed the machine and switched on its high-intensity headlights. The image of the interior of the tunnel took on an eerie aspect as it crawled by on the monitor screen. Tom periodically read aloud the positional readout.

"We’re almost 250 feet along the tunnel," he said wonderingly, "and a good thirty feet below ground level."

"According to the forward radar, we’re approaching the end of the tunnel," Mr. Swift interjected. "We should be seeing—"

Bud interrupted him with an excited cry. "There!"

The monitor showed a streamlined cy-lindrical object protruding from the tunnel wall ahead!

"No way that thing’s a meteor," Harlan Ames commented grimly. "I’d say you Swifts have an enemy at large with access to high-tech weaponry."

"Harlan, we don’t know it’s a weapon," Tom retorted as Mr. Swift brought RobiTec to a stop. "Think of the way it came down, its flight path. It managed to avoid our buildings, our people, even our runways—as if its purpose was to demonstrate that it didn’t have any hostile intention."

"What do you think it is, boss?" asked Chow in a low voice.

Mr. Swift answered on behalf of his son. "I think we must consider the possibility that this device is of extraterrestrial origin."

Chow was thunderstruck. "Whoa! You mean there’s little space people in that thing?"

Tom had to smile. "Not likely, Chow. This is probably some kind of automated probe. You know," he continued thoughtfully, "my great-grandfather, the first Tom Swift, reported some indications of a space civilization. But he wasn’t believed. This could be our chance to show he was right after all!"

"It would also be the greatest scientific discovery in the—" began Mr. Swift. Tom suddenly gasped and leaned forward, grabbing RobiTec’s joystick control.

"Take a look at that!" exclaimed Tom, playing RobiTec’s headlights up and down the sides of the cylinder while enhancing the image resolution on the monitor.

A weird pattern of symbols was etched into the metal!

"What is it?" Harlan Ames asked softly. "Decoration?"

"It could be almost anything," replied Tom in hushed tones. "Even part of the missile’s guidance system, like a printed circuit."

"No doubt we’re all thinking the same thing," declared Damon Swift. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Those symbols are a form of writing."

The pattern made little sense to the naked eye. There appeared to be dozens of symbols, arranged in a spreading circular pattern that resembled a sunburst. Zooming in on a small area, Tom saw that most of the individual symbols were small and fairly simple in design—ovals, triangles, criss-cross figures, and rows of interlaced circles. But some of the other figures resembled Greek or Hebrew lettering, or even Chinese characters.

"How could we even begin to translate a totally alien language?" muttered Mr. Swift.

"Why, shucks, it don’t look that hard t’me!" Chow exclaimed. He touched one of the symbols on the screen with his finger. "Lookit that one, f’rinstance. That means the sun, and this one here means ‘water falling from clouds’."

Tom’s brow furrowed. "Chow, how in or out of the world could you—"

"Cause I know how people think, boss. Those things look like whatcha call Injun signs, or mebbe cattle brands from different ranches. I been seein’ stuff like that all my life."

"That’s as good a lead as any," said Tom ruefully. "After all, these ‘space people,’ if that’s what they are, must have guided the missile here in order to communicate with our species. Maybe they understand how we think, at least a little."

"What I think is that these symbols represent mathematical concepts which might parallel concepts in natural language," Mr. Swift declared. "Mathematics is the universal language, after all."

"Hmmph!" snorted Chow. "Mebbe so, but I flunked arithmetic and I don’t see’s it held me back none!"

As Mr. Swift began to direct RobiTec to perform various tests on the outer shell of the missile prior to its being transported to a laboratory, Bud asked Ames, "Any reports on the Skeeter?"

"Nothing so far," replied the security chief. "The heli-jacker hasn’t had time to make much distance, and it wouldn’t be easy to hide the craft on the ground. But the search jets haven’t seen a thing. Nothing from the police or the airports, either."

Tom turned very sober at the news. "I’m responsible for the loss, Bud," he said. "I should have had her locked away before leaving the plant."

"You’re sure to get her back!" cried Bud. "Tom, that ship’s a dream. She handles like a baby carriage—we proved it this morning. We can set her down on a dime and give back nine cents change!"

"I just hope it won’t be long before we can do it again," Tom said disconsolately.

"What I’d like to know is why that thief was snooping around here. Have you any idea, Mr. Swift?" inquired Bud.

"Not offhand," he replied, "but it won’t be difficult to find out if anything important is missing. I have a feeling the best place to begin is the auxiliary test room in the underground hangar. Quite a lot of work related to the Sky Queen is stored there."

Stepping over to a control console, Mr. Swift remotely accessed the auxiliary lab’s electronic inventory system. Every model, drawing, blueprint, or piece of equipment was tagged with a snippet of transponder tape, allowing the ceiling-mounted detector unit to determine if anything had failed to "report in." It took only a moment for the answer to appear on the monitor screen.

"Here it is," he said grimly. "The drawings and specifications for our ‘super-Geiger counter’ are gone, Tom. Now we know what the thief was after!"

A SCIENTIFIC THIEF

"Wait a minute!" exclaimed Tom.

Tom hurried across the room and keyed his personal code onto a button-pad on the top of a metal cabinet. The bottom drawer slid silently open in response and a smile of relief spread over Tom’s face. "Only half of the plans are gone, Dad. I put the others in here yesterday with the miniature model."

Bud burst into laughter. "What a surprise the Pomade Kid’s going to get!" Then he became serious. "What I can’t understand is how he got into the underground hangar in the first place—not to mention the auxiliary lab. He’d need a special key, wouldn’t he?"

"You’re right—one of our electronic beeper-keys." Tom looked meaningfully at his father. "Do you think it might have been an inside job? Or a job with inside help?"

"That might account for his not being detected by the main radar unit," Bud suggested. "One of the plant workers might have disconnected it momentarily, then let his confederate in."

"I hate to be suspicious of anyone here," Mr. Swift remarked, "but I suppose we’d better consider every angle. Right now, though, we’d better make sure that projectile is moved to a secure—"

He was interrupted by a knock on the door. Tom, quickly blanking-out the monitor, rose and went to see who the caller might be. "Arthur Roberts is here," he announced over his shoulder to Mr. Swift. Roberts had worked for many years at the Swift plant as a tool designer. The close, exacting skill had proved too great a strain on his eyes. As a result, he had been assigned the duty of night watchman for the underground hangar and laboratory.

"Tell him to come in," said Mr. Swift, as Chow and Harlan Ames left quietly. Tom tapped Bud on the shoulder, asking him to remain.

The moment the man appeared in the doorway, the three in the office knew something was wrong. Roberts’s face was pale and drawn, and there were dark circles of distress under his eyes. As he removed his cap slowly, they noted that his hand shook a little.

"Yes, Roberts?" Mr. Swift said. The man cleared his throat, then spoke gravely. "I have something to confess. I’m responsible for the theft of the super-Geiger-counter plans."

Tom and his father stared at the man in astonishment.

"But you’ve been with us for years!" declared Damon Swift. "You’re one of our most trusted men."

Roberts looked down at the floor. "I know. But I couldn’t help what happened."

"Tell us everything," Tom urged, a gentle tone in his voice.

"Last night—actually early this morning," the guard began, "I had just unlocked the door to the underground hangar to make my hourly rounds when a strange man came up to me. He matches the description being circulated of the one who stole Tom’s helicopter. I don’t know how he got in—anyhow, it wasn’t by the main gate. He said he was a research member of Hemispak."

"Hemispak!" Mr. Swift cried. "The group formed to pool scientific information and resources for the protection of the natural environment in the Western Hemisphere!"

"I know how important Hemispak is, so I asked what he wanted," Roberts went on. "He mumbled something. And then—he pulled a gun. He started talking tough, said he’d been briefed on me. He even knew about my son Barry being in South America. You know, Barry’s a chemist there, and his work is for Hemispak." Roberts lowered his voice. "Looking for uranium, I believe. That fellow said both Barry and his wife would be tortured if I didn’t tell him where to find the plans for your new detector machine."

Mr. Swift nodded with understanding. "And you did?"

"I had no choice."

"So you took him to the underground lab?" asked Tom.

Roberts gulped and nodded. "The man had some little electrical gizmo that allowed him to unlock the storage cabinet. He rummaged several minutes until he found the plans, waving that gun my way the whole time. I wish now I’d jumped him, but you know my eyes aren’t so good anymore."

"Then what?" Bud asked.

"All I know is, he pulled something out of his coat pocket. It was a spray can, like those little cans of pepper-spray, you know? He sprayed me in the face, and then—my wife Dolores says I came home and crawled into bed at 6 A.M., but I don’t remember a thing about it. I slept just like normal. In fact, I must’ve been in a daze or something, because it wasn’t till I clocked in just a while ago that I remembered anything about the incident!"

"Instant concussion," said Tom in a wry voice. "Science marches on!"

Roberts sighed. "There’s something else I should tell you. I wrote to Barry about your device, which the two of you used to work on at night and discuss while I was making my rounds. I didn’t really realize that I shouldn’t. Someone must have intercepted the letter and opened it. Maybe Barry is being watched!"

"That seems likely. And—he works for Hemispak." Mr. Swift put a reassuring hand on Roberts’s shoulder. "Don’t worry about this, Roberts. But I’d suggest that you contact your son immediately and warn him. I think Harlan Ames can get you authorization to use the secure line to whichever American Embassy is closest to him. If this is the work of some enemy group, they may carry out the threat against your family."

Roberts thanked his employer and hurried off. Left alone, the others exchanged worried glances.

"I didn’t want to make Mr. Roberts feel any worse," said Tom, "but I think I can guess how the intruder got onto the grounds. He probably hitched a ride inside Roberts’s trunk!"

Bud nodded. "I thought the same thing. We count so much on the radar system to track outsiders that we don’t make too big a deal about controlling entry. And if he had his own radar-trapping device—"

"He’d be home free," finished Tom.

"It’s clear that the intruder—or his employer—is a scientist and a dangerous enemy," said Mr. Swift. "Evidently his antiradar setup was tuned to the master plant radarscope in the airfield tower. He wasn’t prepared for the secondary unit in the hangar, and all he could do was physically disable it. That’s why we see his blip for a few minutes on the time recording."

"Man, would I like to get my hands on that oily-haired sneak!" Bud burst out. The copilot’s big shoulders strained at the seams of his heavy ribbed sweater. "I’d do a job on him!"

"I wouldn’t mind getting a whack at him myself!" Tom’s lean, strong hands clenched unconsciously.

Mr. Swift put a calming hand on his son’s arm.

At this moment the interoffice phone rang. Tom picked it up, on the speaker setting.

"Your sister is at the main gate, Tom," Munford Trent, the Swifts’ private secretary, informed him. "Sandy says something has happened. You’re to come out there at once!"

Bud was out the door almost before Tom was able to set down the phone receiver. Since his arrival in Shopton a few years before from San Francisco, where his parents made their home, Bud Barclay and Sandra Swift had become close friends, making Tom’s younger sister the envy of many in town.

The two boys hurried through the grounds, wondering what Sandy was about to tell them. The attractive blond girl, a year younger than her brother, resembled him in looks and disposition.

The boys found Sandy astride her horse, Jumper. His glossy coat was drenched with sweat from a hard run, and he was prancing about nervously. His owner, too, appeared to be excited. "What’s up?" Tom asked, alarmed.

"Something awful happened a little while ago," Sandy burst out. "I was riding Jumper along Old Mill Pond Road when a copter that looked just like that model you showed me came down right in front of me!"

Tom and Bud looked at each other, speechless. The stolen aircraft!

"The pilot let it roll under some big willow trees," Sandy went on. "and then came tearing out into the middle of the road. He gave me a fearful scare. Ran right up to me and grabbed Jumper’s bridle! But just then a farm truck came along. The pilot pulled out a gun and forced the driver to stop. He yelled to me not to dare tell anyone I’d seen him. I—I think he knew who I was, somehow. Then he climbed into the truck and made the driver start up again."

"He stole that copter from us!" Tom said, and quickly told Sandy the story of the theft. "We’ve got to get over there before they truck it away!"

"And it may have some clues for us," added Bud. "Sandy, are you all right?"

"Oh, I’m fine," she responded. "I’m a Swift! But do be careful," she begged them. "That man has such a wicked face."

"Don’t worry," Tom answered. "But there’s no time to lose, Bud. Come on!"

xxxxxxA CALL TOxDANGER

FIFTEEN MINUTES later, in the fading light of early evening, Tom and Bud pulled up in Bud’s car at the spot where the midget helicopter had been abandoned. It was well screened in a willow grove near a brook.

"No wonder our search planes couldn’t see it from the air," Bud grumbled as he leapt the door. "The way those willow branches hang down, it might as well be draped with curtains."

The boys rolled out the Skeeter and Tom climbed in. A few minutes later he called down that apparently the thief had not meddled with the controls.

"I’ll fly it back," he said, gunning the engine. "See you at the plant."

With Bud driving far below, Tom gave the agile little craft a good wringing out to be sure that the strange pilot had not tampered with any part of it. When Tom came down at the main Swift Enterprises helipad, he found Sandy waiting for him.

"I’m so glad you got the copter back from that creepy geek," she said.

"So am I, sis. That squares up one of the thefts. But maybe you shouldn’t ride around alone on country roads any more—Swift or not."

"You bet I won’t," she promised. "At least, not until they catch that two-bit gunslinger!"

Making a quick call to Harlan Ames and then to the local police, Tom was informed by the police captain that he had already heard the story from the driver of the hijacked truck and had sent out an alarm. Tom then TeleVoc’d his father and Bud, who had just arrived back at the plant, relaying the news.

"I think it’s time you three went home for some supper," suggested Mr. Swift. "It’s been an incredibly eventful day. Some of Ames’s men will follow behind you to make sure you get there all right, and I’ve already had some plainclothes guards posted around the house."

"How about you, Dad?"

"Oh, I’ll be along. I’ve been fielding inquiries from the news media about the ‘meteor’ that struck Swift Enterprises. After what happened to your great-grandfather, I think I owe it to the family to be a little cautious about releasing news that the public might find too sensational."

"But I know you don’t want to lie," Tom commented.

"No indeed," agreed Mr. Swift. "But listen, Tom, our first analysis indicates that the projectile is composed of some unknown silicate composite, not metal."

"Silicate? Like rock?"

"Precisely. So my press release will state that ‘a rocklike mass traveling at unusually high speed impacted within the grounds of Swift Enterprises. Swift scientists are now studying it to determine its specific composition.’"

Tom laughed heartily. "And that’s no lie!"

Several days went by and still there was no trace of the thief. Tom had plunged into work on the Flying Lab, overseeing countless precision jobs on which the crew’s lives would depend once they were airborne. This did not keep him from pulling out of his pocket many times a day a copy of the symbols inscribed on the strange missile that bad fallen from the sky. Solving the mysterious message it seemed to convey had become a game between Tom and his father, xxxxxxxxxxxboth of them aided at times by Enterprises mathematicians who assumed a new security encryption system was being tested. At dinner each evening they would compare notes about the results of their calculations.

"Any progress, Tom?" Mr. Swift finally asked one night, enjoying their friendly contest. Just that day Tom had computed the ratio of the diameters of two oval symbols, one smaller than the other, and concluded that the larger oval was meant to be Earth, the smaller one her neighboring planet Mars. The message could be from Martian scientists!

"Yes, Dad, I have one theory," Tom replied. "Those two overlapping circular shapes—they work out mathematically to represent this planet and Mars, encoding the difference between the polar and equatorial diameters."

"I came to the same conclusion through an entirely different chain of reasoning. At least we know that ‘somebody up there’ is trying to get an important message across to us." Mr. Swift laughed. "Well, we’re still running neck and neck in our race."

"I wish I had more time to work on the symbols," Tom continued. "But I’ll keep at them until we take off for the ionosphere."

Late one morning, after Tom had finished stowing some delicate instruments aboard the Sky Queen, he decided to check the blueprint of the gyrostabilizer caissons. He hurried down to the office and studied the detailed sheet a few moments. Some wiring would have to be changed to avert risk of fire.

As Tom came from the office, he stopped short. Looking up, be was horrified to see wisps of smoke curling from the air vents of the Flying Lab, just as he had imagined! Visions of disaster flashed through his mind.

"But it’s coming from the third deck," he observed. "It can’t be that wiring." Grabbing a fire extinguisher, Tom leaped up the interior stairway of the plane. He ran head-on into a wide figure racing downward.

"Chow! What’s on fire?" The chef was coughing and choking as he tried to find his way down the steps, his eyes streaming with tears from the smoke.

"Lemme out!"

"Is it the galley?"

"Galley? Naw, boss, th’ galley’s not on fire. It’s jest my Texas spinach omelet. Consarn, with all them microwave ovens an’ in-duction thingums it’s a wonder I kin find my skillet!" Chow was obviously perturbed—and more than a little embarrassed.

"I know it’s a little different," Tom said sympathetically, trying hard not to laugh. "But you know, we can’t exactly have an open campfire on the Flying Lab, not with the oxygen-rich air we’ll be breathing onboard when we’re cruising the upper atmosphere."

"Waal, if you say so," returned the cook. "But don’t come complainin’ if’n your bacon strips look more like brown shoelaces!"

Tom gave Chow’s shoulder a squeeze. "If anyone can tame that loco galley, it’s you, Chow."

At this Chow gave the inventor a determined look, still coughing because of the smoke in his lungs. "I broke tougher broncos n’that, I guess," he declared. "I was goin’ to surprise you for lunch, but I’ll fix somethin’ else."

"A he-man steakburger, please," Tom begged. "And easy on the surprises."

After lunch aboard the Sky Queen, Tom ridewalked over to the office which he and Mr. Swift shared in the main building. His father was there and said, "Roberts just had a message from his son’s wife, via the secure link from the US Embassy in Lima, Peru. Young Roberts has gone into the mountains by helicopter on anxexpedition with a group of Hemispak scientists. He left several weeks ago, and she doesn’t expect to hear from him until he returns. I hope nothing happens to him."

Mr. Swift had barely conveyed this news when the intercom phone buzzed. "There is someone at the gate to see you and your son," said Trent.

"We’re very busy," answered Tom’s father, somewhat annoyed. "You know when I’m—"

"I’m sorry, Mr. Swift. But I believe you’ll want see this man right away. He says he’s from the Hemispak Scientific Society!" Across the office, Tom and his father looked at each other in amazement. From Hemispak! Could this be the same man who attacked Roberts? Would he dare take the chance to come here again? "Bring him in!" Mr. Swift told the secretary.

Before the visitor arrived, Tom pushed a button and the broad workbench, covered with plans and gadgets, slid into the wall out of sight. "We’d better watch him, Dad! Even if he isn’t the same man, he may be a crony of his. I think we’d better keep him between us while he’s in here."

"Good idea, Tom," said Damon Swift. "And we can also have plant security listening-in by means of your TeleVoc pin."

"Señor Carlos Rigoledo," Mr. Trent announced presently, ushering the caller in. Tom knew at once that he was not the man whom Bud had described. The caller was much older and less agile-looking.

"May I present my credentials, gentlemen?" the stranger said after the Swifts had introduced themselves. "Although the selection has not yet been released to the press, I am the newly chosen president of the Hemispak Scientific Society." He pulled out a membership card and letters from a pocket to support his claim. The Swifts examined them and felt satisfied.

"We have heard a great deal about Swift Enterprises," Señor Rigoledo began. "Hemispak hopes to work side by side with you two famous Swifts."

"If Hemispak is all we’ve heard it is," Mr. Swift replied, "that would be a distinct privilege for us." His suspicions, as well as Tom’s, had been completely dispelled by the stranger’s straightforward manner.

"We have a great deal of work to do," went on Señor Rigoledo, "but if we can maintain our ideals of co-operative scientific work in behalf of the northern and southern continents of America, the western hemisphere should benefit greatly."

The trio now relaxed in friendly, companionable conversation.

"Some day I’d like to visit South America again," Tom remarked. He did not say so, but in his mind he finished: "—and in the Sky Queen would be the perfect way to do it!"

"That may be sooner than you think," was the surprising answer. "Your reputation, for one so young, is already widely known among our people through the scientific and engineering journals. And that is part of my reason for coming to Swift Enterprises today."

Tom sat up expectantly.

"I must now acquaint you with certain facts," Señor Rigoledo remarked, "facts that you may be somewhat familiar with through the news reports. I am the Deputy Minister of the Interior of my country, Montaguaya. Perhaps you know that we have been having trouble with a certain group of our people, the Puyachay. They are an ancient indigenous people who live, for the most part, in one area of the eastern Andes mountains and the jungles beyond, the province of Veranos-Estrella. The Puyachay are a very stubborn people, one might say, and do not care to change their ancient ways. Verano, as they call it, is really a splinter state, run by rebels who broke away from the mother country. They carry out continual guerrilla war-fare against us."

Verano, Señor Rigoledo revealed, was a stumbling block to the work of Hemispak.

"Why is that?" Tom asked.

"I will explain. As you know, the United Nations has imposed certain restrictions on the mining and export of fissile radioactive ores—materials used in the production of nuclear reaction. If a nation appears to be engaged in undisclosed mining operations or illegal trafficking, various sanctions are imposed," he went on. "Regretably, my country of Montaguaya is now subject to those sanctions, because we cannot guarantee that the Verano rebels are not engaged in these prohibited operations."

Mr. Swift looked at Rigoledo thoughtfully. "I take it you have reason to believe that the rebels are dealing in ore?"

"Si, Mr. Swift. From a clue given by a defector from the rebel forces, we believe that there is valuable radioactive material within the borders of Verano. We think some exploratory mining has been done, and that they are using small samples to seek covert funding for a larger operation. But such materials must never fall into the hands of these rebels!"

"But do they really have the technology to do anything with it?" Tom felt the visitor’s story was somehow incomplete.

"They would sell it to a power hostile to the United States—and to Montaguaya as well. This we must prevent."

"These rebels—they must be more than ordinary guerillas," Mr. Swift remarked.

"I shall say only that they are cruel, ruthless men, as were their ancestors five centuries ago," Señor Rigoledo went on, passionately. "Hemispak sent an expedition of scientists to survey the border from the air, with instruments for the detection of uranium. But we fear they have met with foul play from the rebels. It has been two weeks since we have heard from them by radio."

Tom sat bolt upright, exchanging alarmed glances with his father. "That’s probably the same expedition Barry is with!" he cried.

"What? You are acquainted with Barry Roberts?" Rigoledo asked in surprise. "He is one of Hemispak’s finest scientists."

After Mr. Swift explained how they knew him, Señor Rigoledo said, "Ah me, then this is indeed bad news. Do not mention my worries to the father and mother if you please, as all is uncertain for now."

Mr. Swift agreed, a frown creasing his forehead. Rigoledo continued, "They are good men, our scientific party, and it is at least very strange that we have had no word from them in so long a time. At this moment, as we speak here, those rebels may be forcing Roberts and the others to locate the uranium for them!"

"But you don’t think the scientists will do it?" Tom said.

Señor Rigoledo waved his hands in a gesture of despair. "How long can they hold out? A man has his limits." He leaned forward in his chair. "It all leads up to a very important question which I am about to ask you, on behalf of my government and Hemispak.

"Will you and your father help us thwart these dangerous rebels?"

ENEMIES BELOW!

TOM’S EYES gleamed with eagerness as he waited a moment for his father’s reply to the South American’s question. This could be a high adventure!

"But how can we help you and your country, Señor Rigoledo?" Tom could sense that his father was moved, yet uncertain. "We’re not diplomats. These are matters for governments to resolve."

Rigoledo nodded his understanding. "Indeed so. And as you understand from my documents of introduction, I myself have held many positions in the government of Montaguaya. Sometimes, you see, governments must be willing to operate outside the usual channels."

"Yes," said the elder Swift brusquely, "and outside the public eye. It seems we could help you locate the rebels and their captives—and watch your army come in with guns blazing, wiping out everyone!"

Rigoledo’s face flushed. He rose from his chair and regarded Damon Swift coldly. "I can see you know little about the history of the Montaguaya situation. My government is one of South America’s oldest democracies. Year after year we have been attacked, our citizens killed—yet we show restraint. We conduct ourselves with honor!"

He removed from his coat pocket two small white cards and slapped them down on the desk. "My residence in America. I shall be here for five days. The other card is the private office number of Dr. Harold Tennyson, a trusted senior official in your State Department. He will vouch for me. If his word is not enough for you—there is nothing more to say."

"Please, Señor Rigoledo," said Mr. Swift in a calming tone of voice. "Allow me to withdraw my ill-chosen words. Your request is obviously made with great sincerity. And it seems we are already involved."

Rigoledo smiled so readily that Tom wondered if his indignation had been more act than reality. "We need the help of you Swifts and your wonderful inventions," continued Señor Rigoledo as he pressed his case, "both to locate our missing scientists and to investigate the presence of uranium deposits."

"I’d like to do it!" Tom exclaimed, no longer able to hold back. "It would be the perfect field test for the Flying Lab!"

Mr. Swift, still cautious, asked whether the Montaguayan government had tried to find the scientists.

"Yes, but we have not succeeded," the South American replied. "We believe the involvement of Americans would give pause to the rebels, if you see. After all, our children learn about the first Tom Swift in their schools!"

Tom was more eager than ever to go. He wanted go rescue Barry Roberts before the man might he tortured into working for the rebels!

"You’ve made an eloquent case," Mr. Swift said. "We’ll give you a formal answer before your departure. But you should know that the new aircraft and its instruments will not be ready for another two weeks or so. In that time a lot can happen in Verano."

"Es verdad! It is true!" their caller agreed. "I will keep you informed, of course. But I am sure our scientists will not give in to the rebels and help them find the uranium before then. They will hold out as long as they can."

"You mean, they won’t give in until they’re forced to," said Tom.

Rigoledo nodded. "I shudder to think of those five scientists being tortured into helping the enemy. And now, I should take my leave of you."

As they shook hands all around, Tom said, "Whatever we decide for the moment, I know the Sky Queen will someday pay a visit to your country and help your people safely develop their resources."

"Ah, the enthusiasm of youth!" Rigoledo beamed. "Magnifico! And now, if I may humble myself, there is perhaps just one thing more. Before I go, I should like to see this Flying Lab you praise like the angels!"

Mr. Swift glanced at Tom, as if to say, It’s up to you. Tom felt that the Flying Lab was not ready to be exhibited. However, because of Rigoledo’s governmental position and the scientific renown of Hemispak, the young inventor decided to give him a preview of the giant skyship.

In the hangar Rigoledo’s reaction was both amazing and amusing. After his first voluble praise, he seemed at a loss for words. But finally he murmured: "It is esplendido! But now I must leave."

As the Swifts walked to the main gate with him, he remarked, "Ah, I see over there the big hole from the meteor. We read about it even in Cristobal, our capital city. You know," Rigoledo added, "even scientists can be great gossips."

"What do you mean?" asked Tom.

"A silly rumor," the man replied, pausing inside the gate. "Somehow it goes around that this was not a meteor at all, but something mysterious—a machine! Bah! But it is amusing."

Tom and his father were thunderstruck! But they took care not to react until their visitor was out of sight.

"How could the news have gotten out?" Tom shook his head in frustrated disbelief.

"People always speculate," his father replied. "It may be no more than that. Or it may be that one of the employees who was nearby while RobiTec was ‘sniffing’ couldn’t resist dropping hints here and there, despite our instructions."

"I suppose there’s no use fretting about it," Tom said. "Besides, I’ll bet we crack the space code before we take off, and then we can release the data to the world."

Tom gave his father a sly look, and Mr. Swift chuckled. They both knew that the decision had been made. Barring some unforeseen development, the Sky Queen would soon be heading south into adventure—and danger!

Realizing that all aspects of work would have to be sped up, the two went their separate ways to their individual projects. As Tom neared the underground hangar, he met Chow.

"Jumping sunspots!" Tom exclaimed as the good-natured cook approached, wearing a purple and orange plaid shirt.

"You like it, eh?" Chow asked.

"It’s enough to start a stampede."

"Well, I dunno, boss. Steers cain’t see color, kin they?" Chow replied, scratching his almost-bald head.

During the next two days, father and son applied themselves rigorously to a demanding and accelerated schedule of work. After a conference call between Harlan Ames and Mr. Swift at one end and Harold Tennyson in Washington D.C. at the other, Señor Rigoledo was informed that the project for the Montaguaya government was "go."

"On behalf of my country, my people, and the Hemispak organization, I humbly thank you," he said. "I shall depart for Cristobal at once."

The next morning at breakfast Mr. Swift said he was eager to start for his office to work with Tom and the Enterprises electronics team on the new super-Geiger counter. He asked Tom if he was ready to go.

"I promised Uncle Jake," Tom replied, "that I’d give the Pigeon Special a good workout this morning. He’s about ready to announce the new commuter plane to the public and wants me to see whether I can set it down in somebody’s driveway. I don’t really have the time, but it shouldn’t take long."

Bud Barclay had breakfasted with the Swifts, as he often did. In most ways, Bud was like a member of the family, and Mr. and Mrs. Swift treated him like their second son. Now Bud spoke up.

"Listen, Tom, you’re needed to help your Dad. I know all about that new miniplane Swift Construction’s come up with. Let me put it through its paces," he urged. "I’ve been ground-bound way too long."

"Oh, Bud, no one loves to fly more than you do," observed Mrs. Swift. "I think you must have been born a mile in the air."

Sandy, who was an excellent pilot, asked if she might fly with Bud, saying that she hoped some day to demonstrate the plane herself to prospective customers.

"Sure. Go along," Tom said. Bud gave him a look of gratitude. "You can take the Pigeon up and do a few stunts. Bud’ll bring her down."

Twenty minutes later Bud and Sandy were within the gates of the old Swift Construction Company. Founded by Barton Swift and his famous son, the large facility was now a testing and development center for Swift consumer products, including aircraft. Jake Aturian, a trusted friend of Mr. Swift, was in charge.

Mechanics rolled out the tiny propeller-driven two-seater, which had stubby wings that curved upward over the top of the fuselage and joined together, forming a flattened hoop. Adapting some unconventional design principles, the Pigeon Special line boasted the ability to take off and land safely in remarkably short and narrow spaces. Ordinary runways would not be required.

Sandy took it up in a long, graceful arc. "You’re doing real well, San," Bud complimented her, after she had skillfully executed a series of S-turns without air-skidding . "Try some simple stunts. But you’d better get more altitude first," he warned her. "Never do acrobatics with a ship too close to the ground!"

Sandy immediately eased back on the stick, and the small plane quickly rose another thousand feet.

"Here goes a loop." Then, mimicking her brother’s voice, she said, "You fly straight and level as you start, then dive a little to pick up speed, and give it some left rudder. As you climb into the loop you add throttle, and at the top of the loop you ease the throttle back."

Bud grinned as the Pigeon whipped up and over in a creditable loop.

"Now you’re ready to try a barrel roll," he said, half teasing.

Sandy puckered her lip, then said, "Budworth, a barrel roll is just a simple turn. Except that you keep the ship turning until it’s upside down and back again. And since I’ll talk myself out of it if I think about it one more second, here goes!"

"Wait a minute!" Bud ordered. "Pull the stick back until the nose is just above the horizon. Then use—"

But Sandy had pulled the stick back too far, and the Pigeon began to lose flying speedxrapidly. As she moved the stick to the right, the plane vibrated, then stalled, and plunged earthward in a buffeting spin. Sandy caught her breath.

"I have it," Bud said quietly. He kicked in the right rudder, snapped the stick forward, and came out of the spin in a long dive with five hundred feet to spare. Then he used the speed of his dive to regain most of the altitude lost.

Sandy let out a sigh of relief. "I think I’ve rolled enough barrels for one day," she said.

"No, girl, that’s not how it works," Bud told her with a smile that looked unrelenting. "Try it again right now, or you’ll be spooked for life. Just don’t pull the nose up so far that you lose all of your flying speed. Now go ahead."

This time the roll was perfectly timed, and Sandy’s confidence was restored.

"I’ll take over now," her friend said. "She performs beautifully, doesn’t she? I wonder just how small a spot I can set the Pigeon down in!"

Using the standard approach pattern to the field, Bud eased in over the countryside. Gently the plane nosed down, until it was only six hundred feet above a small wooded area on one side of the field. It was able to move through the air so slowly and lightly that it almost seemed to be floating on the breeze, like thistledown.

Suddenly there was a terrific impact against the bottom of the fuselage. Something ripped through the floor, whizzed upward between them, and passed through the roof of the cockpit. The Pigeon gave a tremendous lurch.

"Someone’s firing at us!" Bud shouted.

CRITICAL TEST

"WE’LL have to crash land, Sandy! Hang on!"

Only the fact that Bud Barclay was an experienced pilot prevented a bad crack-up. As it was, he leveled off just in time to pancake to the runway without disaster.

There was a sickening screech as the damaged undercarriage was ripped away, but the ill-fated plane skidded to a stop. Bud and Sandy sat in stunned silence a couple of seconds. Then he said:

"Are you all right, Sandy?"

"I think so. A few aches and pains. But don’t worry, Buddo—I won’t sue you for pilot malpractice." Bud was relieved that Sandy could joke despite the fear in her voice. "How about you?"

"I’m okay."

With shaking fingers Sandy unfastened her safety belt and slipped out of the seat. Bud helped her from the plane, which was listing over on its left wing, and they surveyed the damage.

"It could have been a lot worse," he said thankfully. "If that wasn’t a deliberate attempt to kill us, I’m a bald eagle!"

"But why?" Sandy asked quaveringly. "By the same man who broke in to Enterprises?"

Bud shrugged. "At least by someone who doesn’t want Tom to go to South America. Remember, it was Tom who was supposed to take the Special up today!"

Two hours later, after Sandy had been taken back to the Swift residence, Tom finished a cursory examination of the Pigeon Special. The crumpled craft had been moved to a hangar at Swift Enterprises by flatbed truck.

"This is going to be hard to believe, Bud," said Tom, "but I think something along the lines of an antiaircraft bazooka shot a micro-rocket at the plane."

"What!" Bud exclaimed, staring wide-eyed at the holes in the floor and ceiling of the cabin. "If that thing had exploded—" xxxxxxxxxxx "The rocket launcher must have been in the woods," Tom declared. "Maybe a mobile, truck-mounted job."

Bud snorted. "By my arithmetic, that’s two attacks on you and Enterprises by those rebels. And two too many!"

"It sure looks that way." Tom clenched his fists. "But when he shoots at Sandy—"

"Whatever you do to him, count me in on it," Bud growled. "Say, how do you figure they found out that you were going to test the Pigeon this morning?"

"I wish I knew," Tom said solemnly. "There must be a nest of spies around here."

"Well, for Pete’s sake, watch your step!" Bud urged.

On the way to the administration building the boys talked of nothing else but the attack. And when Tom told his father about it, Mr. Swift looked grave.

"This is really cause for alarm," he said. "Until we get to the bottom of it, you must be extra cautious, Tom. Better report this incident to the police at once."

"I’ll do that, Dad," Tom replied. "And I’ll send a message to Mr. Rigoledo too, via the American embassy in Cristobal. All this may mean that the Verano rebels are getting restless!"

During the last several days, Mr. Swift had been working with Tom on the super-Geiger counter. He now announced his satisfaction with the result of a novel approach he had been trying.

"Tomorrow we’ll take the model up in a plane and try it on some buried uranium," he said.

The following morning, after Tom had finished an inspection of the altimeters on the Flying Lab, he drove by electric cart to a spot far removed from the Swift Enterprises buildings. Here his father was directing some digging. Two workmen, operating a power boring drill, were sinking a hole deep in the ground.

"We’re about ready to bury the uranium," Mr. Swift explained to Tom. "I think the hole’s deep enough. They’re down twenty feet now."

He walked over to where a heavy lead cylinder lay. The cylinder contained two curies of a naturally-occurring radioactive uranium isotope.

"All right, men, go ahead and lower the cylinder into the hole."

"Don’t you want us to uncork her first, Mr. Swift?" asked the team lead.

"Absolutely not!" Damon Swift commanded. "The container is self-opening and will eject the material only upon receiving my coded signal. I don’t want any of you within fifty yards of this ‘hot’ uranium even after you’ve got it covered with dirt."

When this was accomplished he turned to Tom. "We’re ready, son."

"Okay. I’ll head upstairs in the Skeeter," the young inventor responded. "Keep your fingers crossed!" He drove off toward the Skeeter’s hangar, where the newly-redesigned detector had already been loaded aboard and secured.

"She’s ready to go," the mechanic on duty told him. "Just tuned her up. The engines sound smooth an’ fine."

"That’s great, Vern," said Tom, noting the name on the mechanic’s overalls. "Just as long as nobody shoots bazookas at her!"

"Yeah," the mechanic replied, scratching his head. "I heard about that!"

In a matter of seconds the unique helicraft was airborne under the power of its pulse-jet rotors. Switching to horizontal flight mode, Tom climbed steeply and leveled off at two thousand feet.

"Let’s try the counter at this low altitude xxxxxxxxxxxfirst," came Mr. Swift’s voice over Tom’s TeleVoc. "I’ve verified that the cylinder has ejected the uranium from the shielding."

Winging over the Swift Enterprises grounds, Tom eased the throttle. Presently the monotonous background hiss in Tom’s headset was replaced by the high-pitched mix of tones that signified success.

"We’ve got a winner, Dad," Tom TeleVoc’d.

"Well, at least it works!" Mr. Swift chuckled.

"Let’s try it at five thousand feet," Tom suggested as he put the Skeeter into a steep climb.

At five thousand feet he leveled off once more, starting another run over the buried uranium. This time the detector tones came much less steadily and very weakly.

"But it’s there!" murmured Tom as he tried to adjust the counter so that it would produce a more sensitive response. "But will it work at, say, ten thousand, where we’d normally be cruising?" He set his jaw. We may as well find out now, he thought.

He pulled the ship into another upward surge. When the altimeter read ten thousand feet, Tom leveled off and made another pass, but the device registered no sound other than the xxxxxxxxxxxnormal background hiss. Tom’s face showed his keen disappointment. Even the improved super-Geiger counter lacked the power for long-range detection.

"Our invention probably wouldn’t detect radioactive particles from deep-buried ore," he said to himself. "There must be some way to perfect the detector, though. Maybe an entirely new approach to the problem." His mind was already hard at work!

As Tom set the heliplane down in a feather-touch landing, he exclaimed to himself, "That’s it—a new approach. We must throw out present-day methods."

Bounding from the cockpit, Tom dashed toward his father. "I have an idea! A completely new scheme!"

Tom’s enthusiasm was infectious. By the end of the day, the office shared by Tom and his father was littered with drawings, plans, and calculations.

"It looks entirely plausible," commented Mr. Swift, looking over Tom’s latest sketch. "We’ll have Arv Hanson’s crew put together a mockup for testing." Arvid Hanson was chief of Enterprises’ technical assembly department. His team of technicians were known for their ability to translate hasty blueprints and sketchwork into working test versions in a span of hours.

That evening, as the Swift family finished their supper, Tom and his father remained at the table discussing the events of the day. Eventually their conversation drifted around to the subject of the space symbol translation.

"I must admit, I’ve come to something of a dead end," said Mr. Swift. "Every segment seems to affect every other segment, and I no sooner feel I’ve solved one part than I find it doesn’t fit in with the rest."

"It’s the same way with me," Tom agreed, pulling his small working notebook from his pocket. "The first group of symbols—if it is the first and not the end—might be saying ‘we need data we can measure,’ or something more like ‘truth results from pure axioms’."

Mr. Swift nodded ruefully. "Yes, and I came up with ‘all attainment reduces to mathematical function expressed through time’."

Tom grinned. "All of which sound more like fortune-cookie sayings than greetings from another planet."

Sandy had been lingering in the doorway, listening to the conversation. Now she stepped forward hesitantly.

"Dad… Tom…" she began. And then shexpaused.

"What’s up, sis?" Tom asked.

"It’s just—I had an idea about those attacks," said Sandy. "And please don’t make fun of me, because I’m just observing that old Swift adage about following imagination after logic gives up. But I suppose you’ll think I’ve watched too many TV reruns."

"Give us a try," said Tom reassuringly. "It’s not as if we’ve made much progress on our own."

"Well," his sister continued, "you’re all assuming the attacks have to do with what’s going on in South America. But really, that’s not the only possibility. I mean, couldn’t they have to do with that space missile?"

Mr. Swift raised an eyebrow. "Are you suggesting our adversaries might be trying to find out about the missile, or even to steal it?"

Sandy shook her head vigorously.

"No, Dad. What I’m suggesting is—maybe it’s the space people themselves who are behind the attacks!"

SKY-TRACK RACERS

TOM AND MR. SWIFT were left speechless by Sandy’s statement. The idea that the acts against them were being directed by beings on another world would have never occurred to them, despite the presence of an alien artifact in one of their own laboratories.

"But sis," protested Tom weakly, "you’re forgetting that the first incident occurred the night before the missile came down."

"I know that," she agreed. "But what if there’s a group of space people already on Earth? Maybe they look just like human beings, or maybe they have a way to make themselves look like us. Maybe the missile was an attempt by good aliens to warn us about the bad ones! So, see, the bad ones found out about it in xxxxxxxxxxxadvance and started trying to penetrate our defenses."

"Or maybe the missile was carrying something for the ‘bad guys,’ something they need—but it came down in the wrong place," Tom mused, glancing at his father. "They’ve been trying to get inside Enterprises in order to be in place to take possession of it."

"I suppose it’s possible," Mr. Swift commented. "We can’t quite rule it out."

Sandy’s face fell. "But it’s not worth thinking about."

"Well, Sandy," said Tom with a joshing smile, "you had a run-in with Mr. Slicktop. You don’t really think invaders from Mars would show up with bad haircuts, do you?"

Sandra Swift glared at her big brother. Then her expression turned sweet. "I’m sure I wouldn’t know anything about bad haircuts, Tom dear." She turned and swept from the dining room, leaving Tom to contemplate how long it had been since he had seen a barber.

Arriving at Enterprises early the next morning, Tom was pleased to review a number of reports from the various work teams in-dicating that preparations for the departure of the Flying Lab were progressing ahead of xxxxxxxxxxxschedule. All the workforce was dedicated to helping the Swifts startle the world once more with their amazing inventions. Noting that Arv Hanson had not yet computer-messaged that the mock-up of the new detector was finished, Tom considered which tasks were next in line.

I’ll bet Bud is here already, Tom thought, and went off to look for the young pilot. Finding his friend breakfasting in the plant’s cafeteria, Tom said:

"I’m thinking I might like to give the Kangaroo Kub and the Skeeter another good workout before they’re put aboard the Flying Lab. I don’t s’pose you’d be interested in a little race, would you, Mr. Barclay?"

A wide grin was Bud’s response. "You just might be able to persuade me, Professor Swift!"

"It was on that supposition that I took the liberty of clearing the skytrack for us," said Tom, giving his pal a thump on the back. Clearing the skytrack was Enterprises slang for filing the necessary flight path information with the federal authorities, who were very supportive of the Swift experimental programs. Continued Tom: "You take the copter and I’ll fly the plane. I’ll give you a ten-minute head start."

"You’re on, jet jockey!" Bud agreed, swallowing the last of a sky-high orange juice.

Side by side the boys warmed up the two flying "babies." The Skeeter, Bud’s vehicle, really did resemble a strange sort of bug-eyed mosquito, with its bulging double-domed cockpit and winglike rotor overhead. The craft’s rotor blades bore little resemblance to those of a conventional helicopter. Broad near the hub, the blade tips were elongated toward the direction of rotation, having a scythe-like form. Slots in the edges functioned as thrust-vents for the pulsing minijets that would whirl the rotor when the Skeeter was functioning as a helicopter. When functioning as a jet plane, the hub of the blades would be tilted back a few degrees off the vertical and the rotor, unpowered, would be allowed to turn freely in the onrush of air. This would provide the wingless vehicle with a steady lift, in the manner of an autogyro.

The Kangaroo Kub—so named because it would be riding in the Sky Queen’s "pouch"—was a true jetcraft and lacked the ability to hover in midair. But it made up in sheer speed and maneuverability for what it lacked as a "hummingbird." The Kub had the sleek V-swept wings seen on most jet-powered aircraft, but Tom could also see, in his mind’s eye, a feature that made the tiny jet unique: a second pair of straight-angled winglets that folded out from the fuselage for smooth flying at much slower speeds, close to the lazy pace of prop-driven planes. In a way the Kangaroo Kub was a true jet biplane.

Tom explained the course to Bud via the TeleVoc system. "We’ll make a ten-mile run to the yacht club, wing over, fly back above the construction company field, and circle back above the high school."

"And finish up with a precision landing between those two big poplar trees at the edge of the woods," Bud shouted back, his voice alive with excitement. "Let’s see who comes closer to this line." He pointed to a tar strip in the runway. "My money’s on Budworth Newton Barclay!"

"So you think you can beat me in that windmill?" Tom gibed.

"Windmill!" Bud chortled. "Don’t be makin’ fun of your baby, Father Swift!"

Without another word, Bud revved up the special thrust engines of the "jetrocopter," as Tom’s jet heliplane was officially called. Having decided to lift off like an autogyro rather than a chopper, Bud left the ground a few moments afterward with surprising speed—as if in a single bound!

"Nice takeoff, but I’ll be back at the field solving differential equations before you’re halfway around the course," Tom TeleVoc’d his good pal. Ten minutes later Tom’s jet took off with a whoosh.

Though Bud had zipped along the course in good time, the Skeeter was not specifically designed for speed, and for all his bravado he expected Tom to overtook him in the Kub in a matter of minutes. Bud was surprised when he touched down in the Skeeter back at Enterprises with Tom’s jet nowhere in sight. As the seconds passed, he found himself working hard to avoid a disturbing thought—had Tom fallen victim to his mysterious enemies?

But even as he acknowledged his fears, he breathed a sigh of relief. The Kub was roaring in for a landing. As it rumbled to a stop and Tom opened the hatch, Bud walked over to the Kangaroo Kub, raised his eyebrows, and gave his friend an arrogant look.

"Well, fly boy, want to sell your jet cheap and buy a windmill?" he asked.

Grinning ruefully, Tom explained that he had been forced to compensate for a jammed rudder. Concerned, Bud helped him examine the plane. They quickly found that a loose sensor chip had caused the appearance of a jam.

"Thank goodness it’s just a brain problem, not a muscle problem," Tom joked, clicking the tiny unit back into position.

"Now I’ll give you another chance," Bud proposed. "After all, that wasn’t much of a speed test."

Once again the two craft started on the course. This time Tom flipped the Kangaroo Kub sharply around the turns. Shooting far out in front on the first leg, he lost sight of Bud on the second, and whipped quickly in from the third and last stretch.

When Bud finally brought the Skeeter back to earth, Tom was waiting for him with a look of exaggerated triumph on his face.

"Been away?" he asked, showing Bud a series of equations and formulas he had been making on a pad. "I’ve had a lot of time to work on these space symbols. And solve the problem of perpetual motion."

Bud gave him a shove. "Listen, I’ll admit I can’t beat your plane for pure speed, but I’ll take this little number any time." He patted the jetrocopter’s fuselage. "Tom, this ship’s a dream! She handles like a baby carriage. I can set her down on a dime and give you nine cents change!" Tom grinned. Bud was so enthralled he was repeating his superlatives!

After checking over both aircraft, Tom was well pleased with their performance. "I guess that about winds up our work on them," he remarked. "All we have to do now is berth them inside the Flying Lab."

Parting from Bud, who had a morning aerial delivery assignment that would take him to Trenton and back, Tom returned to his office in the main building. He hoped to find a message from Arv Hanson saying that the new detector was ready for a trial. But there was still no message on Tom’s computer.

"Poor Arv!" Tom said to himself. "Guess I really handed him a hard nut to crack." But no sooner had Tom thought these words than he heard the delicate chime-tone of the TeleVoc, as if in his ear. Tom responded and heard the familiar voice of Arv Hanson, which still bore traces of his Scandinavian ancestry.

"This is Hanson over in H-3, Tom," he said. "We ran into some snags with your new device."

"I figured that must be it," replied Tom. "What kind of snags?"

"I’ll let Linda tell you. She’s been working with it for hours now."

There was a pause, and Tom could visualize Hanson signaling Linda Ming, one of the plant’s best technicians, to activate her TeleVoc. "This is Linda, Tom. I’m sorry we couldn’t finish everything for you overnight, but there seems to be a problem that didn’t occur to anyone until we ran the final tests."

"A big one?"

"I’ve come up with a solution, but you’ll want to look it over in some detail, I think. It may involve slightly altering the oxygen compressor ducts in the plane."

"Oh really?" Tom felt completely baffled. "I don’t see how there could be any interaction at all between them."

"Pretty surprising, isn’t it? I’ll show you what I’ve come up with."

"I’ll be right there," Tom replied.

Tom hurried over to the multistory technical labs facility, Building H. He took the main elevator to the third floor, going over the problem in his mind. Stepping into the third floor hallway, he noticed, in an absent-minded way, that the doors of the large service elevator, at the opposite end of the hall, were open.

Guess someone’s moving a piece of equipment, he thought.

He strode to Lab 3 at the middle of the hallway, gave a couple raps on the door, and turned the handle. Stepping inside, he let the door slam shut behind him and stopped short in surprise. The large windowless room was dimly lit by only a single counter-top lamp, rather than by the bright overhead lights. And no one else seemed to be present!

"Arv?" Tom called out. "Linda?"

He whirled at a slight noise behind him—a man’s throaty chuckle.

Pressed tight against the wall next to the door stood a shadowy, menacing figure. In his hand he held a small silver pistol of elegant design. The gun was aimed directly at Tom’s chest!

THINGS GET SERIOUS

"YOU DON’T NEED that," said Tom carefully. "There doesn’t need to be violence. Tell me what you want here."

The man shook his head sharply, as if in warning. In the dim light Tom could see that he was wearing thick wraparound welder’s goggles to disguise his eyes, with a bandana covering the lower half of his face. He was dressed in what looked like a nondescript Swift Enterprises coverall outfit.

"But I promise you this," the young inventor continued, "if you’ve harmed any of my employees or my friends in any—"

"Shut up!" hissed the man. "You’ve got yourself into some things that don’t concern you, Mr. Swift."

"What things?"

The man refused to answer, but approached closer to the young inventor. He motioned with his pistol. "Now we’re going to do this very quietly. According to the blueprints spread out on this workbench, your new device is complete and ready for testing. I want you to give me a little course—the three-minute version—on how to calibrate and operate it."

"And then?"

"And then I suppose it depends on my mood at the time, don’t you think, Mr. Swift?"

Tom stifled the protest forming in his throat, sensing it would be useless. "All right. But remember, I don’t yet have the feel of the machine. I’ve only seen it on paper."

"Oh, that’s all right," whispered the man in an almost convivial tone. "We can’t expect you to do better than your best, now can we? Just show me—"

The intruder never finished his sentence. Beyond the door, which had latched automatically behind Tom, came a loud voice from the hallway.

"Hey there, buckaroos, someb’dy get the door fer me, would you? Got a full tray o’ my new Rio Grande crullers fit t’be tried." It was Chow! After a moment the Texan tapped on the door with the toe of his boot. "Aw, now lissen, Hanson, I know them chocolate flapjacks t’other day weren’t to everyone’s taste, but this here’s a real delight. So let me in, dang yer buttons!"

The door lever jiggled. Even in the dim light, Tom could see it start to turn. The intruder backed away, momentarily pointing his pistol at the door. In that moment Tom sprang like a panther!

He charged the gunman full force, slamming both of them to the floor just as Chow burst through the doorway—only to stumble over Tom. Chow’s tray went in one direction and Chow himself in the other, landing like a beached whale next to Tom’s ear.

"Boss," Chow panted, "what in all-gol-tarnation are you doin’ down there?"

But Tom Swift was already struggling to his feet. The intruder had just slipped out the door behind Chow, and Tom could hear his frantically sprinting footfalls upon the hallway tiles. There was still time to capture him!

Throwing back the door to the lab, Tom catapulted into the hallway. But which way had the man run? No one was in sight, and there were elevators at either end of the hall.

A ding! from Tom’s right decided the issue. "He’s taking the service elevator!" Tom thought, hurling himself down the hall toward the elevator’s twin doors, which were already halfway closed. He reached the doors in seconds and clawed at their edges, trying to keep them open, but they slipped from his grasp and the elevator clanked shut.

"And I can’t beat him down to the ground," he told himself in angry frustration. The open stairwell was at the opposite end of the hallway next to the main elevator; and because the service elevator opened to the outside at ground level, Tom would have to exit and race halfway around the building to catch his quarry.

Chest thudding, he activated his TeleVoc. "Harlan Ames," came the response.

"This is Tom. We’ve had a break-in at Building H!"

"What happened?"

"Never mind for now. Can you monitor the ground-level exit of the service elevator with the security minicams?"

"Sure can." After the briefest pause, Ames continued: "Got it on my monitor now. I’ll zoom in."

Tom began to breath more easily. "At least we’ll be able to track him as he starts across the plant."

"Right," said Ames, "and I’ve just signaled half a dozen of my guys to seal off that side of the building. Tom, are you all right? Was this guy armed?"

"With a small pistol," Tom replied. "The indicator on the elevator shows he’s stopped at the bottom. Has he come out yet?"

"Negative," was Harlan Ames’s terse reply.

"Weird," muttered Tom. "What’s he doing in there?" Then an alarming new thought struck the young inventor. "Harlan—he may have stashed some weapons in the elevator! Tell your men—"

"They know their jobs, Tom," said Ames simply. "They’re in position now. Could your gunman have gotten off on the second floor? Or between floors?"

"Not a chance. I’ve been watching the indicator." Tom paused, thinking. "This doesn’t make sense, Harlan," he mused. "What’s he trying to do, lure us into coming and—"

Then Tom winced. There was another possibility! "What a chug I’ve been!" Tom cried, turning and launching himself toward the other, distant end of the hallway.

"Tom?"

But Tom didn’t pause to answer, flinging himself at the stairwell and taking it three steps at a time, fairly leaping over the second floor landing. From the first floor landing he threw himself through a pair of swinging doors that led into the employee lounge.

The lounge served several buildings and was quite large. It was already abuzz with employees—mostly technicians and runway workers—coming on for the late morning shift. Dozens of eyes turned curiously in Tom’s direction as he burst through the doors.

"Listen up, everybody!" he shouted. The room fell silent. "I’m looking for a man, maybe five-eleven, in hangar coveralls or something similar—he would have come through these doors behind me within the last five minutes. I think his hair would have been kind of messed-up. It might be someone you know—or maybe not. Did any of you see anything?"

There was a mutter of low voices and a shaking of heads.

"A whole team came down from the second floor just a few minutes ago, Tom," said one young engineer in a white shirt. "But it’s their break time, and they always take the stairs."

"I didn’t notice anyone acting funny," said a middle-aged woman, whom Tom recognized from the accounting office. "Something going on?"

"No," answered Tom. "Nothing." But he shook his head disgustedly.

"Tom!" came the loud voice of Harlan Ames as he came running up with two of his security staffers. "Did you see him?"

Tom shook his head again. Ames continued: "We just used the tele-tec on the elevator. It’s empty, which I gather you already figured out." The tele-tec was the latest version of the television detector invented long years before by Tom’s namesake. It was a camera that could take x-ray-like images from a distance through solid obstructions, such as the walls of buildings.

"He really played me, Harlan," Tom said. "He must’ve set the service elevator door on override, so it would stay open, and then plugged some micro-gadget into the circuit that would respond to his remote signal. He runs down the hallway to the end next to the main elevator, pressing the button on his remote control. Then he steps around the stairwell corner, out of sight, just as I come out into the hall and hear the bell of the service elevator ring."

"Leading you off in exactly the wrong direction," said Ames. "And so, he can take a leisurely stroll down the stairs. I take it he was wearing something to disguise his face? Without your telling me what it was, I’ll guess it was easy to take off, and easy to stow somewhere in his clothes, or in something like a briefcase."

"And then he mingles with the employees, and leaves when he feels like it," concluded Tom. Then his eyes widened. "Good night! We’ve got to check on Arv and Linda up in the lab!"

"No we don’t," said Ames, with a wan smile. "My men just voc’d me that the whole lab team is fine. Apparently the gunman locked them in the shielded test chamber, the one with reinforced walls. It’s no wonder you couldn’t hear a peep from them. Oh, and Chow’s fine too—except, something about his snacks being ruined."

For the next hour, Tom and Ames questioned the laboratory workers and sought after fingerprints or other clues to the identity of the intruder, to no avail. It developed that neither Arvid Hanson nor Linda Ming had made the call that brought Tom to the laboratory. "But the first thing the guy did was pluck the TeleVocs off our collars," said Hanson. "If he used those units to talk through, their circuits would have allowed him to imitate our voices almost perfectly."

"Which shows that he knows a lot about the inner workings of Enterprises," commented Tom. Later in the day, the two tiny units were traced by electronics to a dumpster near Building H.

"Things are getting mighty serious, Tom," commented Harlan Ames. "It’s pretty clear the Verano rebels have the resources to get around our standard security measures, high-tech or not."

"And to think the guy works here among us!" added Tom.

"It’s likely he’s a relatively new hire. I can pull the records on those and do some additional checking." Ames paused. "I hate to admit it, but I don’t know what else to do at this point."

After Ames and his men had left, Tom went back up to the laboratory with Arv Hanson to run the first formal tests on his new invention, the long-range radioactivity detector.

"It looks promising, Tom," remarked Linda Ming, who had set up the equipment. "Of course Ole and I couldn’t resist a few preliminary tests—just out of curiosity."

"It was all the Dragon Lady’s idea," said Hanson. "Still, it allowed us to tune things up a bit. By the way, what do we call this brainstorm of yours? Is it still a ‘super-Geiger counter’?"

"No," Tom replied. "Mr. Geiger has been honored enough, and my machine works in an entirely new way. I’m calling it the Damonscope."

"After your Dad?"

"Nope. After a family friend from way, way back."

Wakefield Damon had been a colorful eccentric living in the town of Waterfield, near Shopton, when the first Tom Swift had been a youth. When his newly purchased motorcycle had tried to "climb a tree," as he put it, Mr. Damon had presented it to Tom, and young Tom’s improvements to its motor constituted his first invention. Tom Swift had shared many adventures with his much older friend during the first part of the twentieth century, and he was remembered and honored even now.

The Damonscope mock-up resembled an enlarged version of the old-fashioned box cameras from days past. It was basically a square black chassis with a tubular lens assembly protruding from the front. Cables from the box led to an instrument readout panel.

"The target is in place in that anti-rad bottle over there," said Linda, pointing to the opposite end of the lab. "Shall I expose it?"

"Go ahead," Tom replied, switching on the Damonscope.

Linda pressed a button on her remote control, and a band encircling the container slowly rotated until an opening came into view. Adjusting the various dials on the instrument panel, Tom concentrated his attention on a small round monitor, which resembled a radarscope screen. In the middle of the monitor was a shadowy black-and-white image of the anti-rad bottle and the rack supporting it. As Tom continued making adjustments, the area surrounding the bottle’s aperture began to show a green halo on the screen.

"There it is!" cried Tom, delighted. "The Damonscope is actually mapping the pattern of radiation onto the viewscreen."

After testing a variety of settings, Tom called his father on the TeleVoc.

"That’s wonderful news, son," said Mr. Swift, "especially coming on the heels of the incident this morning. And I have some news for you, too."

"What is it, Dad?"

"It’s a bit disturbing. The Canadian authorities informed the FBI that a small plane was stolen from a farm up in Newfoundland earlier this morning. The owner caught a glimpse of the thief, and it matches the man who stole the helicopter!"

Tom’s voice grew solemn as thoughts of his new invention momentarily vanished from his mind. "Have they been able to track it?"

"From the few sightings received, it’s heading south by southwest, which puts it on a fairly good course towards Shopton. But Tom, this man must be quite a flier—he’s taking the plane dangerously low, presumably to elude radar."

"It figures," observed the young inventor. "Dad, some of our Enterprises planes are outfitted with that new phase-diffraction radar of yours, which is just the thing for catching a ground-hugger. I want to go up and see what I can see!"

"I won’t try to stop you," said Damon Swift. "But take another experienced pilot with you. Is Bud back yet?"

"No," was Tom’s response. "I’ll take Hank Sterling." Hank Sterling was a young engineer who had become fast friends with Tom and Bud.

"That’s a good choice," Mr. Swift com-mented, much relieved. "You may need help."

A few minutes later Tom was piloting one of Swift Enterprises’ two-seater propeller-driven planes down the runway.

"I’ll swing her in a big circle, concentrating north and east. Keep a sharp eye on the sky, Hank," Tom directed the blond, square-jawed young engineer. "We’re looking for a Renshaw, kind of an older model."

"I used to fly one," said Sterling. "I’ll recognize it."

They flew for several minutes at full throttle. Then Tom broke the tense silence, gesturing at the radar screen. "Picking up something, very low. Let’s take a look." He banked the plane, heading onto an intercept course. Scanning the horizon ahead of them, Hank said suddenly:

"I see something far ahead."

Tom’s alert eyes shifted from his instrument panel to the sky in front of him as the Swift plane drew closer. It was definitely a Renshaw dead ahead, and they were rapidly gaining on it.

Hank whistled. "Man, that guy’s really clip-ping the trees. I wouldn’t think it possible to fly so low!"

"Just shows he really is a low-down snake," joked Tom.

"Hey, he’s swinging around!" exclaimed Hank.

"He’s probably going to land," Tom murmured, down-throttling, "but I don’t see any airstrip."

A minute later the Renshaw dipped behind a stand of tall pine and was lost to view. Minutes later Tom whirled over the trees just in time to glimpse the plane taxiing into a large shed at the end of a meadow. Behind the shed stood an old farmhouse.

"A private airfield!" Tom exclaimed. "I didn’t know there was one around here."

Circling over the long meadow, which served as a runway, Tom banked to land. Making a short, sharp approach, he put his flaps and wheels down, throttled back, and glided in to a smooth landing.

"There’s no way of concealing ourselves," he told his companion, "so be prepared for anything."

When the plane had been braked to a stop, Hank jumped out, but Tom delayed a moment to radio their discovery to his father. As they were now too distant to use their TeleVoc devices, Tom utilized the plane’s inbuilt radio set.

"I’ll contact the local authorities," said Mr. Swift. "You and Hank get out of there! You’ve done what you came to do."

"Say again, Dad? You’re breaking up…" He switched off the radio unit. "Now Dad and the folks at home know where we are, Hank," Tom said.

"And so your greasy-haired pal and his buddies would be terribly foolish to mess around with us, wouldn’t they?" Hank was grinning.

Tom grinned back. "Terribly. So it might just be a perfect time to pay a call on our country neighbors."

"Absolutely," declared Hank, unbuckling his safety harness. "After all, we’re all fellow fliers!"

There was no one in sight as Tom and Hank strode determinedly toward the barnlike shed into which the fugitive’s plane had been rolled and the door closed. Reaching it, Hank tried to swing the big door up and open.

"Locked," he said.

Tom pounded on the panel. "Open up in there!" he commanded. "We know you’re in-side!"

"Ah, the brilliant young Swift!" said a cool, calculating voice from around the corner of the shed, as four heavily armed men surroundedxthem from behind. "It seems we are not inside after all. What a new experience it must be—to be wrong!"

THE MYSTERIOUS FIREFIGHT

TOM WAS NOT surprised to see that the man who spoke matched the description of the slick-haired man who had stolen his jetrocopter and frightened Sandy.

"And so we meet at last, eh?" sneered the man.

"Please!" retorted Tom. "We don’t even say that on television anymore!"

"We are on television?" asked one of the others nervously. His voice was heavily ac-cented.

"Sure," said Hank smoothly. "It’s one of those reality shows. Your mother is watching."

The sneering man nodded, as if in approval. "Yes, bravado in the face of death. That is a xxxxxxxxxxx good thing, I think. They say, you can live any day, but you die once only."

He made a gesture, and the four other men, clearly his subordinates, approached Tom and Hank. "Por favor, do not resist us," said one of the men. But there was no chance for resistance. The men produced strong-looking cords, intending to tightly bind their captives’ hands behind them.

Suddenly Tom was struck by the realization that he and Hank were still wearing their TeleVoc pins, which would allow their adversaries to perfectly mimic their voices and impersonate them!

His hands raised, Tom said "Sterling!" sharply, as if warning his companion not to resist. Then Tom added, "There’s no need to pin us down, guys. You can lose the pins anytime." He hoped the Spanish-speaking group would assume lose the pins was American slang.

Hank appeared to have understood. He shrugged his shoulders, arms upraised, and Tom saw him nudge the shoulder bearing the communicator pin with his jaw.

"Turn around," ordered the man assigned to Tom. "Put your hands behind you." The young inventor knew that his hands were about to be tied.

"Not too tight, please, Señor." As Tom half-turned, lowering his hands, he managed to hook his TeleVoc with his thumbnail and flick it off. A slight sound told him the tiny device had fallen to the dirt below. Guessing its position, he managed to step on it as if losing his balance while turning. The man tying him said nothing, quickly binding his wrists with a number of sturdy loops.

The leader now resumed his train of thought. "But perhaps you will not die after all," the man continued. "For you are rational men, and my compadres and I are rational as well."

"Don’t try to make funny business," one of the armed men cautioned.

"Don’t worry, Miguel, they have no chance," another answered. "We have them tied up like chickens on market day, eh?" The men all laughed at this.

"We’ll deliver these hombres to the capitan," said the man called Miguel. "He will be pleased to see them, no?"

"He will be most pleased," agreed the slick-haired leader.

"Where are you taking us?" Tom asked defiantly. The answer was a shove from behind, bringing more laughter. Tom and Hank were xxxxxxxxxxxprodded along a path to the farmhouse. They were led through a short hall which opened into a large, well-furnished room. A heavyset man with European features reclined in a chair, smoking.

"Our visitors come to meet you," said the man in charge of the patrol, holstering his revolver.

The heavyset man regarded the captives nervously, puffing smoke into the air. "Thank you, Canova." Well, thought Tom with grim humor, at last I know the name of Mr. Oily-Hair!

"I take it you are the capitan," commented Hank.

The man dashed his cigarette into an ashtray and shook his head. "You do me too much honor," he said. "The capitan awaits you elsewhere—far away, in fact."

"In Verano, I’ll bet," declared Tom.

"Ah!" said the man, noncommittally. "As for me, there is no reason not to tell you my name. It is Leeskol. Dr. Leeskol, in fact."

"Not pleased to make your acquaintance," Tom said. "You’re crazy if you think you can kidnap the two of us and trundle us all the way to South America! Obviously we’ve contacted the authorities before landing our plane."

"Yes—obviously," Leeskol replied. "But you see, there is only one road to this lonely farmhouse of ours, running to the north and the south. To the north, sadly, the old bridge has collapsed, and to the south a tanker truck has just had an unfortunate accident which will block the road for hours. Of course, there are planes and helicopters, but our little airfield is not lighted, you know, and the sun is going down as we speak. There will be several hours, I think, before your ‘authorities’ come to disturb us."

Hank stared steadily at Leeskol, and was rewarded by seeing him twitch. "How did you know Tom and I were out searching for your plane? I gather you made these preparations for our benefit."

"You ask how we know—how do we know anything, Mr. Hank Sterling? We have our ways. When we knew you had spotted Pedro Canova in the Renshaw and seemed preparing to land, it was easy to have our tanker truck driven into position. We would have used it no matter who had discovered us. But I cannot take credit for the bridge. It has been out for two years, I’m told!"

Tom and Hank were herded down a creaky wooden ladder into a musty cellar that seemed as wide as the entire farmhouse. It was lit by a single yellow bulb. There the man called Miguel removed the cords around their wrists. They were ordered to stand at the far end of the room, and after their captors had climbed the ladder again, it was pulled up through the trap door.

"You cannot hope to escape the cellar," Leeskol called down through the trap door. "It is entirely underground on all sides, and the ceiling, of thick wood, is six feet above your heads. But do not be disheartened—you may expect to leave within an hour or two." The door clattered down, and Tom and Hank could hear it being bolted above.

"Well," said Tom in a whisper, "I guess we’ll be meeting the man in charge whether we want to or not."

"As well as free passage to picturesque South America," Hank snorted. "Thanks for signaling me about the TeleVoc pins, by the way."

"I was able to drop mine to the ground."

"That sounds like an improvement on how I got rid of mine."

"Why? What did you do?"

"I swallowed it!"

This forced a muffled laugh from Tom. "Don’t worry, Hank. It won’t hurt you. We’ll just take it out of your salary!"

The two settled down to wait, conversing in whispers. The minutes dragged slowly by.

Suddenly Tom sat bolt upright. "Listen! Something’s happening up there!"

They could hear the floorboards creaking and the muffled sound of excited voices.

"Our limo must have arrived," Hank remarked. "Seriously, how do you think they plan to transport us?"

"I think when Doc Leeskol said ‘just one road,’ he meant ‘just one road on the map’," responded Tom. "I imagine they’ve cleared a backwoods trail hidden beneath the trees, just wide enough for some sort of all-terrain vehicle."

"Bet you’re right. And at the end of the road, a jet to Verano."

"With all the proper—" But Tom was interrupted by a loud sound that made both of them flinch. Gunfire! From overhead came the confused thud of running feet and shouting in Spanish. Then came another volley!

"It’s a firefight!" Hank cried. "Hit the deck!"

They flung themselves to the floor, looking about for protection in case the bullets wouldxpenetrate the wooden floor above them. But there was nothing to shield them; the cellar was unfurnished.

The noises above had developed into a generalized chaos. Tom could envision their captors huddled below the farmhouse windows, automatic rifles blazing away into the early evening gloom. But against whom were they fighting? The police? The FBI?

Then, as if by the flip of a switch, all sounds ceased. Tom and Hank waited tensely, five, ten minutes.

"Maybe the good guys won," said Hank hopefully.

"Then why haven’t they released us? That trap door wasn’t hidden," Tom pointed out.

The silence continued unbroken. Finally Tom said, "I’ve had enough of this. Shall we escape?"

"Hey, I’m all for it. What do you have in mind?"

Tom pointed up at the underside of the trap door. "It seems to me the bolt on that door was just a simple slide-bolt, loosely fitting with no place to hook-in a padlock. By jiggling the door from underneath, we just might be able to work it loose."

Hank nodded. "Great plan. Are you wearing special Swift elevator shoes? The ceiling is quite a bit out of reach."

Tom grinned. "Not if one of us stands on your big broad shoulders, Mr. Sterling!"

Hank hoisted Tom up on his shoulders, where the young inventor precariously rose to his feet. He found that he could maintain his balance by pushing upward against the ceiling, which was now within reach. After a last moment of listening, Tom began pressing on the trap door. To his amazement it swung readily upward with no effort at all!

Springing up from Hank’s shoulders like a jack-in-the-box, Tom was able to grab the edge of the opening and work his way up. All was dark and silent. Finding the ladder resting along the wall nearby, Tom lowered it through the door. In a moment Hank was standing beside him.

"Hank, we heard them bolt that door," observed Tom, puzzled. "Which means someone unbolted it for us during the gun battle."

They went out into the main room, which was strewn with broken glass, overturned furniture, and shredded sofa cushions.

Hank pointed. "Look there, by the window." In the wan moon