TOM SWIFT

"TOM! That runaway planet, or whatever it is, will—will it collide with earth?" White-faced with fear, Bud Barclay stared at his friend, Tom Swift.

For a moment the young inventor continued to peer through a powerful telescope in the silent, high-domed observatory that stood like a sentinel on the outskirts of the Swift Enterprises grounds. "Nobody knows, Bud."

But Bud knew the meaning of every tone in his best pal’s voice. "Please, Tom—tell me."

Finally turning to face Bud, Tom said grimly:

"If it keeps on course and maintains the same speed, I don’t see how it can miss us!"

Both young men glanced out the window at the strange, brilliant object gleaming low in the eastern sky, where the rising sun had just begun to spill over the horizon. First sighted only hours before by astronomers in Asia, the mysterious body had been growing larger with every passing moment. Alerted at the nearby Swift residence, Tom and Bud had scrambled to Enterprises at breakneck speed to observe the strange phenomenon and determine its course.

"Jetz!" Bud cried out. "How big is this thing and—how much longer do we have before it hits us?"

"Dad’s checking the computations on that now," the rangy blond scientist-inventor replied. Turning once more to the telescope eyepiece, he added, "Bud, this must be what our space friends were trying to tell us about in that message yesterday."

It was now a good many months since the Swifts had begun communicating with friendly beings from another planet. The first message had arrived on a missile from outer space, which had plowed into the Enterprises grounds like a meteor. Later, the great installation’s experimental magnifying antenna had intercepted more messages, which appeared on the video-like oscilloscope screen in the form of strange-looking mathematical symbols. Tom and his father had decoded these, and replied with messages of their own beamed into deep space by the same powerful antenna. The most recent contact had been a spectacular one—a space vessel bearing samples of alien vegetation, sent to earth in hopes that the Swifts, whom the space beings had learned to trust, could help them overcome the environmental factors that prevented their paying a visit to our world in person. But the present events threatened far more than spectacle!

"Why didn’t they warn us it would collide?" Bud demanded in a quavering voice. "They just said something about a phenomenon that would be clearly visible from earth."

"The message was incomplete, Bud. Besides, Dad and I weren’t sure of our translation on some of the symbols. We still have no idea what the object is or where it came from! It approached from the direction of the inner solar system, and the glare of the sun prevented our detecting it sooner."

At that moment Damon Swift, Tom’s father, entered the main observatory room. His expression bleak, he handed a sheaf of scribbled notes and computer printouts to his son.

"Our space outpost is finally in position to probe the object with its instruments. It is definitely on a collision course with earth," he summarized for the boys, "and at its present velocity—well, we have perhaps two hours."

"Two hours!" Bud repeated in a hoarse whisper. The dark-haired young pilot had never lacked for courage, but nothing had prepared him for worldwide destruction from outer space!

Tom exchanged meaningful glances with his famous father, whose scientific genius he had inherited. "There’s no possibility of an error?" he asked, fighting his emotions.

"I’m afraid not." Mr. Swift put his hand on Tom’s shoulder, adding, "I must call home and talk to your mother. Perhaps we both should go—"

"Listen!" Bud interrupted. He ran to the lower edge of the curved gap in the dome and looked out. From a distance came the frightened babble of Swift Enterprises workers, the early morning shift, who were milling around the low buildings. Every face was turned toward the bead of light in the heavens.

"The men are panicking," Bud said. "Is there anything we can tell them, Mr. Swift?"

As Tom turned back to the telescope, his father pondered the question. What statement could he possibly make at such a time?

Finally, Mr. Swift said quietly, "We owe it to them to tell them the truth—that unless something happens—"

"Wait, Dad!" Tom exclaimed. "Something has happened!"

As Mr. Swift drew near, Tom pointed to a set of illuminated dials indicating the coordinates of the telescope’s automatic tracking mechanism. "Look—the delta vector has fallen back to zero!"

"What!" Mr. Swift cried out. "Impossible!"

"What does it mean?" Bud asked.

Mr. Swift answered. "The object is not coming any closer!"

"It’s suddenly slowed down tremendously and changed course!" Tom added excitedly. "Dad, I think it’s going into orbit around the earth! Take a look at these figures."

Tom’s father examined the readouts carefully. In a moment he said, "You’re right, son. By some miracle it won’t collide with earth!"

Bud heaved a sigh of relief. "That Little Luna up there sure looked like the third strike!"

The tension released, Tom and his father grinned at Bud’s nickname for the moonlet. After conferring with his father, the young inventor picked up a microphone connected to the plant’s public-address system. "Tom Swift speaking. We have tracked the object in the sky. The danger is over. Everyone, please return to work. There is no present cause for alarm. The moonlet has gone into orbit. Repeat—there is no cause for alarm."

At once, with a scattering of muted cheers, the loyal employees began streaming back to the flat-roofed, modern laboratories and workshop buildings scattered about the four-mile-square enclosure of Swift Enterprises. Cris-crossed with wide airstrips, Enterprises was the experimental station where the Swifts developed the inventions that had brought worldwide fame to the family for generations.

Meanwhile, Tom turned the telescope over to a young astronomer who had just arrived, named Garrett Baines. "We’ll plot the orbit of our phantom satellite, Tom," Baines declared, "and compile as much data on it as possible."

"Thanks, Gar," Tom responded. "The whole world is waiting for the data, you can be sure!"

Tom followed Mr. Swift to the main administration building, in which they shared an office, leaving Bud to speak to some of his friends on the workforce and gauge their reactions to the morning’s crisis. Dropping into a deep leather chair, Tom waited for Mr. Swift to finish a telephone call to their home. Keen blue eyes glittering with intelligence and raw curiosity, Tom was a taller, slimmer edition of his father despite the ragged remnants of a blond crewcut that contrasted with Damon Swift’s graying temples.

"What do you make of it, Dad?" he asked when Mr. Swift put down the phone.

"The important thing right now is what the public will make of it," his father replied in a troubled voice.

"You mean widespread panic?"

"I’m afraid so. Your mother says it’s all over the networks. In the past, people have been scared out of their wits by comets. This is far more alarming!"

"Let’s see what the news flashes have to say." Tom reached out and flicked on the large-screen television monitor that filled half of one wall. Instantly a voice came crackling out of the speaker:

"—has just announced that all Civil Defense units are being alerted for possible action. So far no astronomer can offer any explanation for the strange object in the sky. But keep tuned to this station for any new developments."

Tom twirled the dial to several other stations. Each one was broadcasting similar exciting news bulletins and a few fantastic theories.

"What it all amounts to is that no one has any explanation," Tom commented dryly. "And people have a great urge to talk all the louder the less they know!"

At that moment Bud walked into the office and perched on a corner of Tom’s broad desk. "Come on, genius boy," he said, grinning at Tom, "you must have some idea about that blob of stardust. Give us the inside story. Is it some kind of big meteor?"

Tom smiled. "It might be an asteroid that happened to stray into earth’s orbit. That’s what we thought at first. But Little Luna changed her direction and speed too suddenly to have been a wandering asteroid. I’d say the laws of nature are being interfered with!"

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning the satellite must be artificial— constructed by our space friends for their own purposes."

Bud’s eyes widened. "Man! You think those guys are that far advanced?"

Mr. Swift now spoke up. "We can only judge by what we’re seeing, Bud. If the space scientists didn’t literally create the object out of whole cloth, they surely played a role in maneuvering it into a safe orbit."

The telephone bleeped and the young inventor scooped it up. "Tom speaking."

"Mr. Swift, this is the main switchboard. We’ve been flooded with calls, and a Mr. Perkins from the local newspaper is being very demanding about being put through to you."

"Go ahead," said Tom. "It’s Dan Perkins," he mouthed to Bud and his father.

"This is Dan Perkins of the Shopton Evening Bulletin. Listen, Tom, how about some words on this fireball in the sky, or whatever it is? Are you and your father cooking up some new stunt?"

"Sorry, Dan, we can’t make a statement at this time," was Tom’s cool reply. He and his father were not always satisfied with the tone and accuracy of the reportage in Shopton’s home newspaper.

"Now look, Tom, you can’t brush off an old newspaperman like me that easily!"

"Sorry, but we have nothing to say yet!" Tom’s voice was polite but unyielding.

The inquiry from Dan Perkins seemed to be the signal for a flood of similar calls. Soon the shrill burr of the phone had become all but continuous. Some of the callers sounded terrified, others were spluttering with rage. All of them clamored for an explanation of the strange sky phenomenon and wanted to know what dangers were in store for Earth.

Exasperated, Damon Swift buzzed the office secretary, Munford Trent, on the intercom. "From now on, please shut off all calls!"

Meanwhile, Bud and Tom were tuning in the latest news accounts, which now issued uninterruptedly from the TV. They were all similar: sensational and quietly hysterical. To judge by the reports, panic was spreading across the globe. An excited announcer was saying:

"A bulletin just handed me states that crowds are rioting in Manila, Hong Kong, and other cities in Asia, where the space phantom has been visible for several hours! More trouble is expected as the glowing object becomes visible in other parts of the world. To add to the concern, freak high tides are reported at a number of coastal points. One Canadian town on the Bay of Fundy was almost swept away!"

"We know that’s just coincidence," Tom pronounced. "The object isn’t yet at the right position in its orbit to affect that region. Besides, it’s far too small for its gravity to have a significant effect on the tides."

The intercom buzzer sounded and Tom flipped the switch. "Sorry to disturb you," Trent apologized, "but—"

"Perkins again?"

"How’d you guess? He says it’s urgent."

Tom grinned wryly. "I’m sure he does! All right, put him on."

"I’m not bothering you for a statement," the editor said in a smug voice. "Just a little heads-up. You’d better tune in your TV in exactly one minute, Tom. Odyssey CableView. You and your dad are in for quite a surprise!"

With a sly chuckle, Perkins hung up.

Tom turned to his father and Bud. "Perkins has cooked something up. I’ll get it on the videophone."

A private TV network, used to link the various offices and outposts of Tom Swift Enterprises and its several affiliates, the videophone system could also be set to pick up regular commercial broadcasts over local cable. Tom stepped over to the control box, and in a moment the logo for Odyssey CableView popped on to the lower corner of the screen. A talking head was holding forth with customary vigor. His diatribe finished, he turned, and the screen flashed to a scowling man with bushy white hair. After introducing the man as John Voort, professor of astrophysics at nearby Grandyke University, the commentator asked:

"Can you offer any explanation of the strange glowing object in the sky, Professor?"

"Any scientific theorizing would be premature. It is definitely not a natural phenomenon. In my opinion, there is only one possible explanation."

"What is that?"

"As we all know, Tom Swift and his father are in contact with extraterrestrials of unknown origin, who are willing to communicate only with them. I have reason to believe that the Swifts and these creatures are now engaged in an experiment which could have tragic results!"

"Oh no!" groaned Bud through clenched teeth. "Dan Perkins must have dropped that little hint!"

The commentator asked, "Do you mean it could be dangerous to us here on earth?"

"Certainly it could be dangerous!" declared the professor. "Tremendous forces may be unleashed—these high tides are only a sample! Even worse, a slight miscalculation could lead to a collision between the object and earth, resulting in unprecedented loss of life! You have asked my opinion and I have spoken bluntly."

The commentator now filled the screen again. "And so the voice of science warns us: it’s not a movie this time, folks! How far are the famous inventors willing to go in their—"

Tom switched off the videophone in midsentence. Bud exploded, "Are you going to let Voort get away with that?"

As usual when under fire, Mr. Swift controlled his emotions. His only comment was, "The man is entitled to his own opinion, Bud."

"Maybe we’d better issue a statement after all, Dad," suggested Tom. "People seem to expect it of us."

His father agreed. Quickly Tom dashed off a few lines and handed the paper to Mr. Swift, who scanned it and nodded approval.

Picking up the phone, Tom called Dan Perkins at the Bulletin. "Why Tom! How’s it hangin’?"

Tom did not mention the broadcast but merely said, "Dan, you’ve asked for a statement. This is the only one we can make: ‘We know absolutely nothing about the nature of the satellite. However, we plan to observe it carefully, both from Swift Enterprises and from our orbiting space station, and will release our findings as soon as we have anything to report. So far there appears to be no danger to earth’."

"Maybe that’ll shut him up!" grumbled Bud as Tom broke the connection.

Tom and Mr. Swift went back to the observatory. Hour after hour they studied the object, which showed in the telescope as a small, bright disk with few visible details. By lunchtime they had also received data transmitted from the Swift space outpost which circled the earth in a geosynchronous orbit at a distance of 22,300 miles. The outpost was equipped with its own telescope and a variety of sophisticated space-probing instruments.

"Look at these photos, Tom," said Damon Swift, handing a sheaf of digitized images to his son.

"Nice and sharp," commented the young inventor. "The outpost’s electronic telescope does a wonderful job."

The pictures showed the first close-up view of the interloper from space. The moonlet was revealed to be a rocky, rugged sphere, pockmarked with craters and sporting narrow, jagged peaks that seemed to claw far into space. Its mottled coloration was primarily a deep auburn.

"Definitely an asteroid," said Mr. Swift. "And from the cratered condition of the surface, it’s been around a long time."

"Yet that color is unusual, Dad—don’t you think?"

"It is. I’m anxious to receive the telespectrometry data from the outpost." He glanced at his wristwatch. "But by now the satellite is below their horizon, so we’ll have to wait."

Tom and his father continued their observations throughout the afternoon and long into the evening, occasionally releasing updated statements to the world press. It was nearly midnight when they finally stopped work.

"It looks to me," said Tom, "as if the earth has a permanent, junior-size moon."

"Right, son. But we’ll know more when we have a full day’s-worth of orbital figures."

After closing the observatory, the Swifts drove a nanocar—a midget company personnel vehicle—across the experimental station to their private gate and parked it for the night. Tom beamed the gate open with his electronic key. Then, as was often their custom, father and son headed on foot down the little-used road which led to their home a half-mile distant. At Tom’s request, Bud had already returned the family car to the Swift home, where his own car was parked.

The Swift residence was just looming up ahead in the moonlight when Tom clutched his father’s arm. "Hold it, Dad!" he warned. "I think I heard something moving over in the—"

His words ended in a gasp as a shadowy figure leaped from the bushes beside the road, a long knife in his right hand.

"Murderers!" screamed the assailant. "You’re trying to destroy the world! But you’ll never live to do it!"

AS THE assailant’s arm arced viciously through the darkness, Mr. Swift dodged to avoid the knife thrust, but was only partially successful. He gave a yelp of pain. Instinctively, Tom hurled himself at the attacker and grabbed the man’s wrist. The stranger fought like a cornered rat, twisting, clawing, and kicking as he tried to get his knife hand free.

But Tom, using his right fist, pommeled the attacker until the man’s knees buckled. Dropping the knife, he sagged limply and Tom’s next blow sent him sprawling to the ground in a knockout.

Instantly Tom turned to his father who was clutching a bloody shirt sleeve. "Dad! Are you all right?"

"Just a scratch, son. Let’s see who this fellow is."

Whipping out a pocket flashlight, Tom beamed it at his fallen foe. The man’s face looked bony and hollow-cheeked. His clothes were shabby, his hair long and unkempt.

"Never saw him before," murmured Tom.

"Some misguided crank, no doubt." Mr. Swift’s voice was tinged with pity for the man who had attacked them. "We’d better take him to the house."

The stranger revived enough to walk under his own power. Taking no chances, Tom used his handkerchief to tie the man’s wrists behind his back. The prisoner muttered incoherently all the way to the Swift home, but had become fairly docile.

Tom’s mother and his blond, blue-eyed sister, Sandra, a year younger than he, greeted the group at the front door, having waited up late for them. They cried out in alarm at sight of the bleary-eyed prisoner and at Mr. Swift’s bloody sleeve.

Tom bound his prisoner more securely, then called Dr. Simpson, the plant physician. Next, Tom phoned Harlan Ames, in charge of the security division at Swift Enterprises. He apologized to both for disturbing them in the middle of the night.

Minutes later, a car screeched to a halt on the gravel driveway outside the house. Harlan Ames, slender and dark-eyed, was accompanied by Phil Radnor, blond-haired and stocky, Ames’s assistant. At once they began to question the prisoner.

"All right, let’s have the whole story! Who are you? Who put you up to this?" barked Ames.

The man stared back sullenly, his eyes gleaming with a fanatical light. "I’m trying to save the world from destruction! Can’t you understand? Tom Swift and his father are the real criminals!"

While the questioning went on, young Doc Simpson arrived, yawning, and examined Mr. Swift’s arm. Fortunately the knife slash proved to be only a flesh wound. After using an antiseptic, the doctor applied a bandage. A quick examination of the prisoner showed only superficial bruises.

When Ames and Radnor had abandoned grilling the stranger, who refused to give his name and only glared at them, Tom’s mother approached the man and lay a gentle hand on his arm.

"Sir," said Anne Swift in a soft voice, "you endangered my husband and my son, and you can’t blame us for being upset. But let’s all calm down. Won’t you tell me your name?"

The man looked up at Mrs. Swift, frowned—and smiled. "Sure. My name is Samuel F. Cobboley, ma’am. Did you say someone is after your son?"

"I’m afraid so, Samuel. Do you know why?"

The man seemed to struggle to think. "Well, some folks seem to have the idea that Tom and his father are out to destroy the world."

"Isn’t that silly!"

"Sure is, ma’am."

Tom’s mother smiled prettily at the stranger. "Now, your doctor—what did you say his name was?"

"Oh, that’d be Dr. Smeckna, Otis Smeckna. He’s in the phone book, if you need a good psychiatrist," was the reply. "Please don’t tell him I’m not taking my pills, though. It makes him mad, and he sends me bad thought-waves."

"We won’t mention it," she said soothingly.

"Amazing!" whispered Ames to Radnor.

The psychiatrist was contacted, and within forty minutes Dr. Smeckna had escorted his patient off into the night. "Samuel gets worked up rather easily, and he was listening to the TV news," was his brief explanation. "Thank heavens he didn’t do any serious damage to you men."

Early the next morning as Tom and his father were eating in the sun-filled breakfast nook of the Swift home, a broadcast came over the television which startled them both.

‘‘World capitals are buzzing with excitement," said the newscaster. "There is a rumor that Brungaria—" Instantly the Swifts were alerted at mention of a country which had once been a persistent adversary of the United States. "—has something to do with the strange new sky satellite," the announcer went on. "So far, the Brungarian government has neither confirmed nor denied this rumor. Many experts take this as proof that the Brungarians are responsible!"

Tom and Mr. Swift exchanged worried glances. "Dad, this could cause even more panic!"

A totalitarian state for most of the Twentieth Century, Brungaria had only recently entered the democratic fold. But there were still many who held on to suspicions that the East European nation regarded itself as a rival to the West. The thought that tiny Brungaria might have developed a technology of such immense power would be deeply disturbing to much of the world.

With Tom at the wheel of his low-slung sports car, father and son sped to the experimental station, and by eight o’clock they had arrived at some figures that seemed conclusive, now based upon a day’s-worth of instrumental observations of the phantom satellite. These showed that the new body was indeed orbiting around the earth like a second moon. Tom had plotted the orbit and found it was precisely 54,311 miles from earth. The moonlet’s rate of revolution on its own axis was calculated to be 28 hours, 16 minutes, and the period of its orbit about the earth was a shade over three days, 19 hours—an alternative "month" for Earth! Spherical in overall shape, Little Luna was about 41 miles in diameter.

"No atmosphere detected," Tom commented. "And surface gravity is negligible, as one would expect for such a small body—less than .3 percent that of the earth."

"Well, one thing seems certain," remarked Mr. Swift. "However it came to be where it is, the new satellite is a natural body—probably an asteroid."

"Which means it wasn’t constructed by either our space friends or the Brungarians," added Tom.

Mr. Swift nodded thoughtfully as he mulled over their other findings.

"Here’s something else that may interest you, Dad," said Tom with a slight smile, shoving over a paper filled with formulas and equations that he had worked out.

Mr. Swift studied Tom’s figures with a puzzled look. "You mean its orbit is perfectly circular?"

"Perfectly! No variation, to within one-thousandth of a percent."

"But that, at least, isn’t natural! An object drifting into orbit could never settle in to such a perfectly regularized one."

"Exactly." Tom’s eyes glinted with excitement. "That proves its trajectory was artificially controlled."

"In other words, the work of intelligent beings!"

Again, father and son stared at each other, the same thought running through their minds. Was this part of some plan by their space friends after all?

Mr. Swift shoved back his chair and stood up abruptly. "Tom, I think we’d better call a press conference as soon as possible and give our findings to the world. It may help to calm the public’s fears."

Tom nodded. "I’ll get George Dilling on the phone right away and make the arrangements."

As the lunch hour drew near, a jostling swarm of television reporters and news photographers filed into a reception room in a building near the main gate. At one o’clock, just before Tom and Mr. Swift were to arrive, Harlan Ames walked in and ascended to the dais. The crowd of newsmen buzzed expectantly as Ames introduced himself.

"For reasons of safety," Ames began, "we’ll have to ask all of you to observe some rules that—"

But at that point came a loud interruption. A slightly-built, red-haired young man, wearing a vivid green sports jacket and carrying an expensive camera, burst out in a nasty manner: "Is the cover-up starting already? When are you going to cut out the double talk and get down to what you really know?"

"What do you mean?" asked Ames, annoyed.

"I mean we want the real story! What are the Swifts up to? We all know you and your space pals are cooking up some experiment, just like Professor Voort said yesterday! So you can’t make us swallow the bunk you’ve been handing out so far!"

Harlan Ames’s fists clenched at the man’s insulting manner. The crowd shrank back as he jumped from the platform. Striding up to the man, he said quietly, "Look, wise guy, you’re a guest here. If you don’t like the way things are being run, leave!"

"I have the right to be here!" responded the short-statured young man loudly. "You want to throw me out, go ahead and try it!"

"Thanks!" Grabbing the lapel of the man’s jacket, Ames swung the man around and took him by the seat of his pants. Before the surprised newsman could do more than squawk helplessly, the security chief marched him out of the building and through the main gate! "Don’t let him back in!" Ames told the gate crew. "And don’t come back till you’ve learned some manners!" he called after the sputtering photographer.

Meanwhile the two Swifts had arrived and mounted the dais facing the audience. As Ames returned, to a scattering of applause, they began to explain their findings.

The rest of the conference went smoothly. Toward the end one of the journalists asked, "Since Swift Enterprises has spaceflight capability, should we expect a Swift expedition to the satellite?"

Damon Swift chuckled. "If I know my son Tom, he’s already planning it!" The crowd laughed, and Tom grinned.

After a late lunch Tom and his father went to their office, where they found Bud Barclay waiting for them with a bulky package in hand.

"Here’s that part you needed," said the youthful pilot, handing the package to Tom. "Straight from Marietta, Georgia, via Bud Barclay Air!"

"Thanks, chum," said Tom.

Bud noticed a gleam in Tom’s eyes. "What’s cooking now?" he asked.

Tom glanced at his father, who looked on in amusement. "Oh, just an idea."

"About what?"

"I’m all for sending an expedition to explore that satellite!" Tom answered. "Dad’s been playing devil’s advocate, but I think I’ve talked him into it. How about it, Dad?"

Mr. Swift grinned. "I decided the same thing this morning. But I didn’t want to deprive you of the opportunity to make your case!"

Bud’s face lit up with anticipation. "Do you mean it?" he asked Tom.

"Never more serious."

Bud let out a whoop of excitement. "Hot rockets! Another space trip!"

"There are a number of details to be worked out, though," continued Mr. Swift. "The only vehicle available that is at all suitable is the Star Spear."

"So what’s wrong with that?" Bud queried. "She’s a great little ship!"

"The key word is little," said Tom. "Though we could land on Little Luna in the Star Spear, the cabin can only accommodate two. We’d have no room for the many scientific instruments that ought to be brought along to justify the trip from a scientific standpoint. I don’t want to go just to be able to say we got there first."

Bud shrugged. He clearly believed that getting there first was a more than sufficient reason for a space flight!

The two Swifts immediately began making plans. Calling in Trent to take notes, they roughed out an estimate of the equipment and supplies needed for a short private expedition—a minimal one.

Later Tom went to continue work in one of his laboratories on an invention which he had recently started developing. "I might need this for the trip," he said to Bud, who was looking on.

Suddenly a twangy voice, western as the Pecos, boomed from the doorway. "This a private shindig, or kin anyone git in the game?"

As the boys looked up, a grinning, bowlegged figure ambled into the lab. Chow Winkler, a former chuck-wagon cook who now worked for the Swifts as chef at the plant and on expeditions, was fat and bald-headed, with a face burnt brown as leather by desert sunshine. As usual, he wore a flashy cowboy shirt, tucked into his faded jeans.

"Hi, Chow!" Tom greeted him. "Come on in."

"Now what in tarnation would that be?" Chow asked, staring at an object on Tom’s workbench. "It looks like one o’ them merry-go-round lawn sprinklers—or a silver spider, mebbe."

Tom laughed. "It’s a model of an atmosphere-making machine, Chow."

"You mean, a contraption fer makin’ air?" A frown wrinkled the cook’s forehead. "But brand my spurs, why bother makin’ air? Ain’t we got plenty to breathe already?"

"Here on earth we do. But on the moon and other planets, space travelers won’t find any, so they’ll have to make their own."

"Well, brand my ox-eegen mask!"

"Speaking of oxygen," Tom said with a grin, "my machine will not only shoot out a mixture of oxygen and nitrogen, released from rocks by electrical smelting—it will also make the stuff clump together, so that it can’t drift away when there’s not enough gravity to hold it in place."

Chow scowled at Tom suspiciously. "An’ jest how do you make gases stick t’gether? Add a little glue mebbe?"

Tom laughed affectionately at the notion. "By using Inertite."

Chow nodded. "That there’s that stuff you concocted when we ’as over in Africa." An all-but-miraculous substance composed not of atoms and molecules but literally of interlaced "strands" of the spacetime continuum itself, Tom had used Inertite to create a special sheathing to protect his terrasphere from the destructive effects of antiproton-emitting gas in the Caves of Nuclear Fire.

"I don’t get it, skipper," Bud remarked from beneath a furrowed brow. "What does Inertite have to do with holding an atmosphere together?"

"As ‘non-matter matter,’ so to speak, Inertite has quite a range of unique properties. We’ve barely scratched the surface so far." Tom picked up a bar of the whitish substance, which felt to the touch like ordinary matter. "Remember how the rocks of the taboo mountain were run through with veins of this stuff?"

"Sure," Bud replied. "That’s why the gas didn’t disintegrate the whole mountain."

"Well, the veins we could see outright were only the biggest ones. For every one of those, there were a hundred smaller ones; and for every one of those, another hundred smaller still. Eventually you end up with filaments so small and thin that they can only be detected with an electron microscope."

Chow looked blank, but said, "Reckon that’s mighty small, idnit?"

Tom nodded. "So small they make an atom look big!"

"Okay, so you’s got these little bitty threads," prompted Chow. "What’s that have t’do with anything?"

"Glad you asked." With the air of a magician the young inventor tore off a tiny scrap of paper from one of the pages in his notebook and walked over to a nearby workbench. He held his hand high, dramatically, and then released the scrap, which slowly fluttered down through the air. Suddenly, as it came parallel to a pair of horizontal rods about a foot apart, it stopped falling and hung in midair between them, jiggling as if caught in a spiderweb.

Bud and Chow approached and examined the space between the rods. "Nothing there," declared Bud. "So what’s keeping it up? Static electricity?"

Chow disagreed. "If’n we’re betting, my bet’s on magnets."

"Neither one!" Tom pronounced. "You see, I’ve found a way to take a lump of Inertite, like that bar I was holding, and ‘spin it out’ into the same kind of ultra-small filaments we were just talking about. Certain resonant frequencies of electromagnetic waves cause the ends of the filaments to be attracted to the corresponding ends of other filaments nearby. They join together and create a kind of continuous webbing, sort of a net of fine gauze too thin to be visible to the eye. I’ve stretched some of the webbing between these rods, and that’s what the scrap of paper is resting on. As you can see, it has some give to it."

Bud nodded sagely. "Neat and keen and all that stuff, Tom. But you still haven’t explained how you’re going to keep the air you make from dissipating into space."

"I’m getting to it. When these nets of filaments get to a certain size, they start to curl in and connect to themselves, as a soap bubble does. The spaces in the netting are so narrow that molecules of oxygen or other free gases can’t fit through. They’re trapped, and that’s what holds the atmosphere in space."

"Yeah, I got it!" Chow exclaimed proudly. "Yuh’re kinda blowin’ a big soap bubble with air inside."

"That’s the general idea, pard," Tom confirmed. "The wall of the bubble is so thin that you won’t be able to see it at all."

"Well, I think my brain must be too thin to see how it all fits together!" joked Bud. "So you’ve made a great big bubble of air—how do you get people inside it without popping it?"

In response Tom passed the palm of his hand between the two rods. The scrap of paper dipped down a ways; but then as the hand passed along further, it sprang back to its previous position. "See?" Tom exulted. "The Inertite filaments don’t break under stress like ordinary matter. Solid structures can push the netting around up to a certain point, but beyond that point the netting opens up and simply flows around the obstruction, the way radio waves can flow around a building." He explained that if such an atmospheric bubble were created on the moon or another planet, spacecraft would be able to enter and leave by simply passing through the invisible Inertite shell. No opening or airlock would be required.

Chow’s face creased into a cheerful grin. "I cain’t say I savvy every word of it, son, but if you say so, I reckon it must be true!"

"Same here!" Bud groaned. "It’s way over my head!"

"It’ll be way over all our heads," grinned Tom, pointing to a blueprint of his machine. "The ‘spider’ will be suspended about eighty feet in the air above the rock-smelting apparatus."

Bud looked mystified. "But what holds it up? Are those spider-filaments that strong?"

"No, the gases released in the smelter are given an electrical charge and propelled upward by a magnetic flux—the same principle used in the Star Spear’s matter-accelerator engines. The pressure of this stream of charged particles supports the machine just like a ping-pong ball on a water spout. And of course the rotation of the dispeller—the ‘spider’—automatically keeps it gyro-stabilized."

"Simple as that, eh?" quipped Bud dryly. Chow could only scratch his head at his young boss’s ingenuity.

The excitement Tom felt over the project lasted until dinnertime. Then, reaching home, Mr. Swift greeted him with disturbing news. "Son, you and I have been summoned to Washington tomorrow morning."

"Summoned!" Tom repeated. "But why, Dad?"

"The official who called refused to give any reason," responded Damon Swift. Then he added tensely: "I’m afraid it’s an inquiry about our being responsible for the terror the satellite caused!"

TAKING OFF the next morning in a Swift Construction Company commuter jet piloted by Tom, Tom and Mr. Swift soon landed at the Washington airport. A government limousine whisked them to the Pentagon Building.

In one of the large conference rooms, they were greeted by Mr. Luther Helm, a balding official in the Defense Department whom they had met before. "Delighted you could come," he told the Swifts.

"As are we," replied Mr. Swift somewhat sharply.

Helm introduced them to the other members of the group. These included high-ranking officers of the Army, Navy, and Air Force, and various government scientists, including several associated with NASA. One of the attendees was an old friend, Admiral Krevitt of ONDAR, the Office of National Defense Applied Research.

"Haven’t seen you two since the Russian sub business," he commented. "Both well, I trust?"

"So far," said Tom pointedly. Krevitt chuckled in response.

The two were seated at a long table with the others under the presiding gaze of George Washington’s portrait, and Helm called the meeting to order. "Gentlemen," Helm began, "here’s the situation. Forgive me if I put it in summary form. This new moon in the heavens could become a prize objective. It looks like an ideal spot from which to launch deep space expeditions, such as the American manned Mars project that you’ve read about recently. It also has strategic importance with implications for the security of our nation. Any country that gains control of it could conceivably dominate the earth through various kinds of high-tech space-based weaponry which could be shielded from retaliation inside the bulk of the satellite. I’m sure your imaginations are all adequate to the task of envisioning this."

Murmurs of agreement echoed around the table. Tom and his father glanced at each other. They had not been reprimanded. Why had they been called to Washington?

"Therefore," Helm continued, "we have decided to send an expeditionary force to land on the satellite and claim it for the United States. Mr. Swift, we feel that you and your son are the obvious choice to make such an expedition a reality. What do you say?"

Tom and his father were amazed as well as pleased. This outcome to their summons was far different from what they had expected!

"This is a great honor," said Mr. Swift. "It will mean a tremendous responsibility."

"Then I take it you accept?"

"No," continued Damon Swift. "I’m afraid we must decline."

Tom gasped under his breath and sat up straight in his chair, hardly able to believe his ears. But he felt reassured when his father gave him a nudge beneath the tabletop.

The men at the table looked startled and alarmed. "We were counting on you," said Helm after a tense pause.

"Please understand," Mr. Swift went on. "Swift Enterprises is not a government agency, and cannot function like a government agency. It’s clear that the sort of ‘expeditionary force’ you contemplate would be headed-up by a military official, or someone else appointed by the government for reasons having little to do with science and invention. With all due respect, we can’t participate in such an arrangement. If Washington is unwilling to trust us with actually commanding the expedition…" He left the sentence unfinished.

There was muttering at the table. "It’s not a matter of trust, Swift," put in Admiral Krevitt. "With these rumors of possible Brungarian involvement…well, it only seems proper for the United States to be represented by someone with official standing."

"Our choice was Col. Jess Northrup, an experienced NASA astronaut," Helm said. "You surely can’t object to the involvement of a man such as Northrup, a national hero!"

Mr. Swift smiled. "I’m well aware of his heroism twenty years ago, landing the space shuttle after the accident. I was part of the shuttle program myself back then. But this is an utterly novel situation."

"Besides, it might interfere with his next run for the Senate," whispered Tom in ironic tones only his father could hear.

Damon Swift added, "Tom and I are ready to serve our country any way we can, as always. But if we are to take up these responsibilities, you must allow us to be fully in charge."

Helm spoke quietly to the man sitting next to him, a man known by the Swifts to represent the President of the United States. After a moment the man nodded, and Helm straightened up. "You’ve made a forceful case for your point of view. We are willing to work out a protocol of cooperation between you and Col. Northrup, with Swift Enterprises clearly in charge of all the scientific aspects of the expedition. What do you say to that?"

Mr. Swift leaned over and muttered a string of meaningless syllables into his son’s ear, a bit of undetected mockery the officials would never learn of. Tom nodded thoughtfully, trying hard not to laugh. Then Mr. Swift said soberly. "Naturally we accept."

"Excellent!" Helm exclaimed in obvious relief. "And you, Tom, how do you feel about it?"

The young scientist-inventor grinned. "I had hoped to make a quick, simple, private expedition to Little Luna, as we’ve nicknamed the moonlet. Now we’ll have an added and worthy incentive. But I think you gentlemen should be aware of one fact: we don’t have a vehicle able to handle the sort of large-scale effort you seem to have in mind."

Helm and several others at the table exchanged half-amused glances. Then Helm nodded at Admiral Krevitt, who slid a thick binder across the table to the two guests. "Take a look!"

Mr. Swift opened the binder and gasped softly, turning it so Tom could see.

"The nuclear rocket!" said Tom, startled. "But—"

"Yes, for security reasons we led you to believe it was still on the drawing board," Admiral Krevitt remarked. "Though it was mostly a Swift Enterprises design."

"Are you saying it’s been constructed?" demanded Tom’s father.

"Indeed so, in secret," Krevitt confirmed. "All ready to gas and go. We had planned a test flight for late next month, but now—"

"I take it you agree that this vehicle, the Titan, will be adequate to the project," Helm said to Mr. Swift.

"More than adequate!" replied the head of Enterprises. "The Titan—at least as we designed her—could easily carry a crew of twelve, with considerable storage space for the various necessities and equipment."

"Then I’d say we have ample reason for optimism." Mr. Helm smiled and thanked the Swifts. Then he asked their opinion on the chances of survival on the bare surface Little Luna for an extended period of time.

"None, outside of a space suit," Mr. Swift answered, "unless my son’s latest invention could be put to practical use there." He mentioned the atmosphere-making machine.

"Fantastic!" one of the scientists burst out. "We could use one of those in Los Angeles."

His listeners were very much interested in this new Tom Swift invention. One man asked, "Do you intend to use compressed gases?"

‘"For my first tests, yes," Tom replied. "But I’m hoping we’ll find the necessary elements on the satellite to make all the gases we’ll need for a permanent atmosphere. Long-range readings suggest that the surface of Little Luna contains high concentrations of metallic oxides and nitrogen-bearing compounds."

The conferees now got down to details of planning. Since the Swifts had already estimated the amount of necessary equipment and the cost of a minimal expedition, they were able to quote definite figures as a starting point for the discussion.

"Here’s something you Swifts should know," a representative of the Central Intelligence Agency declared. "We have reliable information that the Brungarians are making feverish plans for an expedition of their own. As you know, they’ve revived their space program with help from Russia, and we’re sure they’re hoping to reach the satellite first, and establish a military base! I don’t need to tell you what that would mean to the whole world."

"Isn’t Brungaria an ally these days?" asked Tom politely.

"A great nation has no friends," said the man sitting next to Helm, speaking aloud for the first time.

"The United States must reach there first!" an Air Force general stated grimly.

"We’ll rush the project at top speed," promised Mr. Swift.

Helm nodded. "Incidentally, we would prefer to let your own staff at Swift Enterprises handle the security angle on this, although government officials will be on hand for any emergency."

"Budgetary constraints," muttered a man with thick glasses and no tan whatsoever.

A few minutes later the conference broke up and the Swifts were soon winging back to Shopton. The elder inventor put an arm on his son’s shoulder. "Tom, you are to be in charge of this expedition. My place is on the ground at Enterprises. I’ll help in every way I can, but you’ll be Number One man."

"Thanks, Dad. I’ll try to live up to your faith in me."

"Just return to us safely!"

In the days that followed the Washington meeting, both Swift Enterprises and the Fearing Island space facility bustled with intense activity. Crews at Enterprises worked around the clock, readying supplies and equipment for the historic journey into space, while on Fearing Island trained specialists, many from NASA, assembled the modular parts of the nuclear rocket Titan, which had been freighted to the island by barge. In the meantime Tom worked to complete his atmosphere-making machine. He had decided that he would be bringing on the Titan enough parts to construct two of the machines, to be set up on opposite sides of Little Luna. This would speed the production of a livable atmosphere for the barren satellite.

Two days after the Swifts returned from Washington, an Air Force jet touched down on one of the Enterprises airstrips. Aboard were the first four members of the government team to report for duty. The Swifts had agreed that six spots on the 12-person Titan crew would be reserved for government assignees, including Col. Northrup.

Tom and Bud drove out on the field to meet the arrivals. First out of the jet was a big man in a well-tailored suit. Bounding forward, robust and bareheaded, hair shot with gray, he looked like a high-powered business executive. Which was exactly what he was.

"I suppose you’ve come to give us a lift, eh boys?" he boomed. "Well, let’s get going! Take us to the man in charge!"

"As a matter of fact, I’m in charge," Tom said, smiling.

"What!" The man’s jaw dropped.

"I’m Tom Swift. And I imagine you’re Mr. Jason Graves." Tom had been prepared for his arrival by telegram. He knew that Graves was the dynamic owner of a large metallurgical research plant—a man who had won a reputation for quick fulfillment of defense contracts.

Graves shook hands, chuckling. "Almost had me fooled there for a minute, sonny. Of course I recognize you now. But your father’s the CEO around here—he’s the man I’ll deal with."

"Sorry, sir, but Dad’s at our rocket facility on Fearing Island this week," Tom replied. "He’s supervising the construction of the new launch pad for the nuclear spacecraft. So you’ll be working with me, Mr. Graves. As you know, I’ll be skipper on the flight, too."

Graves’s face turned a ripe plum color. "You mean, I’m supposed to take orders from a kid who isn’t even old enough to order a martini?"

As Bud bristled, Tom said calmly, "Sorry if it seems a little unusual, Mr. Graves. Bud and I are space veterans and have run some big projects before, including the construction of our space station. I hope you’ll give me a chance to prove myself."

"Well," said the man doubtfully, "that’s what America is all about."

While Graves struggled to accept the idea of taking orders from someone so much younger than himself, introductions to the other two arrivals followed.

Col. Jess Northrup looked very much like his photographs—big, colorful, manly, and full of smiles. And maybe a little too full of himself! thought Tom as he shook hands. The ex-astronaut was about fifty years old, with thinning brown hair that Tom suspected would be gray without some regular technical assistance. "Goodta meetcha, Tom!" he said heartily.

A blond, husky, likable metallurgical engineer and mineralogist named Kent Rockland introduced himself. "This is like a dream!" he confessed. "Looking for ore on an alien world—wow!"

"Speaking of dreams," said a quiet voice, "I never dreamed I would live to set foot on one of the celestial bodies I’ve studied through my telescope." The voice belonged to Dr. Henrik Jatczak, one of the world’s foremost astronomers and an expert in planetary chemistry. A small, shy, wiry man, Dr. Jatczak had a shock of unruly black hair that seemed not to want to lie down, and twinkling blue eyes peering through thick-lensed glasses.

"It’ll be a privilege to work with you, sir," said Tom as they shook hands. "I’ve been an admirer of yours ever since I can remember."

"Which is not very long, as cosmic time is counted; yet I thank you. I, too, am an admirer of yours, young man," said Dr. Jatczak in a quiet voice. "I consider Swift the greatest name in modern science—applied science, that is." With mischief in his eyes, he added, "And I for one shall be honored to take orders from any of the Swifts!" Bud could not help smiling at this quiet rebuke to Jason Graves, who responded with a sour look. But Tom, charmed as he was by Dr. Jatczak, found himself wondering if the frail man had the stamina required to cope with the rigors of space travel.

Tom took his guests on a quick tour of the experimental station by jeep, then assigned each one certain duties before they dispersed to their living quarters near the administration building.

During the next few days, other top-level scientists and engineers arrived and quickly began work. Among them were Jim Stevens and Ron Corey, two young specialists in forced plant growth from the United States Department of Agriculture.

"Didn’t know they’d be sending along a couple of farmers!" joked Bud, as he and Tom lunched with their new guests in the Enterprises cafeteria.

Stevens replied with a smile and a pleasant southern drawl. "Our jobs will be to cultivate crops for a permanent food supply on the satellite, something made possible by the atmosphere machine. I’ll be handling the work from this end, of course—on Planet Earth!—while Ron’s doing his thing up on Little Luna with the rest of you."

"Have you set a date for take-off?" Corey asked Tom.

"We have, but for security reasons, Dad and I are the only ones who know what it is," replied the young inventor. "We’re not even supposed to tell our families and friends the real nature of this project. The official story is that Enterprises is planning to launch a robot flyby to probe the satellite with instruments." He looked embarrassed, and in fact he was.

Bud gave a mock groan. "Everything’s so hush-hush around here that even the mice are starting to complain!"

As the meal ended, Ron Corey leaned over to Tom and asked, "Tom, what did your friend mean—about the mice?" Then Tom knew for certain that Ron Corey lacked a sense of humor!

By week’s end the last of the government crew assignees had arrived at Swift Enterprises. He presented himself at Tom and his father’s office, hand extended. "Teodor Kutan," he said. "And before you ask, gentlemen, the name and the accent are Polish. Now, though, I am a citizen of this country."

The Swifts knew that Kutan was a diplomat, a somewhat well-known one who had represented the United States in a number of difficult foreign negotiations. His age was indeterminable, though probably closer to fifty than thirty, and he was short and somewhat heavyset, with thinning light hair and eyebrows like small shrubs. "Tell me, Dr. Kutan, if I might ask…" Tom began, not wanting to be overly blunt.

"Ah, no doubt you wish to know my exact function on this voyage of discovery." Kutan gave a slight, rather perfunctory smile. "The expedition may have need of a diplomat representing our government in a formal sense. No, not to deal with alien space beings, but with encroaching astronauts from other nations who may be inclined to dispute the American claim."

"In other words, Brungaria," said Tom.

"In my youth, I spent many a summer in Volkonis, the capital," continued the diplomat. "I know the Brungarian character well."

After Dr. Kutan had left to unpack, Tom and his father resumed their discussion of some remaining aspects of the expedition. "When we last talked, son, you hadn’t yet filled out the last four seats on the Swift team," Damon Swift noted. "Other than you and Bud, who will be going with you in the Titan?"

Tom replied, "First of all, Hank Sterling." The blond, square-jawed chief of the engineering division of Enterprises, Hank, only a few years older than Tom and Bud, had accompanied them on most Swift expeditions and was in many ways Tom’s righthand-man for technical problems.

"I expected Hank to be picked," commented Mr. Swift.

"Then I wanted someone from the medical and physiological field. As Doc Simpson doesn’t yet have his ‘space-legs,’ I decided to go with Violet Wohl from the Life Sciences department."

"I’m not acquainted with Dr. Wohl, but I’ve heard good reports on her work, and I know she has an MD. Two places remain, then."

Tom nodded. "Of course I considered Arv Hanson, and also Bob Jeffers. But I couldn’t turn down Rafael Franzenberg, given his expertise."

"Yes, he’s a real triple threat—physics, chemistry, and electronics." Mr. Swift paused. "Still, you and I know that not everyone enjoys his company, and his brand of humor."

Tom chuckled. "Between Dr. Kutan and I, we may have a few extra diplomatic problems to handle on this trip!"

"Who is your remaining selection?"

"I suppose you can guess that one, Dad. After all, we’ve got to eat!"

Damon Swift laughed gently and said, "Absolutely! And I know Chow Winkler and his rather extravagant observations play an important role in keeping the captain of this ship psychologically trim."

Tom joined in the laughter. "But I’m not shoe-horning Chow into the project on a whim—he’s had space training, and was actually pretty valuable during the construction of the space outpost."

Frenzied days fled past without incident. A week before the scheduled secret take-off, Tom was busy one afternoon in his laboratory with Hank Sterling. They were testing a large scale model of Tom’s atmosphere machine, a working model created by Arvid Hanson, Enterprises’ talented maker of prototypes.

Suddenly Bud Barclay rushed in, yelling, "Hey, skipper! Take a look at this!"

He waved an early edition of the Shopton Evening Bulletin on which large banner headlines proclaimed:

SWIFTS TO HEAD U.S. EXPEDITION

TO PHANTOM SATELLITE!

With growing anger and alarm, Tom read through the story, credited to Editor Perkins himself. The report included an amazing wealth of detail, including the exact time and date of departure, type of spaceship to be used, and the names of some of the personnel!

"A complete account!" gasped Hank Sterling as he read the story over Tom’s shoulder.

"But who tipped them off?" Bud exclaimed. Sick with rage and dismay, Tom could hardly speak. "We’ll soon find out!" he declared, when he recovered his voice.

Snatching up the telephone, Tom called the Bulletin and asked for the editor. "Where did you get that story on this supposed space expedition?" he demanded.

Dan Perkins sounded surprised. "Why, from you folks, naturally. Where else?"

"From us?"

"Sure." Perkins explained that he had received a standard dated news release on a Swift Enterprises letterhead, giving all the information and signed by George Dilling, Enterprises’ chief of the Communications and Public Interest office. "You mean the story is phony?" he burst out, suddenly realizing that something was wrong.

"I mean it was top secret!" Tom exclaimed. "That information could involve the security of the whole world!"

Perkins let out a long whistle and started to apologize, but Tom interrupted him brusquely. "It’s not your fault, Dan. You printed it in good faith. But from now on, please check with me on all releases concerning this project!"

In a matter of moments, Tom had alerted Harlan Ames, and the plant security force whirred into action. Ames hurried to the laboratory to confer with Tom.

"Where did you keep the records of the expedition personnel?" the security chief asked Tom.

"In our office safefile cabinet. As you know, it’s as secure as a bank vault!"

"We’ll grill everyone who has access to your office," Ames said. "How about the date of take-off?"

"That was never written down. Someone must have eavesdropped on our radio communications when Dad was at Fearing Island."

"Which means they cracked the encryption routine."

Frowning thoughtfully, Tom added, "The Swift Enterprises letterhead could easily have been duplicated on a computer printer."

All night long the investigation went on. Everyone on the staff and all others even remotely connected with the expedition were questioned and cross-questioned, and Mr. Swift had the task of trying to mollify and reassure Washington D.C.

Early the next morning Tom sped to the plant with his father, both in a somber mood. Their first caller was Ames, haggard and unshaven after his grueling all-night session.

"Any results?" Tom inquired anxiously.

Ames shook his head grimly. "Not a single lead." Then, pulling an envelope from his pocket, he dropped it on Mr. Swift’s desk.

The inventor raised his eyebrows, puzzled. "Is this what I think it is, Harlan?"

"My resignation," Ames said glumly. "Effective immediately."

FOR A MOMENT Tom and his father were dumbfounded. Mr. Swift’s keen blue eyes studied the security chief.

"Why are you doing this, Harlan?" he asked finally. "Do you really want to resign?"

Ames shrugged unhappily. "What else can I do? I’ve failed to maintain proper security, and now I can’t even find out where the leak occurred."

"We’re no more willing to accept your resignation now than we were in previous situations like this," retorted Mr. Swift. "You know we have complete confidence in you. You took every precaution, but we’re up against a clever enemy. In my opinion, there’s no way you or anyone could have forestalled the leak."

From his pocket Ames pulled a rumpled telegram. "This is from the FBI. Their agents are here to investigate. I’m sure it’s because the officials who asked you to make the expedition think I’ve bungled the security job."

"Well, we don’t!" insisted Tom.

"I want you to continue," added Mr. Swift. "You can’t quit now, Harlan. We need your help to see the project through!"

To clinch the matter, Tom tore up the letter of resignation and dropped it into the wastebasket. "Whoops!—What letter of resignation? You’re still working for Enterprises!"

Flushed but grinning, Ames agreed with an expression of gratitude and hurried off to resume his work.

Tom’s face was serious as he turned back to his father. "Dad, we don’t know who’s working against us. But there’s only one thing we can do now to beat the Brungarians or any other country that wants to claim Little Luna. Speed up everything and beat our original deadline!"

The elder scientist nodded. "You’re right, Tom. And it’s theoretically possible. The Titan has been assembled on Fearing and is being tested-out even as we speak. All reports are positive. With a little luck, I believe I can have the last of the cargo locked away onboard by the end of the day. You could fly the crew, and your machine components, to the Island this evening and be ready for blast-off by midnight."

"Midnight! That’s fantastic, Dad! We tested the Arv’s model of the atmosphere-making machine yesterday afternoon. It worked perfectly! The main casting was poured last night. If Hank prods the workers, they should have the whole assembly ready to load onto the Sky Queen by the end of the afternoon."

With a quick handshake, the Swifts parted.

Tom sought out Bud, and asked him to inform the other members of the space team. "Sure, pal!" Bud agreed. "But when do we have the party?"

"The party?"

"You know, the going-away party. We always have one, Tom."

The young inventor laughed. "This time Sandy and Bashalli are being kept as much in the dark as the rest of the world!"

But at home that evening, Tom discovered that he was in error. "Tom Swift, don’t you think for one minute we believe that ‘going to Fearing to watch the launch of the robot rocket’ story!" Sandy exclaimed.

"Like everyone else on Earth, we have read the Shopton Bulletin," added dark-haired Bashalli Prandit, a visitor for supper who was a close friend. "Obviously this is a not-so-clever ruse to mislead everyone about your departure for Mini-Moona, or whatever you call that thing."

Tom held up his hands wryly. "All right, you two have outfoxed us. We launch at midnight." Tom and his father explained the security concerns surrounding the expedition.

"I understand," said Sandy. "We won’t breathe a word to anyone."

"Not over the next six hours!" Bash continued. "But your next going-away party—no doubt only weeks away—will have to be a double one."

"Agreed!" laughed Tom.

After supper Tom made a call to Enterprises to make certain the loading of the Sky Queen, his great three-deck Flying Lab, was proceeding apace. After assuring him that all was well, the chief of the loading team asked Tom to hold the line while he transferred him to Harlan Ames’s office. Ames told Tom that his meeting with the FBI officials had gone well. Then he passed on to another subject.

"Tom," said Harlan, irritation in his voice, "you remember my telling you how I ejected that photographer the other day?"

"From the press conference?"

"Yes. Well, he’s back again. Roberts just picked him up near the south fence, trying to sneak onto the grounds on some kind of ladder contraption. He says he’ll sue, talks about freedom of the press, and so on…but also…"

"Also what?" asked Tom, mystified.

"He says he knows you!"

Tom was startled. "He does? What’s his name?"

"His identification says Gabriel Knorff."

Tom barked out a laugh of sheer surprise. "Gabe Knorff! Harlan, doesn’t that name ring a bell?"

"Good grief, now that you mention it—!" Ames sounded apologetic and embarrassed. "The flying photographer?"

When Tom and Bud had been preparing for their first trip into orbit aboard the Star Spear, the Fearing Island high-security zone had been breached by young Gabriel Knorff, a hot-shot journeyman photographer seeking fame. Knorff had flown over the island on a back-mounted rocket belt. Despite some incidents of impulsive behavior, Tom had become friendly with the slightly-built redhead, who had an ingratiating manner.

"Don’t feel bad about not recognizing him," said Tom comfortingly. "You never met Gabe—it was Rad who dealt with him."

"Right," Ames said. "So what shall I do with him? He insists on speaking to you directly—says he’ll wait until you come in tomorrow morning."

"Of course Dad and I will be there within the hour. I think I’ll have time to see what he’s after." Grinning, Tom hung up the phone.

When Tom arrived at the plant, he immediately went to Ames’s office, and the glowering security chief nodded toward the redheaded young man seated in one corner of the room, next to his camera equipment. "Tom!" he exclaimed, jumping to his feet and offering his hand.

"Hi, Gabe," responded the young inventor as they shook hands. "I see you’re back to setting off security alerts."

"I seem to have a real talent for doing that," responded Gabe. "And by the way, sorry for getting out of line the other day. I was practicing my assertiveness skills and I guess I went too far. After that story in the paper, I thought I might be able to sneak a peek, by telephoto, at some of your astronauts, and—"

"I know. You needed an interesting angle for the shot."

"Right. I mean, there are buildings all over this place! And also—"

"There’s an also?"

"Isn’t there always?" Knorff sucked in a deep breath. "Tom, I’m asking you to take me with you to the satellite!"

Tom’s eyes widened at the sheer nerve of the man’s suggestion. "Gabe, why in the—"

"Now listen, Tom, be reasonable and think a little. I’m a pretty persistent guy, and mighty clever too. I’m sure I’ll be able to find a way onto your rocket island before the big launch. And look, you don’t want me to turn up in a crate aboard the spaceship, like that crazy guy did on your South Pole project."

"No," said Tom. "I’d rather avoid surprises."

"Well, here’s a great chance to avoid a really major one! Besides, everyone knows you Swifts work by intuition and taking chances more than by pure science. What does your intuition tell you?"

"That I should have you locked up for about a month."

"Oh really?" Gabe paused. "You must be joking. You know I’m a good guy and a fast learner. And I can follow orders, too—when I have to. Besides, I’m so small and compact you can stow me away in the luggage bin for the duration of the flight! But seriously, a professional photographer would be of real benefit to this historic—"

Tom held up a hand. "I suppose if I’m willing to justify taking my chef along, I don’t have any business leaving behind the press. As it happens, it’s no big deal to slide in another acceleration seat."

Gabe beamed. "Tom, buddy, you’ll never regret it!"

"I already regret it," said Tom sarcastically, "but I’m willing to give you the chance—if you’re prepared not to set one foot off our controlled security zone between now and our return from space."

"Agreed! I know I’ll need a few days training before—"

Tom put a hand on Gabe’s shoulder and smiled. "I’m afraid you’re going into space with no training at all. I suppose that’s a worthwhile experiment in itself!"

"No training?"

"We leave for Fearing in twenty minutes. And we leave for Little Luna at midnight!"

The young photographer gulped. "Th-thanks for telling me!"

As the Sky Queen prepared to take to the air, Tom introduced the new team member to the others, who had assembled in the Flying Lab’s comfortable lounge on the top deck.

The reactions to the abrupt announcement varied widely. Most of the space team greeted Gabe Knorff warmly, trusting Tom Swift’s judgment without qualm or question. But Jason Graves looked quietly apoplectic, Col. Northrup frowned, and Teodor Kutan withdrew into a calculated silence. Bud shook Gabe’s hand coolly—he had had some run-ins with the photographer before.

As the others talked, Chow pulled his young boss aside.

"Say there, Tom, you sure this is sech a good idea?"

"Why?" Tom asked.

"Wa-al, if’n you count ’em all up—now we got thirteen on this here crew!"

"Don’t tell me you’re superstitious, pardner!"

"Naw, not a bit," Chow protested. "But brand my fallin’ stars, nobody ever died from bein’ careful!"

The Sky Queen flew south at transonic speed, and quick hours later landed at Fearing Island on its cushion of jet lifters.

Two hours afterwards a big cargo plane followed, loaded with heavy equipment for the expedition. At the same time, other planes were being rolled out across the island airfield, while mechanics scurried about in the glare of powerful floodlights, unloading their cargoes and carting them to the waiting Titan.

As Tom watched the final loading routine, Bud walked over. Like Tom, he already wore the emergency pressure suit that the astronauts would use as a precaution during the flight. "Skipper, that new ship of yours doesn’t look much bigger than the Star Spear. How’s she going to carry such a big crew—and all those crates and machines?"

Tom grinned. "Guess I never really gave you my customary explanation of how it works."

"I’ve been waiting!" Bud joked. "All I know is, the Titan has some kind of atomic motor. What does she run on, liquid uranium?"

Tom’s grin became a chuckle. "No, something much easier to handle—oxygen!"

"You mean plain old air?"

"The business part of air, anyway," said Tom. "Most of the main central fuselage is tank divided into sections, like a honeycomb, containing oxygen, which we’ve super-pressurized without liquifying it."

"Like the air tanks inside the underwater Fat Man suits, right?"

"Same technique. We needed a gas to serve as a thrust-medium, and oxygen made perfect sense, as we’d need to bring some along anyway to breathe until the atmos-maker is set up."

"So where do the atoms come in?"

Tom drew an imaginary diagram in mid-air. "Pushed by its own pressure, the oxygen flows into a special chamber below the atomic reactor, where the gas is exposed to concentrated ionizing radiation produced in the reactor—high gamma rays, mostly. The radiation knocks electrons loose in the gas, which gives it a powerful electrical charge. The charged oxygen molecules repel one another, much more forcefully than the explosion produced by fuel combustion in standard rocket engines."

"And there’s your thrust," nodded Tom’s pal. "Sounds like the Titan will give you a lot more ‘bang for your buck’."

"Right," Tom confirmed. "That’s why the crew section of the ship can be so much larger than the little two-person compartment in the nose of the Star Spear."

In appearance the Titan was very different from any spacecraft yet launched. Its rather squat central fuselage was cylindrical and bullet-shaped, with the single thrust exhaust nozzle, extending down beneath it, flaring widely like the horn of a trumpet. This portion of the ship held the tanks, reactor, and engine apparatus. The habitable section of the ship was completely separated from the central cylinder, skirting its lower third like a flat-sided doughnut complete with a hole in the middle. The outside-facing wall of the crew module was a continuous transparent viewpane stretching all the way around, and large storage bins were built into the floor and ceiling of the module. There was no launch tower or gantry: the ship rested on its launch pad atop four stubby landing legs.

Tom added, "If you want more details about the Titan, speak to Rafe Franzenberg. He was Dad’s main assistant in the design, which Enterprises did under contract with the government. I was just a kid back then."

"A kid inventor, you mean!" Bud proclaimed. "While I was hanging out on the Jungle Gym, you were inventing luminous wallpaper and left-handed coffee mugs!"

Presently Tom received word from the loading foreman that that all equipment and supplies were aboard and safely stowed. It was time for the crew of thirteen to board the spaceship.

"Lead the way, sky boy!" chortled Bud.

The youths approached the silver-gleaming craft, pinned in a webwork of floodlight beams. Stepping onto a small platform, the boys rode several yards up the ship’s side, to one of the Titan’s three loading hatches. On the way, Tom pointed out that the entire hull was coated with a transparent layer of Inertite one-thousandth of an inch thick.

"That layer will protect her from the strongest cosmic rays," he told Bud. "And it’ll protect the crew from any gamma rays that manage to find their way out of the ionizing chamber."

Reaching the sliding hatch, which could be opened to a width of ten feet, the boys climbed inside the spaceship and passed through one of the larger storage bays, taking a ladder to the main deck above. Though Bud had already been trained in a simulation of the craft’s interior, he couldn’t help a gasp of amazement. "Jetz! What is this—a luxury liner?"

Tom looked around proudly at the crew’s living quarters. "Quite different from our earlier rockets, eh? We’ve really come up in the world."

Comfortable fold-down bunks lined the inner wall. There were private lockers for each man, a well-stocked library, and a small recreation lounge with exercise equipment. Built on a continuous curve, the crew module’s dividing walls were open at the outer periphery, next to the viewpane, providing a hallway that encircled the ship.

Tom went on, "Below deck is the cargo hold, with smaller bins above us for the more compact items. That door over there leads to Chow’s galley."

As they strolled along, soon joined by some of the other crew members, Tom showed Bud a machine shop for emergency repairs. It was equipped with power tools, workbenches, gauges, and racks of technical gadgets.

"Now take a peek at the lab setup," Tom said. Bud’s eyes grew wide as Tom slid back a door and pressed a master light switch. The compartment beyond was divided into cubicles, each one equipped for a different type of scientific research. One area contained retorts, test tubes, and shelves crowded with chemicals. Another housed a maze of gleaming electronic test gear. Still another contained optical devices and lens-grinding equipment.

Finally they arrived at the main flight compartment and control room, which was next to the airlock hatch. Several rows of acceleration seats faced an array of dials, scopes, and control levers.

"Glad to see they’ve got that extra seat bolted down," noted Tom approvingly. "The lucky thirteenth!"

"My hands are itching to take a crack at these gadgets in real-time!" Bud said, grinning. "The reality is never the same as the simulation."

"You’ll catch on to it in no time," Tom assured him.

Midnight was drawing near, and the remaining space travelers were filtering into the cabin, taking seats one by one. The seats were not specifically assigned, excepting only the those at the control panel, which were reserved for Tom and Bud as pilot and copilot.

Jason Graves was the last to enter, big and blustery in his pressure suit. "Say, is this seat the only one left? I’d assumed I’d be sitting with the mission leader up front."

"You were the last to board, Mr. Graves," said Teodor Kutan in the calming voice of a professional diplomat.

"I’m perfectly well aware of that fact, Kutan!" snapped Graves. "I had some important last-minute calls to make. But for the good of the expedition—"

"Please take your seat, sir," Tom directed the executive. "We can discuss the seating arrangements en route."

Eight minutes to go! They talked quietly, each man thinking of the tremendous adventure that lay ahead—some thinking of the dangers that might face them on the strange, small alien world.

Tom glanced at the time and muttered to Bud, "I’m surprised Dad hasn’t come by yet. He was planning to wish us all luck in person."

But just then Mr. Swift strode into the room. Looking up, Tom noticed his father’s grim expression. So did everyone else. The hum of voices ceased.

"What’s wrong, Dad?" Tom anxiously inquired.

Mr. Swift spoke to the whole group. "A report just came in via State Department back-channels," he told them soberly. "The Brungarian government has announced that their expedition has already taken off and is now in earth orbit, preparing to depart on a trajectory to the satellite!"

"That means they’ve won!" Bud cried out in anger and deep disappointment. "They’ll claim Little Luna!"

EVERY FACE in the compartment showed utter dismay. If the Brungarians were about to seize control of the satellite, why should the Swifts bother to blast off in the Titan?

Tom was first to break the silence. "Any word from Washington about canceling the expedition?" he calmly asked his father.

Mr. Swift shook his head. "Nothing so far. The report has not been verified—as you know, the moonlet seems to have stirred up the earth’s magnetic envelope, and deep-space radar scans have been affected. I’ve been trying to reach Admiral Krevitt. Unless we hear otherwise, I’d say we’re free to use our own judgment."

"Then let’s go ahead!" Tom urged without hesitation. "That announcement may be a hoax!"

The flight deck rocked with cheers, and Mr. Swift approved his son’s proposal with a smile of determination. "I was confident that would be your answer, son. Now, all of you, best of luck—our thoughts and prayers are riding with you."

"I’m jest hopin’ we don’t need ’em," Chow murmured, and the room erupted in nervous laughter as Mr. Swift exited with a wave.

The final minutes of the countdown proceeded on schedule. Yet an air of gloom, dark as the midnight sky, pervaded the rocket base. Word of the Brungarian claim had gotten around, and there was little of the excitement and humor that usually marked the launch of a spacecraft.

"Not even a brass band to see us off!" Bud complained.

When the voyagers were strapped in safely and the hatches sealed, Tom spoke into the mike, calling for a clearance check. Swiveling radar dishes probed the night sky with invisible feelers.

"All clear, Titan," reported the mission ground crew. A loud-speaker thundered, "All personnel please leave the launching area!" and mechanics and engineers scurried for cover.

"This is it!" Tom told his team. He punched the final commands into the guidance computer, then buckled his own safety belt.

Inside the flight compartment, the space voyagers listened tensely to the tail end of the countdown. Suddenly a familiar voice interrupted. "Titan, this is Mr. Swift. We just got word from Washington about that Brungarian announcement. Their government says the report is false! Repeat, false! Their space agency denies all such reports as completely unauthorized!"

Hearty cheers filled the cabin as Chow muttered in disgust, "Them sidewinders is full o’ more tricks than a locoed bronc! Wonder how they keep track o’ their own lies?"

"Let’s hope our luck holds," Tom said quietly. A second later came blast-off. With an earthshaking roar, fortunately muffled inside the cabin, the Titan began to rise slowly from its launch pad.

Suddenly a blinding flash of blue-white light flooded the cabin, followed by a dozen more in rapid succession! "What is it?" cried Violet Wohl fearfully.

"Ah hah! Somebody didn’t read her manual!" chided Rafael Franzenberg. "Just a harmless little lightning discharge from the ionized exhaust gases."

"We ran into worse twenty years ago, in the shuttle," commented Col. Northrup. "Real high-altitude thunderstorms. Shook us up."

The Titan now accelerated and headed skyward. The seconds ticked off as the earth fell away below. Then, without warning, another bright flash made the crew flinch in their seats.

"Sorry, folks," called out Gabriel Knorff, holding up his camera with its electronic flash. "Had to get a shot of this historic moment."

But there were no more lighthearted comments as the Titan thundered its way through the last shreds of the atmosphere and into the abyss of black space. Those who had never traveled into space were silent with awe, but even the others seemed to feel the weight of their mission.

Tom had asked Dr. Wohl to sit next to Henrick Jatczak, to keep an eye on the health of the frail-looking astronomer. "Marvelous!" murmured Dr. Jatczak, gazing through the broad, curving viewpane. "I have only seen our galaxy of stars in little bits at a time, as if through a peephole in a fence. Now this!—such wonder."

"Yes," said Violet Wohl. "How are you dealing with the G-forces, Henrick?"

"Like a fish to water, my dear."

Kent Rockland spoke up. "I was expecting worse, actually. The pressure doesn’t feel like much at all."

"The Titan is able to accelerate more moderately than most rockets," Tom responded, keeping his eyes on the instruments. "We hardly need to worry about fuel consumption, and can take our time reaching—"

"Tom!" cried Hank Sterling in sudden alarm. "The module! It’s shifting out of position!"

Tom gave a glance back and saw where Hank was pointing. The edge of the viewpane seemed to be inching out of line, as if the crew module were pulling away from the central propulsion section!

"It’s one of the positioning brackets," said Bud, eyeing the instruments. "Good night, it must have pulled completely loose from the hull!"

"B-boss, is this thing about to go bronco on us?" gasped Chow as a vibration raced through the compartment.

"Go bronco? What does he mean?" asked Ron Corey.

"Don’t worry, chief," commented Rafael. "It’s not a joke—you don’t have to get it."

Joke or not, Tom knew the situation was a serious one. If one bracket had failed, the strain on the others might cause further damage, leading to a chain reaction with catastrophe at the end. Thinking quickly, the young astro-captain plucked the hand microphone from its cradle and tuned the frequency. "Titan to space outpost!"

"We read you, Titan," came the reply. Tom and Bud recognized the voice of Ken Horton, commander of the outpost crew. "Your trajectory looks mighty fine to us."

"We need to make some quick repairs," Tom explained. He described the problem. "Could you have an extra-vehicular tech team ready for us?"

"Wilco, Tom. See you in a few!"

With a terse explanation to their fellow astronauts and a call back to mission control on Fearing Island, Tom and Bud activated the ship’s maneuvering system—thrust-diverter vanes that could be extended into the main flow to alter the direction of its force.

The trip to Swift Enterprises’ space station went smoothly despite the slight sagging of the crew module. The travelers coasted upward for four hours, and there was no further stress on the brackets. Then, at the proper instant, Tom kicked in the atomic drive to curve the ship into orbital course at 22,300 miles out.

"More shifting," Bud remarked nervously. "I’m chewing my knuckles until we get that bracket fixed, skipper!"

Presently a voice chuckled over the radio, "Welcome to Sky Haven!"

"Hi, Ken!" Bud exclaimed.

"We’ve arrived!" Tom grinned.

Eager for their first glimpse of the famous outpost in space, the newer members of the crew rushed to the transparent plasti-quartz window. Gasps and murmurs of awe arose. Even though the astronauts had seen pictures of Tom’s space station, the immensity of the spectacle was breathtaking.

"Hold it!" called out Gabe, flashing a shot of the space crew with the outpost shining in the background.

The huge silver wheel, its fourteen thick spokes spreading outward from a central hub, gleamed in the darkness, a stark study in white against black. It slowly rotated, sending dancing sparkles of reflected sunlight up and down its curving surfaces.

One of the spokes bore a latticework telescope. Others bristled with radar scanners, as well as radio and TV antennae. On still another, highly polished mirrors were mounted to focus sunlight upon the solar-battery production lines.

As Tom maneuvered alongside, he described the layout of his space station to his companions. Each of the wheel’s spokes served a different purpose. One was an observatory, one a bunkroom—others were laboratories or factories. The whole setup formed a bustling community in space, constantly replenished by rockets launched from the Swift facility on Loonaui Island in the Pacific.

"A fantastic achievement!" Dr. Jatczak remarked.

Tom guided the Titan to the side of the disklike wheel facing them, which was universally called the underside, as it was the side nearest the distant earth. As soon as the ship was moored to the space outpost by magnetic grapples, the grapple arms contracted, drawing the Titan up to the nonrotating airlock corridor that protruded from the spherical hub of the station. Tom announced, "Sorry, there won’t be time for any sightseeing. We must move fast if we hope to reach the satellite before the Brungarians do!"

When everyone readily agreed, Tom donned an oxygen rig and helmet, turning his pressure suit into a true spacesuit, and exited the Titan. An extravehicular tech crew from the outpost was already at work, inspecting the brackets that joined the ship’s crew compartment to the central cylinder.

"Horton here," came Ken’s Texas drawl over Tom’s earphones. "The beam is almost completely detached, Tom, but we should be able to fix it up quickly."

"Wait a sec," replied the young inventor. "I’d like to take a look." Using tiny gas jets built into the forearms of his suit, Tom soared around the curving bulk of the craft to the spot where the repair crew had gathered.

Ken Horton greeted Tom and gestured toward the metal bracket. Tom floated closer and whistled softly. "The bolts didn’t give way," he said. "The whole beam has cracked open."

"Must have been a flaw in the casting," commented Horton.

"I’m not so sure!"

Tom radioed the Titan and asked Kent Rockland to suit up quickly and join him outside.

"Glad to!" Kent exclaimed. "I can hardly wait to put my practice time in your zero-G chamber to use!"

When the young metallurgist arrived, accompanied by Bud Barclay, Tom asked him to take a close look at the beam and give an opinion as to the cause of the break. "It wasn’t some random flaw," Kent declared presently. "I’d say sabotage!"

Tom nodded, unsurprised. "How did they do it?"

"Without giving you the full course in metallurgy and fabrication—someone managed to introduce a thin strip or ribbon of fragile material into the beam, probably during the casting phase. It didn’t extend all the way through, but it weakened the girder enough for it to slowly twist apart."

"We’ll use the portable scanner to examine the other brackets," promised Ken Horton.

Tom added, "Better check out the landing struts as well."

Tom jetted backwards to clear the way for the tech crew. But just then, a crewman who was jockeying a heavy piece of equipment across the gap between the outpost and the Titan bumped it a glancing blow with his air tank. The bulky machine, knocked loose from its path, began to tumble and swung straight at Tom’s back!

"Look out!" Bud and Kent cried out at the same time.

Both launched themselves with a flying kickoff from the hull of the spaceship and hurled themselves at Tom to knock him out of harm’s way.

But the effort misfired. Though Kent was able to shove Tom aside, the whirling bulk slammed hard against the back of Bud’s transparent bubble-helmet, sending the young pilot hurtling into open space.

"Barclay! Use your jets!" cried Ken Horton.

"He’s been knocked out!" Tom exclaimed. He could see Bud’s head lolling inertly inside his helmet.

Tom activated his own suit jets and streaked to Bud’s rescue. Only seconds had passed, but his pal was already more than a hundred yards from the outpost! Tom retrobraked, found that he had overcompensated, then retroed again. Finally he was able to snag Bud’s limp form and draw him close. But when Tom tried to activate the jets again to return to the space station, they sputtered once—and died!

Good grief, I’m out of fuel! Tom thought in alarm. And Bud’s suit jets would provide no help, as they could only be operated from within the spacesuit, and Bud was unconscious.

Suddenly a glittering movement against the blackness of space caught his eye. A thin cable, painted a brilliant green, snaked out from the direction of the outpost like a striking serpent! As the end streaked past, Tom grabbed the line. A moment later it snapped taut.

"Nice shooting, guys!" Tom radioed, relief in his voice.

"You didn’t forget about our pressurized rescue lines, did you?" joked one of the men.

"After all, you invented it!" added Ken Horton.

Tom used the rigid line to propel himself back to the vicinity of the Titan, his arm around Bud, who was beginning to stir and groan.

Kent said, "I thought you were goners!"

"Of course, any of us could have jetted over to pull them back," noted Ken Horton evenly. "Even you, Rockland. You were nearest."

The metallurgist looked abashed. "I—I know. Guess I froze up for a second."

"No harm done, Kent," Bud muttered woozily, conscious again, but aching where the back of his head had snapped against his helmet.

"Better knock off for a while and catch your breath," Horton suggested to the trio from the ship.

"No time for that," said Tom urgently. "We must hurry."

At last the repair and inspection was completed. Tom and Ken Horton exchanged a warm spacesuited handclasp.

"Sure sorry you aren’t coming with us, Ken!"

The space veteran laughed. "Next time, boss. Maybe I’ll come visit you on Little Luna—once the volleyball courts are set up!"

The members of the expeditionary force now reboarded the Titan. At the last moment, a crewman from the space outpost came floating through the connecting passage bearing a large, pressurized case.

"For Dr. Wohl," he explained tersely, handing the case to Bud, who looked at it curiously. "What is it?" Bud asked, but when he glanced up the crewman had already departed.

Bud brought the case aboard and handed it to Violet Wohl, who expressed pleasure and carefully unsealed it in front of the other crew members. The case proved to contain a cage full of white rats!

Chow’s face wore a doubtful expression. "Brand my gyro, ma’am, what’re you doin’ with them varmints?"

Dr. Wohl, carefully strapping the case to her own bunk, replied with mild indignation, "These are valuable cargo, Chow. They’ve been raised in low gravity on a special diet, and I’m taking them along for research experiments on the satellite. I don’t want to risk having them injured before we even get there."

"Wa-al," responded the range hand, "if’n they get loose in here, we’re gonna wish we’d brought along a few space cats."

Dr. Wohl stood tall and looked Chow in the eye. "They won’t get loose. But if anything happens to these little guests of mine, you’ll find that I can be worse than a wet space tiger! Is that clear?"

"Yes sir, ma’am!" gulped the chef. But as he slunk meekly away, he snorted under his breath, "Huh! First time I ever heard o’ treatin’ those thievin’ calamoots so good!"

Smiling, Tom ordered everyone to buckle his safety harness. Then he accessed the flight computer which would control their revised course to the satellite, and radioed farewell to the space outpost.

"Here goes!" he cried as the countdown ended.

The main thruster roared, and the Titan responded instantly. But instead of a gradual, steady acceleration, the ship hurled itself into space as if struck by a home-run batter! The force of the acceleration was more powerful than the crew had expected, and they were all jolted backwards into their cushioned seats, violently.

Hank Sterling choked out a lungful of air, as if he had been slugged in the stomach, and Col. Northrup, who sat next to him, remarked through clenched teeth, "This is nothing, my friend. On the shuttle we had to take more than—"

The next instant the cabin resounded with a sharp crack like a pistol shot! The acceleration seat occupied by Henrick Jatczak flipped backward, hurling the elderly scientist to the deck!

"Tom!" yelled Gabriel Knorff, struggling with the sudden pressures of acceleration. "The guy’s bleeding—he’s hurt bad!"

"TOM, what happened? What’s going on?" Bud cried out fearfully. There was no answer! Desperately the copilot tried to turn his head for a look, but the crushing weight of acceleration pinned him against the back of his seat with paralyzing force. And instead of letting up, the force was increasing! Bud’s lungs convulsed under the pressure. His face muscles pulled taut, baring his teeth in a skull-like grimace.

Like a streak of light, the Titan hurtled through space at unchecked speed!

Exerting all his strength, Bud raised his right hand. Inch by inch, he groped forward, clawing for the main cutoff for the automatic pilot. At last his hand reached the switch and slammed it downward. Instantly the huge spaceship slackened its terrifying lunge.

As the pressure eased off, there were groans and gasps from all the passengers—even, perhaps, from Jess Northrup. At last able to turn his head, Bud saw that Tom was half-slumped in his seat, held in place by his safety restraints. Bud unbuckled himself and rushed to Tom’s side. "Tom, are you all right?"

Tom was conscious but could only reply with a faint moan. Bud freed him from his harness and shouted for Dr. Wohl.

"No, Bud," Tom protested weakly. "I’m all right. She needs to check on Dr. Jatczak!"

"I am already doing so!" called Violet Wohl. Clutching her medical kit the physician knelt by the side of the astronomer, who was unconscious. She ran her hands over Jatczak’s limbs and body, checking for possible fractures, and also peered into the pupils of his eyes through an ocular instrument. As Tom approached, she said, "He’s coming around, but he may have had a slight concussion."

"Should we return to Earth, Doctor?" Tom asked grimly. "I won’t risk a life just to be first to plant a flag."

By this time Henrick Jatczak had regained consciousness. "Wh-what happened?" he muttered groggily. "Why am I on the floor?"

"Looks as if your seat support broke under the strain of acceleration," Tom replied gently. "You made a crash landing."

The elderly man winced. "I remember now. My boy, I saw every star in the Milky Way, and without the impediment of a telescope! But if I have any say in the matter, I insist that you travel on—even if you have to ship me back to your space station in a crate."

Dr. Wohl smiled. "I’m sure I can treat him en route without any danger."

"Come take a look at Mr. Graves," Teodor Kutan called out. "I think he’s backed out!" It seemed the big industrialist’s drive and determination had proven unequal to the stresses of runaway acceleration. Wohl administered smelling salts, and Graves gurgled. As he revived, he brushed the doctor’s hand aside. "Get that stuff out of my face!" he growled. "What do you think I am—a sick old lady?" He struggled to his feet, clearly in an angry mood. "Why didn’t you warn us about that big burst, Swift? Every pen in my pocket is broken!"

"It was unplanned, Mr. Graves," Tom said. "Something must have thrown the automatic pilot out of kilter. Now we have to get back on course—fast!"

"Leave that to me, Tom," Hank Sterling offered. "I’ll run a diagnostic."

Then everyone flinched as a bright flash lit the cabin. "Gabe, I’m gonna take that camera and ram it right down—" Bud began.

"Freedom of the press, pal!" replied Knorff, lowering his camera. "It’s why I’m here. Besides, I had to make sure the camera wasn’t damaged."

"Let’s take a look at the damage to that seat," Tom said. As the ship was coasting and zero-gravity conditions now prevailed, it was an easy matter to lift Jatczak’s acceleration seat from where it had wedged itself. Holding it over his head, Tom examined the broken underpinnings. The swivel joint which had held the cot to its pedestal had fractured. As a result, several bolts had been sheared off or been wrenched loose under the strain.

"What’s the verdict?" Bud asked. "More sabotage?"

"This time it was probably just an accident," pronounced Kent Rockland over Tom’s shoulder. "It wasn’t made to take such a high acceleration."

"Neither was I!" jibed Rafe Franzenberg. "But say, Violet, you might want to check the blood pressure of your rats."

"We all thank you for your concern," she replied with a frown.

Tom and Bud now returned to the front of the compartment, and Hank reported his findings. "It was a programming glitch that came into play when we had to load in the new course data," he explained. "We should have no further trouble."

"That’ll be the day!" muttered Chow. "I’m jest glad I didn’t have a cake in the oven."

In fifteen minutes Dr. Jatczak’s acceleration seat had been repaired with spare parts. Next, Tom took a reading of their position with a device nicknamed the Spacelane Brain.

Kent Rockland came forward to peer over the inventor’s shoulder as the machine whirred into action. On one dial a needle flickered to the 27,600-mile mark. On another dial colored dots registered a navigational fix.

"What is that gadget?" Kent inquired with keen interest.

"A combination stellar sextant, cosmic-ray altimeter, and computer," Tom explained. "We were way off course, but this gimmick will tell us our position and velocity and feed the results into the main navigational computer."

Turning to the crew, he ordered, "All hands back to your seats and secure your safety belts! We’re going to accelerate again!"

"This time, let’s not burn a hole in the sky, pal," Bud cracked as he took his seat.

Tom chuckled. "I’ll watch it."

Cautiously he flipped on the automatic pilot and the atom-powered oxygen thruster thundered to life. The Titan speared forward at terrific but bearable acceleration.

Mere minutes later, the rocket’s automatic cutoff switch shut off the power. The Titan then coasted along an elongated trajectory carrying it further and further away from the earth. Finally, hours later, Tom brought the ship into an orbit 54,000 miles out. "Now we play catchup," Tom remarked.

Soon the phantom satellite glided onto the crew cabin viewpane. At first only a round blob of light, it began to look more like a midget world as the ship drew closer—a dark world mottled with strange patches and streaks of color. As it grew larger still, the tense, silent crew stirred with excitement.

"Wow!" Bud gasped. "We’re here! I can hardly wait for the first close look!"

Tom turned on the tracking-control computer and the rocket went into a slow-cruising pattern around Little Luna. Ripping off their seat belts, everyone crowded up to the window. In silence, they gaped down at the weird moonlet. A feeling of awe akin to terror gripped the crew as they eyed the mysterious intruder from outer space.

"A new and unknown world!" Dr. Jatczak exclaimed.

Ron Corey said softly, "Some day we’ll make it a green world, Doctor—a world with air, water, and food crops to keep colonists alive."

"I hope the tree-huggers won’t make a national park of it," grumbled Jason Graves. "I see quite an industrial potential down there."

"Brand my space suit," Chow quavered, "jest lookin’ at the thing makes my spine feel like a buckin’ bronc!"

Bud glanced at his pal, who had said nothing so far. "What’re you thinking, genius boy?"

"Mostly about setting us down safely," he answered. "I’ll coast in to about twenty miles altitude and head north to the pole. Bud, you and Dr. Jatczak break out the small telescope and see if you can spot a good, flat place to land. I’d like to get as close to the pole as possible."

"I would suggest you also look for any signs a Brungarian landing." All eyes turned toward Dr. Kutan.

"But I thought the report of their expedition was bogus!" Kent protested.

Teodor Kutan shook his head. "These competitions between nations are anything but simple and straightforward. It would be typical of the Brungarians to have launched an expedition, and then denied it when word got out. They would prefer not to confirm it until—and unless—it was a complete success. The new democratic government has not completely broken with its predecessors."

"Report whatever looks interesting," Tom directed Bud and Jatczak.

"Righto, skipper," Bud replied.

"Let me know if you spot any love-starved space sirens," said Rafe. He winked in the direction of Violet Wohl, who turned away disdainfully.

Tom guided the spaceship closer to Little Luna, whose gravity was too slight to sustain the craft in an orbit. Bud and Jatczak hastily set up a tripod-mounted telescope and scanned the surface of the satellite. A strange panorama passed before their eyes. Rocky and barren, pockmarked and forlorn, the little world was devoid of life. The rugged terrain was indented with yellow craters and broken by upthrusting crags of gray, pink, and blue. The sharply curving horizon had a sawtooth outline.

Presently, as Tom cruised northward, they passed from the sunlit zone into the nighttime portion. Yet even in the dim light, details of the terrain were visible.

"Fortunately, there’s enough earthshine to light up the satellite," commented Dr. Jatczak with his eye to the telescope.

"Earthshine? What in the name o’ coyotes is that?" Chow queried.

"Sunlight reflected back from the earth."

Chow beamed. "Then most of it’s comin’ from Texas!"

The others chuckled and Tom drawled out of the side of his mouth, "Well, brand my panhandle if it ain’t!"

After circling the satellite several times, the travelers could find no sign of any earlier landing by a spaceship.

Bud gave a whoop of triumph. "Yippee! We’ve won the race!"

The crew joined in a ringing cheer, as the men shook hands and slapped one another on their backs. "Never bet against good old Yankee know-how!" exulted Jason Graves. "Wish I had a cigar."

Jubilant, Tom nosed the Titan in still closer and began to descend toward a relatively flat area that Bud and Dr. Jatczak had noted, which was almost precisely at the moonlet’s north pole.

"Looks a bit small for a ship this size," commented Col. Northrup. "But you’re the captain, son."

Tom did not respond, and Bud, in the copilot’s chair, called out, "Ten thousand feet to touchdown point."

Suddenly a buzzer sounded.

"What’s that?" asked Gabe loudly. "Incoming call?"

"It’s one of the automatic alarms," muttered Hank Sterling.

"Y-you mean there’s a problem?"

"Tom’s compensating now."

Tom and Bud were making rapid adjustments to the controls. The pallor of their faces told the onlookers that something unexpected had happened.

Hank approached next to Tom and quietly let him know that he was standing near, ready to help.

Not looking up, Tom said in a low voice, "I can’t figure what’s happening. We’re accelerating toward the surface."

"Another computer glitch?" Hank asked.

"No," replied the young astronaut. "This time it has nothing to do with the ship. Some sort of force is pulling us downward, and it’s getting stronger by the second. If I can’t pull the ship free—we’ll crash!"

TOM SWIFT’S words carried to the rest of the cabin. "It must be those alien cronies of yours!" rumbled Jason Graves. "They’ve induced us to send an expedition up here just to destroy us!"

"Knock it off, Graves," commanded Kent Rockland.

"Let’s refrain from causing our captain any distraction," added Kutan.

Rafael Franzenberg elbowed his way to Tom’s side, nudging Hank out of the way. "Tom, let me see the nano-interferometry readings!" he demanded. Without question, Tom brought the data up on a monitor. "As I thought—the radar bounceback is getting red-shifted. That means—"

"Gravity!" exclaimed Tom unbelievingly. "We’ll have to flip and fire the main thruster!"

"Everyone strap in!" bellowed Bud.

Assuming that the miniscule gravity of Little Luna would require only a slight nudge of power to ease the Titan to a gentle landing, Tom had been heading down nose-first, planning to reverse orientation close to the surface. But now, reaching out, he switched on the gyros for the descent maneuver made necessary by these unexpected conditions. The craft responded by heeling over to a vertical, tail-down position. The atomic thruster was now engaged, the blast firing straight downward to slow the ship.

"More power, skipper!" Bud urged.

There was a jolt as Tom upped the thrust. The Titan hung motionless for a moment, Tom’s hands flying back and forth among the banked rows of levers and switches. At the same time, his keen blue eyes kept a hawklike watch on various dials. Don’t dare to trust the computer now! he thought.

Under Tom’s guidance, the Titan began to sink groundward. But the rate of descent was very uneven.

"By jingo, this is like goin’ down in a start-’n-stop elee-vator!" Chow gasped. "My stomach cain’t set itself down!"

"The forces pulling on us must be changing rapidly," said Kent breathlessly. "Tom has to compensate by hand."

"Minor problems," Northrup commented. "Nothing to worry about."

"Does anything ever bug you, Colonel?" asked Gabe Knorff, irritated.

"Sure, son," he replied suavely. "Photographers!"

"One thousand feet!" Bud sang out.

Moments later, Tom flicked a switch to extend a pair of long impact-cushioning struts, which Bud had christened the Daddy Long-Legs Gizmos. These hydraulic struts were to absorb the impact as the craft settled down on the four stubby landing legs that sprouted from the bottom of the propulsion module. Special anchoring mechanisms at the ends of the long struts, capable of penetrating the hardest rock, would drill themselves deeply into the ground to help stabilize the craft on the surface.

"Impact five seconds!" Tom announced. The expeditioners braced themselves.

A heartbeat later came a sharp jolt. The Swift expedition had landed!

"Relax, everybody!" said Tom in a loud voice. "We’re here!"

The cabin rang anew with cheers, and even Jason Graves joined in.

Bud hugged Tom. "You did it, pal! Score one more for old Swift Enterprises!" Tom could only grin happily in response.

After radioing mission control and reporting the successful touchdown, Tom turned to face his crew. "Okay. Into your space suits!&quo