TOM SWIFT

"CALLING Tom Swift!"

"Power failure in the wind tunnel!"

"Hey, the presses have stopped in the metalstamping department!"

Excited voices blared out from all corners of Swift Enterprises, many wending their way toward the telephone in Tom Swift’s private laboratory at the ultramodern four-mile-square experimental station. But the telephone bleeped and sputtered in vain. Tom was not there.

In the big assembly building known as the Barn, a lanky, blond youth with deep-set blue eyes switched off his experimental equipment as the lights above him began to flicker and fail.

Tom sighed. Then his pocket phone made a modest chirp and he fished it out of his pocket.

"Tom speaking."

"For Pete’s sake, take it easy, chief!" gasped a voice at the other end of the line. "You’ve popped the main circuit breakers for the whole plant!"

"The load’s off, Art," Tom reported, recognizing the voice of engineer Art Wiltessa. "I just stopped my experiment. My apologies to everyone."

The young inventor clicked off and stood for a moment balefully regarding the odd-looking clump of machinery that silently awaited his next electronic order. Almost hidden behind a dense spiderweb of power-feed cables, the device consisted of a wide, low circular casing with a round depression in the center of its topside, causing it to resemble a rather puffy metal doughnut with a very stunted hole. Above it rose a series of thick disks, one above the other, in a spreading conelike array, the narrow neck of which dipped down into the center of the "doughnut" and touched it at a fine point.

"No use, Matty," murmured Tom. "You’ve got just too much appetite."

"Wa-aal, anybody with an appetite around here better think about losin’ it!" twanged a gravelly voice, none too pleased. "Brand my buckshot, Tom Swift, give folks a warning if you plan blowin’ all the ee-lec-tricity on this here spread!"

Tom’s frustrated frown switched to a broad smile as a chunky, bowlegged, weather-beaten figure came stomping into the big, hangarlike space. Wearing a white chef’s hat and highheeled cowboy boots, Chow Winkler, the Enterprises cook for its executive staff, was pushing a lunch cart in front of his ample midriff.

"Sounds as though you’ve had some trouble, Chow," Tom said sympathetically.

"Trouble? Pardner, I’d call it real misery! And all on account o’ your experimentin’. My mixer went dead jest when I ’as beatin’ up some lemon meringey. My fancy-pants electronic range is as stone-dead as Jesse James. An’ there I was with two dozen half-baked pie shells—not t’mention lunch!"

Chow grunted with disgust as he served Tom the food off the cart. "So there’s your lunch, wrangler— cold beans an’ applesauce."

"Looks good to me," said Tom with a sheepish expression. To emphasize it, he piled into the food hungrily.

"It better be, son, ’cause that’s all I got to offer. Jest lucky you didn’t electrocute yourself into the bargain, messin’ around with all them volts an’ killywatts!" But after a brief pause, the cook’s broad brow began to furrow with concern. "Y’know, boss, I kin prob’ly rustle up somethin’ better right quick. You young fellers need your vitamins and energy."

Tom chuckled silently. He knew that under the old Westerner’s leathery hide beat a heart as warm as Texas sunshine. Chow Winkler had been a ranch cook with a modern-day chuck wagon when he met Tom and his father Damon Swift during the course of a project in the New Mexico desert. He had become so fond of Tom that he agreed to go back to Shopton with them and take on the job of chef for the Swifts at Enterprises. When Tom went on expeditions, he usually accompanied him as cook, confidant, and friend. More than once his dedication and shrewd, seasoned insight had proven invaluable.

"This lunch suits me fine, Chow," Tom reassured him. "I’m sorry about the troubles my tests caused you. And speaking of energy, that’s the problem in a nutshell. Matty here—that’s my new matter-making machine—needs a lot more of it than we can handle."

"More’n this whole place kin handle, sounds like," observed the former Texan, casting a suspicious eye at Tom’s equipment. "Matter-makin’ machine, huh? More like a nerve-wrackin’ machine!"

Tom gave a rueful laugh. "Matty’s been messin’ with my nerves too, pard—ever since we got back to Earth!"

Only weeks had elapsed since Tom, Chow, and a large crew had returned from their epic voyage to the moon aboard the newest Swift spacecraft, the colossal Challenger. True to form, the youthful scientist-inventor, who had already earned a name for himself in the history books that equaled that of his famous same-named great-grandfather, had plunged full speed into perfecting a bold new idea. It was his test of the key component of his invention that had confounded Enterprises’ power supply and Chow’s oven.

"Shall I explain how my boy here works, Chow? I promise I haven’t explained it to Bud yet!" Tom was teasing his friend. Chow had complained about the fact that Tom usually favored his pal Bud Barclay with an account of his work and ideas before anyone else.

Chow looked doubtful but eased down on the top of a crate, pulling off his chef’s hat. "That’d be fine, son. But make it short—none o’ that mathy-matics that’d drive a junebug crazy. I got me lunch t’ serve."

Tom nodded affectionately. "I’ll do my best. Okay then, what we have here is a machine that makes matter."

"Figgered that," Chow said. "So ain’t we got enough? I got more’n enough, m’self."

Tom chuckled. "Well, the problem is that space travelers don’t have enough of the right kind of matter—specifically air and water. On the moon, or when we’re traveling through space," Tom continued, "we’ll be cut off from our natural sources, the supplies we take for granted here on Earth. If this machine could produce oxygen, nitrogen, water, maybe even edible rations of some kind that could be eaten in an emergency, then we could exist away from the earth as long as we wanted to stay."

"Not sech a bad idee," Chow commented, "ceptin’ that ‘edible rations’ part. Don’t sound like good healthy food t’ my way o’ thinking. But as fer the rest—wa-aal, I know you been talkin’ about doin’ some homesteadin’ back up on the moon."

"That’s right," said Tom with a grin. "Lunar colonization—a permanent scientific city—that’s the next logical step. But it won’t get started without air and water."

The westerner frowned. "Thought you already had a machine t’ make air fer ya, boss."

When the mysterious extraterrestrials Tom called his space friends had moved a small asteroid into permanent orbit about our world, the young inventor had led the American rocket expedition that staked claim to the phantom satellite. There on Little Luna, as it had been nicknamed, Tom had used his atmos-maker invention to create a livable environment. "Chow, the atmosphere-making machine only works if the materials in the ground include plenty of oxygen-bearing and nitrogen-bearing compounds for the smelting mechanism to release. Otherwise you’d have to use tanked gases. Unfortunately, the compounds we need are rare on the moon—and of course they don’t exist at all in space itself."

"Made yer point," Chow agreed. "So this here jumble o’ stuff turns out air an’ water like some kinda assembly line, is that it?"

"I wish it were that simple," replied the young inventor. "This machine uses a complicated process, involving some cutting-edge quantum theory, to make the substances we need out of loose atoms of solar hydrogen—the ‘solar wind’ that’s always blowing out from the sun into outer space. That’s why I call it a solartron as its official name. It’s the latest in a long line of ‘trons’ that manipulate subatomic particles, such as the cyclotron, synchrotron, bevatron—"

"Whoa now!" exclaimed Chow with a look at his watch. "Gotta get a move on—folks is waitin’ on their lunch, sech as it is."

"But pard, I haven’t really explained how—"

"Mebbe some other time, son." As the cook wheeled his cart away in hasty dignity, he seemed to be muttering something under his breath. "Sike, sink, bev, quanto-squanto—brand my dictionary!"

Tom soft laughter was interrupted has his pocket phone rang again. The caller proved to be Mr. Greenup, head of the Shopton Municipal Water Company. "Tom, I just called to give you a head’s-up, as they say. Lewton Ajax is on the warpath, and you might be wise to head him off." Ajax was the president of Shining Path Power, the power-supply corporation that supplied the town with its electricity.

"I’ve spoken to Mr. Ajax more than once," Tom remarked. "He can get a little hot under the collar."

"As can I," chuckled Greenup. "But Lewton has his friends, you know. They say he’s got Dan Perkins in his corner." Perkins, owner and editor of the Shopton Evening Bulletin, had always had a somewhat testy relationship with the town’s biggest newsmaker, Swift Enterprises.

"Dad’s not especially worried, Mr. Greenup, and neither am I," was Tom’s reply. "The power problems have been limited to our facility out here, so far. It looks like we’ll have to go someplace else to work out the bugs anyway—Shining Path Power doesn’t seem to have enough of it!"

Herb Greenup paused. "Well, Tom… I suppose I shouldn’t tell tales out of school, but there’s something you and your father deserve to know."

"About Mr. Ajax?"

"About his attitude toward your plant—and you. It’s fairly well known in certain circles that Lewton Ajax intends to do whatever it takes to shut down Swift Enterprises!"

TOM was aghast. "Shut us down! But why in the world would he try to do something like that?"

"Ah, well, Tom, I’m just telling you what they say," was the cautious answer. "Ajax didn’t grow up in these parts—him and his snooty wife and those four obnoxious sons of his. They brought him in to run the company and make a good profit, and he’s one of those young fellows with big sharp teeth and very flexible morals. Unsociable type. Doesn’t care to apply to the Yachting Society, can’t be bothered with the Excelsis Club."

"I’ve only spoken with him on the phone," Tom remarked. "He seemed civil and rational. Does he have something against Swift Enterprises?"

Mr. Greenup snorted. "No, young fellow, what he has is something for the land Enterprises sits on—namely a great greedy desire! He’s one of the ones in favor of massive commercial development all along that side of town. Talks it up—jobs and taxes and all that."

"But we’re the biggest employer in Shopton, and the taxes we pay—" Tom caught himself. "Sorry, Mr. Greenup. It’s just ‘what they say.’ No need to get excited about it. Thanks for the call, though."

But the young inventor was disturbed. He called his father in the main office and they discussed the matter for a while. Mr. Swift could shed no light on the situation—although he admitted to having heard the same rumors.

Tom finished gulping down his food, then in a moment of quick resolve picked up the phone and called Shining Path Power, asking to be put through to Mr. Ajax directly. "Hello, Tom," the man answered, his voice rather cool. "You’ve been on my mind. I was about to give you a jingle."

"I was calling to ask if arrangements could be made to increase the supply of power to Enterprises from the town’s generating plant," Tom said.

"And I was calling to tell you that you’re maxing out our capacity. I don’t know what’s going on over there—something of grave worldly importance, I’m sure—but if Enterprises keeps it up our little town is going to have to ante up whatever it takes to produce more generating capacity. We’re looking at the possibility of brownouts and blackouts, Tom. Not only can’t I promise you any increase, but I’d say we’ll have to look at surcharges or serious cutbacks to keep the juice flowing."

"This is all news to me, Mr. Ajax," Tom replied. "We don’t mean to place that sort of burden on the town."

"Oh, I’m sure you don’t." Somehow Ajax sounded a bit sarcastic.

Tom began to think aloud. "With this sort of load… I suppose I should be thinking in terms of tapping the reactor at the Citadel. That’s our nuclear research facility out in—"

Ajax interrupted brusquely. "That’s your concern, not mine. I’ll let you know if any more of these ‘issues’ arise. Have a bright and powerful day."

Tom clicked off, deep in thought. As he turned, he suddenly realized that Bud Barclay had entered and was watching him with a half-smile.

"No luck with the electric company?" Bud asked. He began to casually unzip the flight gear shrouding his athletic form. An expert pilot, he had spent most of the morning jetting up to Bangor, Maine, and back, delivering some electronic components to an Enterprises licensee.

Tom shook his head wryly as his best friend drew closer. "Looks as though I’ll have to go out to the Citadel if I want to continue my experiments. With our new generating plant out there, I should have all the power I need. Up for a flight to New Mexico?"

"When haven’t I been up for a flight to anywhere?" laughed Bud. "By the way, why not take Ted Spring along?"

As he helped Bud out of his flight suit, Tom nodded his agreement. "Good idea, flyboy. If he’s going to accompany us on future space flights, he may as well familiarize himself with the solartron project from the ground up."

"And," Bud noted, "it’d make your Dad happy."

Twenty-two years old and a longtime family friend, Ted Spring was a tall and athletic African-American with a sincere, easy-going manner and, by everyone’s estimation, a bright future ahead of him. After graduating from an aeronautical engineering school, he had taken special training at Swift Enterprises as a space pilot.

Sadly, Ted’s career had already been marked by tragedy. While Ted was still in school, his father Dakin, a crack test pilot for the Swift Construction Company, had lost his life on a test flight. Since then Mr. Swift had taken a fatherly interest in young Ted, and in his family.

Knowing that Ted would be in the huge underground hangar where Tom’s great Flying Lab the Sky Queen was berthed, Tom and Bud strolled together down the slanting access corridor and into the cavernous chamber, blocks wide and several stories high. As expected, they found the young astronaut at work in Tom’s zero-G chamber, which simulated a zero-gravity environment for training purposes.

As Ted finished his session and exited the transparent cube, he gave the boys a jaunty wave. "Hey, Tom, Bud!" he greeted them. "What’s up? Do I get my first space cruise soon?"

"I’d say you’re about ready for it." Tom smiled warmly. "But first we’d like you to go out to the Citadel with us to work on a new project. If I get the bugs ironed out, we’ll be continuing operations in space—on the moon, eventually. Interested?"

There was a warm feeling of closeness between Tom and the young engineer-pilot. Ted’s father had been not only an old friend of the Swift family, but Ted had grown up in Shopton and he and Tom had shared many a boyish adventure, Ted acting as something of a sober-sided older brother at times.

"Gowanda! You can bet I’m interested in anything that’ll get me up and off the earth!" exclaimed Ted. "So what’s the deal, exactly?"

"I’m trying to develop a machine which will convert free hydrogen atoms into other kinds of matter," Tom explained. "Other elements and isotopes, for use on space trips. My test rig here looks promising, but I’ll need a tremendous amount of energy to perfect the real model, and it looks like I’m about to burn out the Enterprises power grid like an old lightbulb. That’s why it’s necessary to continue my experiments at the Citadel." He added that because Ted had a solid engineering background in addition to his astronaut training, he would be the ideal candidate to act as Tom’s assistant as the project moved on into its off-Earth phase. "But you’ll need to get to know the ins and outs of the solartron first—not just the test model, but the full space version I’ll be constructing."

Quickly Tom explained the principle of his new invention as Bud looked on with an interested smile. Walking over to his lab annex adjoining the hangar, Tom showed Ted the blueprints for the first working model. The young man was greatly impressed. He threw an arm around Tom’s shoulder. "T-man, I’d say this is the most advanced experiment ever undertaken by anyone since the development of atomic energy. If your project is successful, it’ll be a milestone in science! Einstein, watch out!"

Tom flushed with pride as Bud added, "No ‘if’s.’ Whatever dictionary genius boy uses, they left the word failure clean out of it."

They decided to leave for New Mexico the following morning, giving an Enterprises work crew sufficient time to load the solartron apparatus into the Sky Queen’s ample hold. "But let’s talk more about it this evening, Ted," said Tom. "Will you join us at dinner? Don’t need to ask you, Bud."

"Guess I’m almost always there anyway," Bud laughed. "But I never eat more than my share—half of everything, plus a little extra for good manners."

"I’ll be there with pleasure, Sir Boss!" Ted agreed, nodding eagerly. Mrs. Swift’s hospitality and delicious cooking had been a regular part of Ted’s growing-up, and Bud’s joviality and Tom’s blond, vivacious younger sister, Sandra, provided an extra reason for looking forward to the evening.

As expected, the dinner of flame-broiled Mongolian chicken and oven-hot mince pie was delicious. As Bud and Sandy, next to each other at the table, joked and chatted, Mrs. Swift turned to Ted. A petite, attractive woman, Tom’s mother avoided the public attention focused on her famous husband and son and devoted her time to homemaking and entertaining the many visitors to the Swift home, as well as keeping abreast of the latest developments in her field of interest, molecular biochemistry.

"How’s your mother, Ted?" Anne Swift asked solicitously. "You know she’s always welcome here."

"Fine, thank you," Ted replied. Suddenly a worried look shadowed his face. "That reminds me. I had an odd experience the other day."

‘‘What was it?’’ Tom’s father asked.

Ted said he was embarrassed to mention it but thought the Swifts should know about it. "A man named Hampshire phoned me at home—my day off. He said he was a ‘public-interest’ lawyer, whatever that means, and claimed he could get a lot more money for Mother and me in connection with my father’s accident.

"You understand," Ted went on, "that we are well satisfied with everything as it is. You folks have treated my mother very generously, and we don’t have any issues with the final settlement. But I felt I’d better tell you what Mr. Hampshire said."

"You’re absolutely right, Ted. I’m glad you mentioned it," Mr. Swift replied. "What else did this fellow Hampshire say?"

Ted frowned. "That’s the funny part of it. He said he wanted no fee for handling the case, just some information in return having to do with the case itself. He sounded kind of off, you know? Seemed to be trying to hint at things that he wouldn’t come right out and say. Of course we’re not interested, so I put him off. But since then I’ve been worried that he might be up to something underhanded."

"It sounds pretty suspicious!" Bud said.

"Oh, Bud, he’s a lawyer—they’re paid to sound like that," retorted Sandy. "They learn it in law school."

"I think we should check on him," Tom said firmly.

Mr. Swift gave a grave nod with a glance at his wife. "Why not call Harlan and see if he can trace this Mr. Hampshire?"

"Right, Dad. He doesn’t mind being called at home."

Tom made the call after dinner. Harlan Ames, the chief of Enterprises’ security department, promised to follow up on the matter at once. "I’ll have an answer for you by the time you get back from the Citadel. But I wouldn’t let this worry you. Lawsuits and threats of lawsuits are part of the cost of doing business. Our legal department can handle anything that comes up—if it isn’t just bogus from the word go."

Tom relayed the information to the others, and the whole matter ended up in what Bud called a group shrug.

The next morning, the sleek, wingless Sky Queen was raised to ground level on its elevator platform and readied for take-off, a small crew aboard that included, besides Bud and Ted, Chow Winkler, who had many old friends in New Mexico. In the hangar-hold on the lowest of the stratoship’s three decks, Tom checked off the various pieces of equipment that had been loaded aboard and secured. Included among these were all the parts for this first working model of his matter maker.

Bud, standing nearby, whistled. "Wowie! Those electric transformers are real giants!" The copilot pointed to several huge transformers, black "pots" encased in multilayered insulating material.

Tom smiled. "Yep. They’ll be essential for my experiments at the Citadel. No plain, ordinary electricity for me and Matty, flyboy!"

At last, with cargo and crewmen aboard, Tom took his place at the controls. Bud occupied the copilot’s seat, while Ted Spring also joined them in the flight compartment. At a signal from the tower, Tom opened the jet lifter throttle and the ship roared vertically into the morning air. Soon they were streaking westward above the clouds.

Bud grinned with sheer enjoyment. "Space flight or air flight—it’s sure a thrill."

"Man, you know it!" Ted agreed.

In a supersonic handful of hours, they were passing over the rugged badlands and desert country which had been chosen as the site for the great atomic research center. Canyons and mesas slashed in rainbow colors by the forces of erosion marked the approach to the Citadel. Then the terrain flattened out into barren scrubland which stretched away for miles toward the horizon.

"What a layout!" Ted gasped, as Tom lost altitude on the final approach to the Citadel. "It’s as big as Enterprises!"

A vast surface had been smoothed for the atomic plant. A cluster of ultramodern laboratory buildings and dormitories were arranged in pinwheel formation around a massive central structure of white concrete block. The whole installation was ringed with barbed wire and laser sensors, and accessed by a single desert road. Except for a few Indian pueblos in the distance, no other human habitations were visible.

"That white dome in the center is the reactor," Tom explained. "This afternoon, Ted, I’ll arrange to have someone show you around."

The Flying Lab sank down for a perfect landing at the Swift Enterprises Nuclear Research Facility. A federally secured site, the Citadel was protected by elaborate security measures, including the system of constantly circling drone microjets designed by Tom. The many miles of open desert in all directions provided additional safety from prying—or spying—eyes.

As the crew debarked from the Sky Queen, Bud asked, "What now, skipper?"

"Lunch," Tom decided. "Then to work."

"Gonna skip out on lunch this time," said Chow, squinting and grinning into the sun like it was home sweet home. "Think I’ll check out a car and go pay a visit to a friend er two over in town." The small town of Tenderly, miles distant, was the nearest settlement.

By the time the boys had finished eating, the heavy transformers and other equipment had been unloaded from the ship and trucked to Tom’s one-story laboratory setup. A crew of company linemen were stringing arm-thick power lines, resembling flexible metal hoses, from the powerhouse as the young inventor and his friends pulled up in their midget nanocar.

"Where do you want the pots hung, Mr. Swift?" the foreman called down, jerking his thumb toward the transformers.

"Mount them on the roof," Tom called back. "I’ll take over from there.’

"You’ll have a regular substation here, T-man," Ted commented. "What’s the setup?"

"Those high-tension powertubes will bring in 10,000 volts from the powerhouse," Tom explained, "and the transformers will step that down to 480. You see, my work will require low voltage, but very high amperage." Tom explained that the powertubes were not ordinary cables, but microwave conduits of unique design. "We’re sending the energy from place to place by shielded electromagnetic pulse."

"Don’t try sticking your hand in the pipe," Bud warned in a mock whisper. "But if you do, be sure to count your fingers afterwards!"

While the linemen were busy erecting the transformers, Tom went into the laboratory and began setting up his matter-making machine, the same preliminary model he had been experimenting with at Enterprises. Bud and Ted watched, fascinated, as the young inventor worked dexterously, several Citadel technicians at his side. "Let me see," Tom muttered. "Magnelectric focus—okay. Castings—check." He turned and glanced at his blueprints. "Vacuum system—then the flux modulators..."

The watchers gaped in awe as the machine gradually took shape. "How does he do it?" Ted muttered to Bud, who could only shrug happily, proud of his chum.

"All I know is, Tom’s going to burn out my brain long before he burns out the Citadel’s power plant!"

"Take a rest, flyboy—you’ve been overdoing it," Tom said with joking, but real, sympathy. "Why not take Ted on that sight-seeing tour of the Citadel while I finish setting this up? I have to make a few preliminary tests."

"Sure. Explaining an atomic reactor should be simple after this." Bud grinned. "Come on, Ted, let’s leave our genius to his jigsaw puzzle."

The space cadet laughed. "Okay. See you later, Tom."

Within an hour after his two companions had left, Tom had his new invention completely assembled. Then he drove over to the metalworking shop and forged a set of thick copper bars to carry the current from the transformers on the roof down to his solartron. These, however, proved to be so heavy and unwieldy that he discarded them and constructed new ones of aluminum.

"Holy Pete, that’s nice work, skipper," said Chuck Thornton, one of the technicians helping Tom, as he examined the results admiringly.

Tom nodded. "These aluminum ones are a lot lighter than copper and will handle the current just as well. You fellows can go now—I shouldn’t be needing any more help."

After the others left, Tom installed the bars and soon was ready to make the first test run of his matter maker at something close to full power. "Here goes," he told himself tensely.

Opening the main power junction, Tom adjusted several control knobs, keen eyes glued to the wavering light patterns on an oscilloscope screen. Then he watched the monitor dials with bated breath as the solid concrete building throbbed with the eerie resonant hum of the tremendous current flowing through the transformers.

Minutes passed unnoticed. So intent was Tom on his experiment that he failed to notice that the aluminum bars above him were becoming red-hot. As the bars began to succumb to the intense heat developed by the current load, there was a sudden shower of sizzling metal!

"Good night! The circuit’s overloaded!" Tom cried out as he fell back, shielding his eyes. Fortunately he was wearing a lab coat of protective Tomasite-asbestalon fabric. But he was cornered by the white-hot shower of metal droplets. To turn off the main switch, he would have to stretch his bare hand straight through the barrage of sparks and molten metal!

He tried wrapping his right hand in the tail of his lab coat, but the bulk made it impossible for him to feel or grasp the control switch. Scratch the easy way out! he murmured to himself bitterly.

Glancing up, he saw that the sparking portion of the bars was slowly spreading along the length of the aluminum. In moments it would be directly over his head!

TOM faced the fact that there was no solution but to reach directly through the curtain of searing sparks, unprotected. Gritting his teeth, muscles tensed to the limit in fearful anticipation, he thrust his arm forward, crying out involuntarily. "I—I can’t reach it!" Tom gasped as he groped vainly for the switch. The white-hot spume of metal was already blackening the fabric of his sleeves, and the exposed portions of his skin stung with agonizing pain!

"Help!" Tom yelled in frantic desperation. He felt unconsciousness drawing near. If he collapsed under the rain of sparks, it would be the end of him!

"Tom!" a horrified voice cried out from the lab doorway. Tom recognized it as Chuck Thornton’s, even though he was too blinded by the sparks to see him. "How can I get you out?" Chuck called frantically.

Tom’s heart gave a leap. "There’s a big slab of carbon to the right of the door," he shouted, trying not to yield to panic. "Maybe you can use it as a shield!"

"Roger!"

The slab was two yards long and nearly four feet wide. Grabbing it up on his palms and balancing it over his head, Chuck hunched down and dashed toward the young inventor. The intense heat was like a miniature inferno, with molten aluminum sparks shooting like blazing comets in every direction. Chuck managed to insert the carbon slab between Tom and the conductors. In a moment the young inventor had squirmed out of his deadly predicament.

Waving Chuck back to a position of safety, Tom approached the test setup from the opposite side and managed to switch off the power.

He leaned against a bench. "T-thanks for saving me," he gasped, wiping the perspiration from his forehead. The lab seemed to spin around him in a haze of pain.

"Tom, I’m taking you to the hospital right away!" Chuck announced.

He said nothing about his young employer’s scorched hair and blistered skin. But he was worried that Tom would be badly scarred and hospitalized for weeks or months.

"Don’t look so grim! I’ve been burned worse than this playing with other inventions," Tom said, his voice fading in and out. Chuck forced a smile as he helped Tom outside and into a nanocar. He realized that Tom needed to keep his thoughts away from his injuries—and was possibly on the verge of lapsing into delirium. "Then it’s high time you stopped trying to blow yourself up," Chuck retorted. "Don’t you guys get enough excitement rocketing through space?"

Realizing that Tom must be in severe pain in spite of his joking manner, Chuck drove to the Citadel’s infirmary at top speed. Here a doctor and her two nurses took Tom immediately into the examination room and began to salve and wrap his burns.

Bud Barclay came rushing into the infirmary, pale with fright. "Just got the word about Tom’s accident," Bud panted. "What happened, doctor? How is he?"

Tom lay on a gurney, conscious but trembling and barely able to speak. He croaked a greeting at his best pal that was meant to be reassuring. In that, though, it was unsuccessful.

"We’re working on him," the doctor said. "Please wait outside with Chuck Thornton."

Bud and Chuck nervously awaited the doctor’s report. "I’m afraid it could be bad," Chuck said numbly. "Thank God I came back to the lab to look for my keys." He gave Bud a brief report of the accident.

Both young men were intensely relieved when the doctor appeared half an hour later and smiled. "You can relax, you boys," she said. "I’m glad to say Tom’s burns aren’t as serious as first appeared."

"He won’t be scarred?" Bud asked anxiously.

The doctor shook her head. "No, the burns are mostly surface—painful enough—but they should heal quickly. It’ll really put those new timed-release skin-treating bandages to good use; bet Tom’s mighty glad he invented them! He will have to stay here overnight, but I believe we can take the dressings off tomorrow."

"Thank goodness!" Bud sighed. "May we see him?"

"This evening. Tom’s system has suffered a shock, so rest is the best treatment now."

Bud and Chuck promised to return later. Bud proceeded to call Ted Spring in his quarters to tell him of their mutual friend’s condition. He then called Shopton and gave Tom’s family what reassurance he could. He hoped they wouldn’t notice that his voice was shaking.

Tom almost got himself killed! Bud found himself thinking over and over. And I wasn’t there to save him.

The young pilot paced about his quarters. It was mid-afternoon, the New Mexico sun was high and blazing, and it would be hours before he could visit Tom in the hospital. He knew he needed something to divert his mind.

Calling Ted Spring again, the two young men decided to drive over to the nearby pueblo community—a brief sightseeing trip. Though security personnel controlled entrance to the overall area and signs warned visitors to respect the ancient site and its artifacts, this was still a living settlement occupied by members of the local tribe, and was on land they owned.

Bud and Ted climbed the wooden branch-ladders that linked the cliffside ledges and were guided by young Indian lads through some of the dug-out habitations.

The tour ended and they were left alone in the hot, bright sun. "Say," said Bud with a chuckle, "I thought this place was supposed to be authentic. Look at that—a satellite dish!" He nodded in the direction of a small parabolic dish slightly hidden behind a boulder jutting from the face of the ancient, eroded cliff.

Ted stared at the out-of-place object with a frown. "Shouldn’t it be pointed up at the sky?" He dropped his voice to a whisper. "Bud, that antenna’s pointing toward the Citadel!"

In a flash Bud’s expression turned serious. "I think I’d like to see just what it’s connected to."

No visible line or cable appeared to lead from the antenna. Bud and Ted concluded that any connection must pass through the sandstone and rock of the mesa itself. "Must lead into one of these cave-houses," murmured Bud. "But which one?"

Then Ted nudged him and gave a subtle jerk of his chin. Bud looked up just in time to see a pair of eyes disappear into the shadows of a cave one tier above them as the beaded curtain covering the opening swayed from the movement behind it. Trying to appear casual the two climbed up to the ledge and slowly ambled toward the cave mouth.

Ted gave a veiled glance downward out of the corner of an eye. "One of the guards sees us," he whispered. "I think he’s motioning to us not to go any further."

"Well, what we don’t see or hear won’t stop us, hmm?" responded Bud with determination. "I’m going into that cave. If the guard wants to cut loose with a flaming arrow, let ’im!"

Attempting a diversion, Ted pretended to essay a shortcut down to the tier below them, scrambling and half-sliding down the cliffside instead of using the ladder. "Hey!" exclaimed an Indian woman, annoyed at the dust and fall of pebbles as she danced and swayed to the silent rhythms of her traditional CD headset. "You’re s’posed to stay where it’s marked!"

"Oh, right—sorry," Ted apologized. "The sign said Slide Area, so I thought—"

"Yeah, white-eyes, like I so totally believe that," she grumped.

Meanwhile Bud had ducked through the curtain and into the dimness of the excavated pueblo dwelling. Other than a colorfully patterned woven mat on the floor and a bare hook on a wall evidently intended to hold a lantern, there were no furnishings, nor any trace of the watching occupant he had glimpsed. Alert to any sound, the dark-haired pilot quickly examined the walls. Got to be a hidden door here somewhere, he thought. The guy didn’t just evaporate!

"Mmm!" said a loud, sharp voice. "Looking for the Men’s Room?" Bud whirled. A silhouette stood in the oval of light of the cave-house door, just outside the curtain. What he held loosely in his hand looked very much like a gun!

Bud froze in place. "Sorry, pal," he said at last. "This one off-limits?"

The man parted the hanging bead-strings, and Bud could make him out more clearly. He was a copper-hued tribesman, thirtyish, in jeans and a t-shirt that outlined broad, blocky shoulders and powerful muscles. A color-accent of platinum blond in his black hair, and a pair of fashionable tiny-lensed glasses perched atop his jutting nose, made him a strange hybrid of old and new. He waved the gun casually, loosely in Bud’s direction. "C’mon out."

Bud exited the cave dwelling. Now he could see that the man was wearing an official site name badge that disclosed the name JEREMIAH.

Bud started to make excuses. "First time here. Is there a sign? Guess I didn’t—"

"Don’t worry about it," said the man pleasantly enough. "I think you did see the sign and decided to go inside anyway while your buddy out there made a little fuss. But so what? Eagle Branch Pueblo is an educational site. Maybe you’re an enthusiastic student of our old tribal culture. So what did you find in there?"

"Not much," Bud replied. "It’s empty."

"Which doesn’t mean n’body owns it."

"Sorry."

The man smiled. The smile was not warm. "I’ll show you the way to the ladder. Easy to get hurt if you’re not careful. And you don’t seem the careful type."

Bud climbed down to rejoin Ted, and the two made their way back to the Citadel car they had taken. The uniformed guards gave them glowering looks, and a glance back showed Bud that "Jeremiah" was regarding him coolly from one of the ledges.

"What do you think’s going on, Bud?" asked Ted.

"Oh, the usual bad-guy spy-stuff, I’d guess," replied the other with pithy sarcasm. "But I didn’t get clonked on the head this time, so I guess it’s a lovely day in the neighborhood."

"Not for Tom," Ted pointed out grimly.

The evening arrived as slow as a desert tortoise, but at last, after dinner, Bud and Ted, joined by a fretting and fussing Chow Winkler, were allowed to visit Tom in his room in the small facility hospital.

As the three entered the room, Tom grinned at them through his bandages. He was propped up comfortably in bed.

"What are you trying to do, Tom—masquerade as an Egyptian mummy?" Bud asked, grinning.

"The name is Tut, please," Tom replied. "Down on your knees and knock your head three times against the floor before you address me."

"Son, I’d shor knock my head twenty times if it’d keep you out o’ mischief!" exclaimed Chow. "Keepin’ you safe and in one piece is like tryin’ to tie down and brand a lightnin’ bolt!"

"Sounds pretty lively for a mummy," Ted remarked to his companions.

Bud nodded, pretending to scrutinize the patient with a frowning air. "He’ll live, I guess. Once they start cracking lame jokes, it’s usually a hopeful sign... oof!"

The last remark came in a stifled grunt as Bud ducked back to avoid a well-aimed pillow!

"Just wanted to show you my reflexes are still working," Tom chuckled. But his chuckle was weary and weak. "Now sit down, clown, and entertain me with your witty conversation."

The four friends were soon talking and laughing about other things and for the moment Tom’s harrowing ordeal in the lab was completely forgotten. Bud narrated the story of the visit to the pueblo site. Tom suddenly looked so concerned that Bud regretted having brought it up.

"We need to have someone ask a few questions about this," Tom declared, "and right away! We’re well protected against electronic probing—but there’s sure no good reason for somebody to go pointing an antenna our way."

Ted inquired whether any of the work being done at the Citadel was classified, or of a confidential nature. "Strictly speaking, no," was the reply, "at least not at the moment. But if someone’s listening in on our conversations or trying to find out the details of the solartron—which is possible—then who knows what they might resort to next."

Chow snorted. "Brand my spyglass, boss, one o’ these days you oughta invent somethin’ nobody wants, jest to keep the spies out of it!" They all laughed—Tom with an occasional wince.

"Good thing no reporter is taking this down for ForeSite," Bud remarked with a grin. "He’d think we came out here for a lowbrow gag session instead of a scientific project."

"ForeSite?" Ted inquired. "What’s that?"

"A new magazine our company’s putting out," Tom explained. "An ‘e-magazine’—a website, in other words. It’ll be mainly a technical journal, with papers contributed by our research staff and engineers, but there’ll be other features too."

"With a real eye-catching homepage logo," Bud boasted. "Bashalli designed it." Bashalli Prandit was a talented sketch artist and art student enrolled at a school near Shopton, and a close friend. "Only trouble is"—he pretended to shake his head in disgust—"I’m afraid the rest of the site may spoil all the good-looking artwork."

"How come?" asked Ted with a puzzled look.

"Oh, the technical stuff isn’t so bad, but there’s one article that’ll really make the readers turn blue. It’s chockful of Greek-letter formulas and Einstein equations by some decrepit fogy named, lemme see, Tom Swift."

The next moment Bud ducked as Tom let fly another pillow. "Just for that I’ll make you read it!" Tom vowed.

"Then best do it right quick, afore you run out o’ pillows!" Chow recommended with a throaty western chortle.

At this point a nurse looked into the room and regarded them sternly. "Visiting time is over, you three. You’re wearing out my patient."

"Only fair," Bud retorted. "This jumping genius here wore out my patience years ago!"

As Chow served breakfast to Ted and Bud the next morning in the small private dining room, they were surprised and delighted as Tom came strolling in as if nothing had happened. There were still some small bandages on his forearms, face, and the back of his right hand, but he was obviously stronger and in good spirits. "Don’t worry, folks—my deep-set blue eyes made it through just fine! Seriously, they say I won’t have any scars."

"But what caused the problem, anyway, T-man?" asked Ted.

"Power overload, and in a big way," the young inventor explained. "One of the transformers was out of sync, but Chuck has already repaired and tested it."

"Sounds like you’re back in business, skipper!" Bud offered jovially.

"Sure am," Tom confirmed. "I’m ready to pick up where I left off, with my full-power test. Come on, if you guys want to watch oxygen and history being made!"

TOM led Bud, Ted, and Chow to his laboratory, which had been cleaned up and restored to sterile normalcy by Chuck Thornton and the other technicians. The aluminum connector bars had been replaced and carefully tested, and the first-try matter maker was ready and waiting for its creator.

Chow addressed the machine suspiciously. "You in a good mood t’day, Matty-Matt?"

"Matty looks all shined up and ready for business," Bud remarked.

"Tom, since you want me to get the hang of this invention of yours, what exactly is the basic approach?" asked Ted Spring. "Just how do you go about making matter?"

"That’s what I cain’t figger myself," Chow declared with a scratch to his bald head. "Sounds like you’re gonna make stuff to eat out o’ ee-lec-tricity. But boss, how’m I s’posed to fry up a bunch o’ volts and the like in my fryin’ pan? Tell me that and we’ll both know!"

Tom spoke as he began switching on the various components of the solartron assembly. "Well, you remember what we discovered deep down in the ground in Antarctica, don’t you, Chow?"

The Texan nodded tentatively. He had been a part of Tom’s historic drilling operation at the South Pole, where Tom had drilled for molten iron with his atomic earth blaster. "You mean that element stuff?"

Tom looked up and nodded. "Right. We found evidence of higher-element fusion going on in the earth’s mantle, which was completely unexpected."

"I’ll say!" muttered Ted. "I could hardly believe it when I read the news reports—and I’m an engineer, not a physicist."

"The physicists were baffled too, believe me," Tom said. "It was inexplicable, like something from a whole new kind of physics. Naturally it became a subject of intense investigation and debate around the world.

"The question had a practical side, too," the young inventor continued. "It was quickly pointed out that whatever strange things were going on under the South Pole might be an important clue to cold fusion, a potential source of almost unlimited clean electrical power. We found some more clues to what was going on under Mount Goaba in Africa. There’s a relationship between the fusion phenomenon, antiproton gas, and the ‘non-matter matter’ we call Inertite."

Ted looked thoughtful but seemed to grasp the idea. "So your solartron is sort of the next step?"

"It will be if it works," Tom responded wryly. "That conical assemblage of disks above the main chassis acts like a series of lenses, focusing a space-wave matrix field to—well, calling it a pinpoint would be at least a trillion trillion times too large! According to our mathematical models, the effect of the field is to lower the energy gradient of the strong nuclear force, which surrounds the nucleus of the hydrogen atom like a shell, and ‘stretch’ it outward. This allows the incoming protons to overcome the repulsion of the nucleus; it amounts to low-energy proton tunneling, a phenomenon which ordinarily—"

Tom paused, noting that Chow’s bulging eyes were beginning to assume a somewhat glazed appearance. He didn’t want to embarrass the cowpoke, but fortunately Ted rode to his rescue. "Proton tunneling—must be like electron tunneling. Particles jumping ‘over’ an energy barrier that they wouldn’t be able to penetrate head-on, right, Tom?"

"That’s the idea," Tom confirmed. "They jump the barrier, and we trap ’em! In theory we’ll be able to take atoms of hydrogen, atomic number 1 with one proton apiece, and overlay them—I won’t say ‘fuse’—to form higher, heavier elements. The goal today is to produce atoms of oxygen, which has atomic number 8. If the solartron can do that, it should also be able to generate the lighter elements in-between like helium, nitrogen, and carbon."

"Wa-aal now! That there weren’t s’hard," said Chow with pride. "You jest take the raw material an’ pile it up and make stuff out of it, right, boss?"

The young inventor laughed affectionately. "Right, pard. Nothing to it!"

"What’s fantastic," remarked Ted with awe, "is that you’ve found a way to do this at such low energy levels. In the big accelerators, you have to get the particles racing around at close to light-speed, with a huge energy cost."

Tom shrugged. "But don’t forget—nature got there first!"

While Tom had been explaining his invention and activating it, Chuck Thornton and the other two technicians that had assisted with the solartron had quietly filed into the lab. "We saw you and figured you were about to put Matty to the test," Chuck explained.

"Nice job you fellows did," Tom congratulated them after again thanking Chuck for the preceding day’s rescue.

The young inventor reached for the master power switch. "Maybe we’d better stand well back—just in case," Bud said half-jokingly.

"Suit yourself." Tom smiled. "Here goes!" He flipped the switch, feeding power to the machine, and adjusted the control knobs.

There was a steady hum of current as the solartron throbbed with a flood of energy from the Citadel’s reactor. To everyone’s relief, the aluminum bars stood firm. Tom settled down to tending the dials in silent absorption. Nothing seemed to happen but the occasional flick of a meter-needle. An hour ebbed by, and the technical team excused themselves. Bud, Ted, and Chow watched in fascination as another hour passed. Finally, apologetically, they left to attend to other tasks.

To everyone’s amazement, Tom continued to run the machine throughout the night and into the next day, sleeping on a cot in the lab as the deep hum of the transformers lulled him into a restful slumber. He broke off his vigil only long enough to eat a few bites of the hot, tempting food which Chow brought him at intervals.

It was late afternoon of the next day when Tom finally called a halt, after operating the machine to the limit of its calculated capacity. Thirty hours had elapsed since the start of the test!

Bud, Chow, and Ted rejoined Tom and gathered around to watch in fascination as, breathless with anticipation, he drew off a tiny quantity of gas from the collector tank inside the machine. He analyzed it in a Swift Spectroscope, then, frowning deeply, precisely measured its mass with a laser momentometer.

Bud saw the young inventor’s face turn bleak. "Failure?" he gently asked his pal, nudging his shoulder.

Tom shook his head slowly. "Not exactly, fellows. But…" His voice trailed off in discouragement.

"What’s wrong, boss?" Chow anxiously asked Tom.

The young inventor smiled wanly. "A million watts of electrical energy! And all my invention produced was this measly amount of gas!"

Bud rushed in. "But the spectroscope—"

"Shows that it’s pure oxygen, yes. Which weighs up to exactly one one-thousandth of a gram!"

Chow pushed back his ten-gallon hat and knuckled his balding head. "Reckon that ain’t very much, heh?"

"About enough to keep a flea alive for half a second." Tom did some rapid figuring. "Chow, with the power I used to make this much oxygen, you could run your toaster an hour a day for 120 years!"

"Wa-aal, brand my coyote cutlets!" Chow gulped. "I—uh—how—" he floundered, trying to think of some way to comfort his young boss, but words failed him. He glanced helplessly at Bud and Ted.

Bud broke the glum silence by clapping Tom on the back. "So what? Fleas need oxygen too, don’t they? Cheer up, pal. At least your machine works!"

Tom chuckled good-naturedly, a chuckle that was half a sigh. "Guess you’re right at that, Bud. But this is only a start." He paced back and forth with his hands in the pockets of his slacks, then turned to face Ted. "As an engineer you see what we’re up against. The feed tank contained only a wisp of hydrogen gas at the start—so little it counts as a vacuum, like you’d find in space. All this time and power, and the matter maker couldn’t manage to make out of it more than—that."

Ted asked if the solartron had only been able to transmute a small portion of the hydrogen atoms available. Tom nodded ruefully. "Exactly. I knew this was a possibility. I was banking on some assumptions that were always a little shaky, and as it turns out the power allotment just wasn’t realistic. It looks as if even the Citadel isn’t the place to finish this experiment."

"Meaning what?" Ted asked.

"Meaning we’ll head up to our space station and use solar radiation as our source of power."

Tom Swift’s outpost in space was a huge, wheel-shaped satellite, orbiting 22,300 miles above the earth. Tom had designed it as a factory for charging his famous solar batteries, as well as a scientific observation post and communications relay station.

Tom’s quiet announcement was greeted with a jolt of jubilation. "Yip-pee!" Bud and Ted yelled together, and took turns swinging their friend around the floor a couple of times.

"Hey!" laughed Chow excitedly. "Let me in on this here square dance too!"

"Put ’er there, T-man!" said Ted and pumped Tom’s hand up and down.

"Hold it, guys!" Tom spluttered with laughter, his face bright again. "This is serious business!"

"Who said it wasn’t?" retorted Bud cheerfully.

"I’d say anything that finally gets me up into space is way serious," Ted declared with a grin.

Tom returned the grin. "Look! Some day I hope to colonize the moon. A base there would yield all sorts of valuable data—not just about the moon itself, but the earth and the rest of the solar system. What’s more, we might be able to mine valuable raw materials up there, such as that unknown hydrogen compound we detected in the spectrometer data from our moon flight."

"I know all ’bout this, boys," Chow interjected proudly. "Right from the horse’s mouth! Y’see, in order to set up shop on the moon, ya need a Texas-size load o’ air and water. An’ mebbe food, too, ceptin’ I don’t recommend it. Only surefire way from here t’ there is Tom Swift’s solar-i-tronic matter cooker-upper!"

"Got it, Chow-boy! But Tom, wouldn’t it be possible to grow plants on the moon to feed your lunar colony?" Ted asked. "Under a dome or something?"

"And maybe a few cows for Chow to punch," Bud added with a wink.

Tom shook his head. "No, because on the moon you’d get two weeks of daylight, followed by two weeks of darkness. Plants couldn’t survive under those conditions—not without a huge energy cost. And plants need water, and something to breath, just like people do."

"Okay, I’m convinced!" Bud exclaimed happily. "How soon do we head off to the outpost?"

Tom smiled. "I want to discuss the whole project with Dad first. We’ll start back to Shopton early tomorrow morning."

"Hold on now, boss," Chow spoke up cautiously. "You ain’t said nothin’ yet about me goin’ along on this trail drive up yonder. I mean, y’know, if’n you plan t’ jest run off your own victuals like on a blame printin’ press—"

Bud pretended to look worried. "Old-timer, we weren’t going to tell you the bad news just yet. But the fact is, crewmen with oversized bay windows won’t qualify for any more space flights. The strain is too great."

"The strain is too great?" Chow snorted indignantly. "Why, brand my space boots, didn’t I stand the strain all right when we built the space wheel and explored Little Luna and even flew clear on up to the moon? Didn’t crack up on any o’ them space trips, did I?"

"Oh, I’m not worried about you," said Bud. "I mean the strain of the extra poundage might be too great on the spaceship."

A deep red flush spread over Chow’s tanned features. "I can’t help what my own cookin’ does to me," he said. "Now can I, Tom?"

"Don’t let Bud kid you, Chow," Tom said. "I wouldn’t take off without my old pal any more than I’d take off without a space helmet. Why, a good space cook like you is the most important man in the crew!"

Chow grinned in relief and threw out his chest until he seemed in danger of popping a button. "That’s shor the truth! An’ where-so-ever your food comes from, make it er grow it, somebody’s got t’ put it all t’gether and slap on on a plate for ya."

That evening, work done for the day and supper behind them, Tom and Bud joined Ted in his room for some television and relaxed conversation. They had barely settled in when Ted’s personal cellphone announced a call. Glancing at the readout panel, he commented with surprise that the call was from his mother back in Shopton. But his pleasure dimmed when he heard how worried she sounded.

"Ted, that Mr. Hampshire called again," Mrs. Spring reported. "Goodness, I just don’t know what to make of it, but I thought you’d better know."

"You’re right, Momma. What did he say?"

"Well, he asked for you. I knew that you were suspicious of him, so I said I’d be glad to pass along any message and tried to keep him talking. I had Ray pick up the other phone and listen in, to help me remember." Ray was Ted’s ten-year-old brother.

"What happened?" Ted asked, gripping the phone excitedly as Tom and Bud looked on in concern and alarm. "Did he say anything about the deal of his?"

"Yes," Mrs. Spring replied. "He said we should trust him, this is all in our best interest. He said, ‘You’re his mother—I bet you can talk Ted into doing the right thing, can’t you?’ Then he said we’d be hearing from him soon!"

Ted did his best to reassure his mother about the mysterious Mr. Hampshire. Nevertheless, the young astronaut-engineer’s brow was creased in a worried frown as he replaced the telephone and related the event to Tom and Bud.

He had barely finished the story when the telephone rang again. Ted glanced down, then back up at his friends worriedly. "Unidentified caller. What if it’s—"

Tom held out his hand for the phone. "May I?" Ted handed him the cellphone, and Tom answered with an anonymous, "Hello?"

A man’s voice cut in, speaking in a high-pitched nasal whine. "Mr. Spring?"

"No, I’m sorry, he’s—"

"Why, if it isn’t the talented Mr. Swift. A voice the whole world knows by now, eh? This is Mr. Hampshire," the man replied. "No doubt you know all about who I am and what my business is with Ted Spring. No doubt he’s standing right next to you, in fact. Pass the phone over to him, won’t you?"

Tom did so. "Just a minute, Mr. Hampshire," Ted said with suspicion. "How did you find out how to reach me? I never gave you this number."

"That’s of no importance. I’m calling to renew my offer of help in the case of your father’s death. It so happens that I have some new evidence on that crash."

"Such as?" Ted asked.

"Evidence which has never been brought out before—and evidence, I might add, which would be very embarrassing to the Swifts."

"If you expect me to be interested in your offer, Hampshire, don’t play me. What’s this about?"

The voice gave a low chuckle. "I don’t care to get into it right now, Ted—not with Tom Swift standing there. We have a little privileged attorney-client consulting to do, you and I. Believe me, the cash we’re talking about would make a big difference in your life. Your family’s, too!"

Ted digested this surprising statement. "And what’s your interest in all this?" he inquired.

"Would you believe public-spiritedness?" Hampshire laughed, then went on smoothly. "Didn’t think so. But I’ll tell you frankly, we’re going to expose Shopton’s First Family to a little daylight, you and I."

"I’m not interested," declared Ted firmly, his anger growing.

"You will be," Hampshire responded. "Just read the papers tomorrow. You’ll be plenty interested—and so will Tom Swift!"

THE CELLPHONE clicked off, and Ted Spring stared at it resting inertly in his hand. "He said—"

"We could hear," said Bud, face red with anger.

"I don’t suppose you have any idea what he could be alluding to, do you, Ted?" Tom asked.

"Not a whiff of one," was the answer. "Seems we’re going to find out tomorrow morning, though."

And so they did. At breakfast Bud came rushing in with a copy of the morning edition of the Shopton Evening Bulletin, delivered each day to the Citadel by special arrangement. With a growl he held up the front page for Tom, Ted, and Chow to read.

T.S.E. TO FACE LAWSUIT

Ted Spring was the first to skim through the lead story, written by publisher and editor Dan Perkins, as the others waited in tense silence. "It says something about ‘unnamed private investigators’ turning up evidence of criminal negligence in Dad’s death, stuff that Tom Swift Enterprises ‘hushed up on direct orders from CEO Damon Swift’." He read further, his voice crackling with fury and disgust. "Some bull about defective servos! ‘Has a key Enterprises product evaded Federal safety regulations?’ On and on."

"That there’s a big stinkin’ load of fine Texas manure!" Chow Winkler exclaimed. "As if Tom’s folks would ever skimp on anything fer their crew!"

"Perkins must really be worried about his circulation!" grumbled Bud bitterly.

"Dan is always worried about his circulation," Tom responded with at least an attempt at calm. "He’s got a chip on his shoulder where Enterprises is concerned, because we avoid giving our hometown paper any big advantage in breaking the news we always make. Dad doesn’t think it’s right, and neither do I."

"There could be somebody else behind it, too," Bud pointed out. "From what you told me, that Shining Path Power guy wouldn’t mind seeing Enterprises taken down a few pegs—even put out of business."

"Could be," Tom concurred grimly. "They say Mr. Ajax is the ruthless, calculating type."

"Tom, I want to say once again, Mom and Ray and I have no problems at all with how the company treated us after the accident," said Ted, looking at Tom very soberly. "We know you investigated everything carefully. I mean—T-man—everybody knows how loyal Enterprises is to its employees."

"Durn right!" Chow declared. "Even paid fer my new tooth!" He opened his big broad mouth and pointed.

"Let’s see what Dad has to say," Tom urged. "I’m sure he’ll call here any minute."

Tom was right, and after a hurried and angry conversation the telephone discussion expanded to include Jake Aturian, head of Swift Construction Company, Harlan Ames, and Enterprises’ chief legal counsel, Willis Rodellin.

"There’s no reason in the world to think our investigation of Dakin Spring’s death was compromised in any way," stated Jake Aturian plainly. "Four federal agencies signed off on it, too."

"Is Dan Perkins saying anything?" Tom asked.

"No, of course not!" snorted Mr. Swift. "Press immunity—confidentiality."

Rodellin interrupted with, "Well, I intend to have a talk with our Mr. Perkins. He needs to be reminded that his immunity has limits when it comes to reckless defamation. This is an outrage, Damon."

"It feels that way," agreed Tom’s father. "Still, if there’s anything behind it that we should be aware of—"

"I looked into the background of that attorney, Hampshire," Ames said. "Fernell J. Hampshire, admitted member in good standing to the Bar of the State of New York. Admitted by what they call ‘reciprocal courtesy’ in other states. He’s had an office in Manhattan for eight years now."

Tom asked what sort of cases he specialized in. "Mostly defending big landlords against criminal negligence charges, but also a fair amount of litigation stuff," Ames replied. "Willis here could explain it better than I could. But there’s something a little interesting if you’re seeking a justification for paranoia. Before moving to our fair state, Hampshire had a big practice in Minneapolis, which just happens to be the home town of Lewton Ajax!"

With promises on several hands for further investigation, the conference call ended inconclusively. "Hampshire’s a phony all right," Tom declared to his friends, "real attorney or no." He chewed thoughtfully on an apple from his breakfast plate. "But I still don’t see what his game is. The Bulletin says nothing’s actually been filed in court yet—it’s all just threats and hot air."

"I’m stickin’ with my dee-scription!" snorted Chow.

Bud shrugged and hitched his chair closer to his pal’s side. "Look, Tom. What worries me is that stuff about the elevator servos. The investigation showed that none of the servo units had been tampered with—right?"

Tom nodded. "Sure. And I also remember the findings of the official report at the end. Ted’s father got into a slipstream so strong that the servo unit on one of the elevators couldn’t stand the skin resonance—the vibration. When it failed the jet went into an uncontrolled dive at better than Mach 2. The report concluded that the plane failed under stress, not that any part had been faulty or tampered with."

"Just the same," Bud grumbled, ‘‘that guy Hampshire’s out to make trouble, and if he tries hard enough, he’ll succeed in throwing suspicion on Enterprises."

"I’d say he’s already thrown, Buddo!" retorted Ted Spring.

Tom continued eating his apple for a few moments. "Bud, let’s suppose some enemy did tamper with one of the servo units and caused the crash on purpose."

"Murder! Okay, let’s suppose," his chum agreed with a sympathetic glance in Ted’s direction.

"If Hampshire does know something, it could be that the same person who slipped him the information may have been responsible for the tampering. In fact, that same enemy may even have planned the whole thing from the start for some reason—to hurt Enterprises, maybe to pry out information on our latest plans and inventions somehow."

"You mean," said Bud, "that Hampshire may be the front man for someone a lot more dangerous? Like that Ajax guy?"

"Right!" Tom tossed his apple core away and stared, frowning, out the window at the desert landscape. "Or maybe Hampshire is just using Ajax, leading him along—or vice versa. It’s something to think about, guys. We’d better be on our guard."

"Guess we’ll just have to see what happens," Ted said. "But if Hampshire bothers me or my mother again, he can expect a pretty hostile reception!"

Later that morning, after the solartron equipment and the big transformer units had been loaded back aboard the Sky Queen, the Flying Lab jet-lifted off for home. At a signal from the Citadel’s air-traffic tower, Bud, manning the controls, opened up the forward throttle and sent the big skyship streaking north-eastward through some wisps of high cloud.

"Ted, I’m going to be working up some ideas in one of the lab cubicles, but there’s something you could do for me that would be really helpful—get you better acquainted with Matty, too!" said the young inventor with a smile.

"Anything, T-man," was the response.

Tom asked Ted to go down to the hangar-hold and examine some of the power junctions on the solartron, one by one. "They’re made of a special new alloy, and I want to make sure running the thing for hours doesn’t cause corrosion at the contacts due to an electrolysis effect. It’ll look like little smears of slate-blue tarnish along the edges. Just eyeball it—okay?" Ted gave his friend a humorous salute and left for the stairs to the lower deck, lowest of the three.

Tom worked in his lab cubicle for a time. Then, somewhere over Illinois, he returned to the command compartment to chat with Bud and Chow.

The ship intercom crackled to life. "If you’re there, Tom, I’m about through down here. Shall I head back up when I’m done, or is there something further to check?"

"You can go ahead and—" Tom began, when he was interrupted by a sharp jolt and the Queen seemed to swerve suddenly. Tom, Bud, and Chow were rocked sideways as the deck tilted. The next instant the intercom speaker erupted with a piercing scream!

THE THREE in the control compartment glanced at one another in horror and Tom bolted to his feet. "That’s Ted!"

"But what in tarnation’s wrong with this here plane?" gasped Chow as the Sky Queen took another shuddering swerve.

"I—I don’t know," Bud choked out, fighting the controls. "The—the gyros are—" Again the mighty stratoship seemed to lunge and twist in the air!

"Take it, Bud!" Tom cried. "I’ve got to see what’s happened below!"

Trying to ignore the shifting, jolting deck, Tom staggered his way down the metal stairs and burst into the hangar-hold. Groans and cries of pain greeted him. He saw at once that one of the giant transformers had broken loose from its cradle, pinning Ted Spring against a bulkhead. Face contorted in pain, he was thrashing about wildly, trying desperately to free himself.

"G-give me a hand, T-man!" the young engineer cried, gasping for breath and clenching his teeth to stifle the pain, with beads of sweat standing out on his forehead. Tom added his strength to Ted’s, and the two men strained with all their might to budge the transformer.

"No use," Tom gasped. Flicking on the intercom, he called Bud and tersely explained the situation. "Bank the ship to starboard—but gently!"

"Roger!" Bud’s steely voice replied. Tom knew the silent comment his pal had left unsaid: if I can!

The Flying Lab was still barely under the control of its young pilot. But a moment later Tom braced himself as the jet tilted in a wide sweeping turn. Slowly the transformer slid across the deck, back toward its cradle.

Tom didn’t bother to lash the transformer down. He caught his injured friend in his arms and dragged him toward the hatchway. "Wish I could be delicate, Ted," Tom murmured apologetically.

Chow met Tom at the foot of the stairway. "He’s got ’im, buddy boy!" the grizzled cook yelled up to Bud, who immediately righted the ship and resumed trying to stabilize her. Then Chow helped carry Ted up to the top deck, setting him down gently on a sofa in the spacious lounge section as another crewman sprinted for first-aid materials.

Still moaning softly, Ted was only semi-conscious. But as pungent spirits of ammonia were held to the space-trainee’s nostrils, he seemed to revive slightly.

"How is he, skipper?" asked the flight engineer, whose name was Avery.

"No ribs broken, thank goodness," Tom announced after a first-aid examination, "but these bruises are bad enough." He got a paper cup of water and some tablets from the first-aid locker. "Here, take one of these, Ted. It’ll help to relieve the pain. It’s pretty powerful."

"Thanks, Tom," Ted replied, gulping it down. Wiping his lips he said weakly: "But I’m feeling better already. That whiff of ammonia cleared my head." Abruptly he interrupted himself with:

"Whoa-aah!"

Tom nodded with a half-smile. "Like I said, powerful! You looked like you could use it."

"Ab-so-looote-ly." The young man paused, gathering his thoughts. "The ship took a dive or something all of a sudden, and the transformer busted out of its straps. No bones stickin’ out through my skin, T-man, but it sure hurt like a house afire—pinched my whole right side against a girder!"

"What I wanna know now is—what made this here Sky Queen start buckin’ like that?" Chow demanded.

Tom told the ex-Texan, "I intend to find out." He turned again to Ted. "But that’s for later. First priority is to get you looked at, big guy. Since the ship still feels a little wavery, I’m going to have Bud hold down her speed. I’ll fly you ahead to Shopton in the cycloplane."

The Sky Queen was designed to carry smaller auxiliary aircraft in her flying hangar. Her original complement, a convertible jet-helicopter called the Skeeter and an advanced midget jet, the Kangaroo Kub, had now been replaced by a recent invention of Tom’s, his ultrasonic cycloplane. This revolutionary wingless craft could hover on rotating cylinders or streak along under jet power at multi-mach speed. He had named her the SwiftStorm.

After advising Bud and the rest of the small crew of his plans, Tom helped Ted—now much stronger and woozily free of pain—back down to the hangar-hold and into the cycloplane. As the Flying Lab slowed to a hover, the hangar deck was lowered like an elevator into the open air, and in moments the SwiftStorm was jetting through the high clouds at several times the speed of sound.

At the end of a tense and mostly silent flight to Shopton, Tom made a smooth vertical descent to the Swift Enterprises airfield, where an ambulance and medical personnel were waiting to convey Ted to the plant infirmary. There the talented staff medic, Doc Simpson, gave the young man a thorough examination.

"Well," he finally pronounced, "I’d say you’re about as lucky as a fellow tagged by a transformer pot could be, Ted. No sign of anything broken or ruptured. Those bruises will ache for a while, though."

"I’m proud of my heritage," said the African-American with a wry grin, "but I’d prefer bein’ plain black, not black and blue!"

In another hour the Sky Queen had landed and been hangared in its huge underground vault. Hurrying aboard, Tom asked Bud about the remainder of her flight. "Not too bad," replied the dark-haired pilot. "But I was fighting the supergyros all the way. Can’t imagine what made them act up like that."

Calling in his chief engineer Hank Sterling, Tom, Bud, and Hank made a cursory check of the Flying Lab’s systems, paying particular attention to her supergyros. "Sure beats me, skipper," said Hank, running a hand through his hair in puzzled frustration. "I don’t see the slightest trace of a mechanical or electrical failure."

"Which means it’s probably not electrical, but electronic," suggested the young inventor. "Possibly something wrong in the flight control computer."

Bud was skeptical. "It’s supposed to warn us if it’s getting out of kilter."

"But something could have caused multiple failures in the ‘brain’ at the same time," Sterling reminded his friends. "You two go home—it’ll be time for supper pretty soon anyway. Let me see what I come up with."

Bidding farewell to Bud and Hank, Tom hurried to the big double office he shared with his father. Besides the broad modern desks for father and son, the room contained comfortable leather chairs, push-button drawing boards, and along one wall near the door a stack of adjustable shelves. They were crowded with photos and detailed, bright-colored scale models of more than a century of invention by the famed Swift family. The newest addition was the gyroscope-like Challenger spaceship in which Tom had recently journeyed to the moon.

After reporting the events of the flight from New Mexico, Tom discussed with his father the new plans for experimenting with his matter-making machine at the outpost in space.

"I agree, son," the elder scientist nodded. "Up there you’ll have access to the entire output of the solar battery factory. By my calculations that should be significantly greater than even the power our reactor generates."

"By my calculations too, Dad," Tom nodded. He added wryly: "But we can’t ask moon colonists to run an extension cord out to the space outpost if they want to use the solartron!"

Damon Swift chuckled and said, "Cosmic energy converters of the sort you use on the Challenger would at least make a dent in the problem. But I certainly agree that if the solartron is to be practical, you’ll have to come up with a compact source of electricity that’s nonetheless a good deal more powerful."

"Right—smaller and bigger!"

"In other words, a typical Tom Swift invention," Mr. Swift declared with a smile of pride.

The senior scientist broke off as the telephone rang. He lifted the receiver, spoke for a few minutes, then hung up with eyebrows raised.

"That dinner party you didn’t get before leaving for the moon is about to take place, it seems," he told Tom. "That was your sister. She has invited Bashalli and wants you to bring Bud—and Ted too, if he’s feeling up to it."

"That’s a pretty big if. But this time Bud and I will be there—even if we have to hold off the rest of the world with a repelatron!" Tom promised, grinning.

Bashalli was Tom’s usual date on those rare occasions when dating made it onto his calendared agenda. A pretty brunette, born in Pakistan, she had become a close friend of Tom’s blond younger sister Sandy, though Bashalli was somewhat older and definitely more worldly-wise and practical-minded.

Tom called Ted Spring at home. To his surprise, the astronaut-in-training accepted the invitation with enthusiasm. "Just what I need!" he said. "I’m well on my way to being my charming self again, T-man."

"I guess you and I are both pretty durable products," Tom laughed. "Even if we don’t have scars, we can show off our bandages!"

That evening, the dining room table in the Swift home looked especially attractive, decked out with flowers, silver, fine china, and candles. Also attractively decked out were Sandy and Bashalli, radiant and lovely in chic new outfits. "Hey you two, give me my breath back!" joked Ted, looking at Sandy appreciatively.

"Good night—dresses!" Bud gasped in teasing humor. "What are you, girls?"

"No," replied Bashalli with a pertly superior expression, "we are what is called young ladies, Budworth. Single, attractive young ladies who require your full attention."

As Tom held his mother’s chair, he asked, "Did I forget somebody’s birthday?"

Sandy laughed. "Constantly! But this is a special occasion."

"A buttering-up occasion," Bash added.

"We’re in for something, Tom," Bud remarked with a wry, cautious expression. "Okay. So what are we celebrating?"

"Well," said Sandy, "Bashi and I decided to claim a little of the excitement you owe us. You boys have all the fun on these space flights."

"While we two jewels suffer from interrupted dates," Bashalli noted; "and to be pathetic, even that is an improvement on our usual impoverished social lives. We are bored and neglected."

Sandy rushed in. "So the point is, why not take us along on your next space trip? You could teach me to pilot the Challenger, Tom!"

"And I could be her exotically accented back-seat driver!" added Bashalli, her dark eyes sparkling.

Ted nudged Tom. "Y’know, kid, it’s not such a bad idea. Outer space could use a few woman drivers."

As Tom hesitated, somewhat nonplused, his father spoke up. "They’ve been working on me, son, and have brought up some very plausible points. For example, you could observe the feminine reaction to space travel." He chuckled. "I’ve heard they’re better in their behavior than men."

"Oh, Dad, you’re wonderful!" Sandy cried, popping up from her chair to give her father a hug. "Then it’s all settled."

"But listen, San," Bud objected, "it’s not as simple as you’re thinking. You’ll have to put in some time in the zero-G chamber, for instance—both of you will."

"Actually, they already have," declared Tom’s mother with a sweet smile. "They had several sessions while you boys were in New Mexico—with some expert tutelage." She nodded at her husband, and Damon Swift looked a bit sheepish.

"As I said, they’ve been working on me," he explained.

Tom shrugged and acknowledged his total defeat with a grin. "Okay, okay. Young ladies, please accept our invitation to join us on our trip to the outpost to test my solartron!"

As Sandy squealed with delight, Bashalli said archly, "We shall try to fit you into our calendars." But then she squealed as well!

Dinner proceeded to the accompaniment of frequent laughter and banter among the Swifts and their guests. As they were eating dessert, the phone rang and Sandy went to answer it.

"For you, Ted," she informed him.

Ted excused himself to take the call. When he returned to the table a few moments later, his face was grim. Though he tried to cover it, the others noticed his concern with alarm.

"I do hope it wasn’t bad news, Ted," Mrs. Swift said quietly.

Ted shrugged uneasily as he resumed his place. "I’m not sure how to take it," he replied. "I’ve just been threatened!"

TED’S announcement brought gasps of dismay from his listeners.

"Who was it?" Tom questioned. "That Mr. Hampshire again?"

Ted shook his head. "This time the caller gave no name, but I’m sure the voice wasn’t Hampshire’s."

"What did he say?" Mr. Swift asked.

"He asked me if I was going to cooperate with Hampshire," Ted replied. "When I told him no, he said, cool as you please, ‘Then here’s some advice—don’t bother with any more space training. You’ll never need it!’."

Bud broke the tense silence that followed. "Yep, that sorta suggests a threat, I’d say. Ted, man, it looks as if the only safe place for you will be the space outpost—or the moon!"

Mrs. Swift, with her usual motherly concern, had a more practical suggestion. "Ted, why not stay here for the time being? We have plenty of room, and you’ll be protected by our warning system." This system maintained a magnetic field around the Swift house and grounds. Anyone entering the field, unless wearing a special deactivator mechanism, triggered off an alarm inside the house. The system was temporarily overridden when visitors were expected.

"That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Swift," Ted replied, "but Momma and Ray may be in danger too. I wouldn’t want to leave them alone.’’

"Before we decide anything," Tom put in, "let me call Harlan Ames."

Tom reached Ames at his home in Shopton. When the security chief heard what had happened, he suggested that Ted stay in the guest bungalow at Enterprises, which was guarded by a tight security setup, and that his family be flown by helicopter to Ames’s vacation cottage on Blue-Jay Lake.

"There’s plenty of frozen and canned food there," he explained, "and they’ll be perfectly safe. The only way in is by an unpaved private road through thick woods which is hard to find from the highway—and we can keep it gated off, besides."

"Good deal, Harlan!" Tom concurred. "Thanks a million."

Ted agreed at once to Ames’s suggestion and moved to call his mother at once.

"Better not," Tom advised. "Hampshire and his gang may be tapping your home phone. Here’s an idea—call your neighbor and have her tell them to get packed and expect us. We’ll pick up your mother and Ray by car and drive them to the Enterprises airfield."

It was decided as a safety measure to divide forces. Ted and Bud would go first in Bud’s convertible, while Tom and Mr. Swift followed in Tom’s two-seater sportscar. Ted’s car would remain parked at the house for the time being.

"Something tells me our party’s over," moaned Sandy.

"But this time, Sandra dear, we at least came out on top," Bashalli reassured her.

As the men rose to leave, Mrs. Swift spoke nervously to her husband. ‘‘I—I don’t want to seem unduly worried, my dear, but do you suppose someone might be watching the house right now? It’s happened before, you know. If so, he may trail you."

Mr. Swift gave her a reassuring hug. "You may have a point there, Anne—we’ll check. Switch on all the yard lights, Tom."

"Right, Dad. I’ll turn Caesar and Brutus loose, too. They’ll certainly let us know if anyone’s lurking around!" The two bloodhounds were kenneled outside. Besides being the Swift family pets, they were also expertly trained watchdogs and trackers.

Tom pressed a master switch, controlling a number of spotlights concealed in the shrubbery. Instantly the house and the several landscaped acres surrounding it were bathed in a brilliant radiance.

Then he and Bud hurried out to open the kennel. With eager yelps, the two bloodhounds came loping out. They ambled about, lifting their heads occasionally to sniff the night air, but gave no sign of detecting any unfamiliar scents.

"All clear," Tom reported. "Let’s get going!" The trip to Ted Spring’s house was completed without incident. The others waited outside while Ted went in to tell his mother and brother about the ominous call he had taken and the temporary move to Ames’s cottage. Tom had parked his low-slung car at the curb a couple houses behind Bud’s red convertible. Minutes later, Ted emerged from the house alone, looking anxious and worried.

"What about your mother and Ray?" asked Mr. Swift. "Nothing wrong, is there?"

"They won’t come," Ted reported. "Momma says she feels safer right here in her own home. She can be a little, mm, determined at times."

"Her feelings are natural, I suppose," said Mr. Swift, "but in this case I strongly believe it would be better for her to follow our plan."

"I’ve tried to convince her, sir. Would you talk to her, please? I’m sure she’ll listen to you."

Mr. Swift grinned sympathetically and opened the car door. "All right, son. I hope your confidence isn’t misplaced, but I’ll see what I can do." One fact hung in the air but went unremarked—Damon Swift was taking on the family role that otherwise would have fallen to Ted’s father.

While Mr. Swift and Ted went back inside, Tom and Bud scouted around cautiously for signs of anyone spying on the house. All seemed quiet and normal, The only other cars parked on the residential street were empty.

Fifteen minutes later Mrs. Spring and Ray came out, accompanied by Ted and Mr. Swift, who were carrying the suitcases. The boys loaded these into the convertible’s trunk, then Tom assisted Mrs. Spring into the back seat. The compact, robust woman wore an anxious look.

"I do hope I’ve made the right decision," she fretted. "Wouldn’t even think of it if Little Ray weren’t on school vacation now."

"I’m sure you’re doing the right thing," said Tom reassuringly. "Believe me, you and Ray will be perfectly safe at Blue-Jay Lake."

"Sure we will, Miss Mom," Little Ray spoke up stoutly. "A helicopter! Boy-wow, it’ll be fun goin’ up there!" He scrambled in beside her, and Ted took the front seat with Bud. As the red convertible pulled away from the curb, Tom followed behind with his father at a watchful distance. Cutting straight across town, they took the old, little-used Mansburg road leading to Swift Enterprises, which lay on the outskirts of Shopton.

"Lights behind us, Dad," said Tom tersely, glancing at the rear-view mirror. It was the first car they had seen on the road with them. In dark silhouette it seemed to be a large, SUV-type vehicle.

As Mr. Swift turned to look, the car accelerated rapidly, recklessly, then swung to the left to pass. Hitting at least sixty miles an hour, the car roared alongside, then swung broadside into the path of Bud’s convertible!

Bud slammed on the brakes and tried to swerve off the road. Too late! With a sickening impact of crumpling metal, the red convertible plowed into the SUV, which had skidded to a stop dead ahead.

"Great Scott!" gasped Mr. Swift in horror as Tom cried out Bud’s name.

Only quick action on Tom’s part prevented a second collision. The instant he brought his car to a screeching halt, both be and his father leapt out to aid the others.

"Anyone hurt?" Tom cried, ripping open the door of the convertible.

There was silence for several seconds, then Bud replied woozily, "I’m okay, I guess."

"Me, too," Ted spoke up. "Banged my head pretty hard. Mother, Ray, are you—?"

Mrs. Spring and Ray reported being shaken up but otherwise uninjured. "I will not cry, I will not cry!" uttered Ted’s Mother.

"Me neither, Momma!" Little Ray declared.

"Thank goodness," said Mr. Swift.

"But why did that lunatic driver pull in front of us?" Mrs. Spring asked. "And what happened to him?"

"He ran away," Ted answered. "He jumped out the instant he stopped. I saw him dart off the road into the trees just before we crashed."

"I saw him too. I’ll bet it was Hampshire," Bud growled. "But I couldn’t see his face."

"Me neither," Ted added.

Tom got a powerful flashlight of his own invention from a rack in his car and played it back and forth in the direction Ted had indicated. The area bordering the road offered a stand of trees which thinned out into an open field and provided no obvious hiding place.

"That’s funny." Ted frowned. "I’m sure he headed over this way somewhere."

"It’s possible," Tom pointed out, "that he started to the right just to mislead us, and then doubled back across the road behind us." The left side was overgrown with trees and tangled underbrush.

"Wait here," Tom told the others in a low voice. "There’s probably not much chance of finding him, but I’ll take a look." Bud asked him to wait, but Tom waved him back. "Less risk being seen if just one of us goes, flyboy."

Crossing the road, Tom moved cautiously among the trees, probing here and there with his special electronic flashlight, which produced an adjustable spot of illumination without a visible beam. From time to time he turned off the light and paused to listen for the sound of footsteps or other movements, creeping forward on silent feet through the looming shadows.

Suddenly Tom froze in the darkness as his ears caught a murmur of voices.

"We’ve got the guy scared now," a man was saying. "He’ll be coughing up the docs soon enough."

"And then," another voice replied, "we’ll have the Swifts just where we want ’em!"

TOM repressed a surge of anger and focused his attention on locating the men, whose distant, muffled voices he did not recognize. Where were they?

Switching the light back on again, Tom swung his flashlight in all directions. The pinpoint spot revealed nothing except tree trunks and gloomy undergrowth, but after a moment a small LED light flashed on next to the switch. Tom held the flashlight steady. The muttering continued for a time—then ceased abruptly.

Suddenly Tom realized that he was making a target of himself. Oh—oh! Those guys may be armed! he reflected, snapping off the flashlight hastily. Though there was no beam, the light-emitter element would have been visible head-on!

Had they spotted him? Were they approaching even now, weapons drawn? The thought made the hairs bristle at the nape of Tom’s neck!

But how to find them in the darkness? Scarcely a ray of moonlight penetrated through the leafy branches overhead. Then a plan occurred to Tom—an old boys-book sort of trick which might fool his unseen enemies. He jammed his flashlight into the crotch of a tree and turned on its light again. Then, moving silently as an Indian scout, he began picking his way toward the spot where the voices had been located. The men remained silent. Tom’s keen senses, the fine-honed senses of an expert experimenter, enabled him to hazard a guess as to their possible location.

He was hoping they might launch an attack of some kind toward the flashlight and thus give themselves away. So far, they had shown no sign of rising to the bait. The silence continued, broken only by the chirp of crickets and other night noises.

Step by step, Tom silently inched his way forward. To his chagrin, his efforts proved fruitless. He came upon broken underbrush which showed where the men had been crouching.

Suddenly a car engine gunned to life. Galvanized into action, Tom rushed toward the road. He was just in time to see a small pickup without lights pull out from among the trees and roar off into the darkness, heading back in the direction of town. Thoroughly disgusted, he retraced his steps toward the scene of the crash.

"Tough luck," Bud greeted him. "We heard the getaway car."

Tom nodded gloomily. "Apparently our little pal had a friend waiting for him—with transportation. Must’ve been following a ways behind all of us." He reported the conversation which he had overheard in the woods.

Bud was furious when he heard from Tom what the men had been saying. "And that’s all you could hear? Man, they might’ve laid out the whole plot for you."

Tom looked at his pal—and grinned. "Maybe they did!"

"Huh? How so?"

The young inventor held up the flashlight in his hand. "You don’t think this is just some kind of common, ordinary flashlight, do you? It carries its own microelectronic directional sound amplifier—a super-ear! I can download the digital recording chip in my lab and listen to my heart’s content."

Bud rolled his eyes jokingly. "Right. Another invention. Every day’s Christmas at Swift Enterprises."

"I wasn’t a full-time genius, though," Tom said regretfully. "I forgot that the sound unit can be switched on separately from the light. Guess I warned them off."

"Someone’s sure out to make trouble for you Swifts," Ted Spring said worriedly to Tom and his father.

Mr. Swift nodded, frowning. "And so far, no clues to his—or their—identity. Despite Hampshire’s attitude and the phone threat that mentioned him, we can’t be sure of his involvement in this attack."

"You’re right, Dad," admitted Tom. "We’ve caused problems before when we’ve jumped to conclusions."

"Yeah," said Bud. "Leave the conclusion-jumping to athletes like me!"

A police car appeared a distance down the road, and Mr. Swift told his son that he had called the police and a tow truck over Tom’s car phone. "After towing Bud’s poor convertible, they can tow this SUV to the station for examination. We’ll find out soon enough whom it belongs to."

As everyone’s attention was diverted by the low siren of the approaching police car, Mrs. Spring, who had been trying to remain calm, now murmured with a tremble in her voice, "Oh, dear, I knew we should have stayed home."

Ted approach his mother and threw and arm about her. "Now don’t worry," Ted soothed Mrs. Spring. "This is all gonna work out. I’ve called a taxi to pick us up and take us the rest of the way, and the Swifts will follow behind. I’m sure the police will escort us, too."

"All right, Teddy." She sighed, stretching tall to give him a kiss on the cheek. "But do take care of yourself while we’re up north."

"And I’ll take care of Momma!" Ray promised.

Tom, overhearing, said, "That’s the spirit!" Ted smiled as the youngster shook hands with everyone.

Finally safe behind the gates of Enterprises, the two passengers were helped aboard the helicopter—Ray filled with excitement at his first whirlybird flight. They were soon joined by Harlan Ames, who would direct them, and by Gil Muir, an experienced pilot. Moments later, the craft soared aloft and disappeared northward into the night sky.

Bud had accompanied the Springs in the taxi, rather than riding along with his towed car. "My mechanic knows what to do," he told Ted. "Right now Enterprises is where the action is."

"You can stay in the other part of the bungalow duplex, flyboy," Tom offered. "Dad and I are heading home. Been quite a night!"

"Glad to have you stick around and keep me company, Bud," Ted remarked. "You can be my lookout for prowling transformer pots!"

At the plant the next morning the first order of business was to call the Ames cabin at the lake. As soon as Tom had ascertained that all was well, he accompanied Bud and Ted to the Enterprises infirmary and went inside with them. He wanted to make certain that the car crash had left no hidden injuries.

"You guys must think I’m not busy enough around here," said Doc Simpson with a wry smile. As he made his examinations, he listened to their account of the night’s adventure and their suspicion that Hampshire might be the instigator of the accident.

"In case there’s any danger that one of you might fall into the hands of this fellow Hampshire or whoever’s behind this rough stuff," Doc said thoughtfully, "it might be wise to take precautions."

"Do you have something special in mind?" Tom asked.

"Yes. As you know, there are certain drugs which can be given to make a person talk, even against his will," Doc Simpson began. "We call them truth serums. They’ve been around for decades, but some of the new formulas are the sorts of things you don’t want to fool around with."

Bud snorted skeptically. "I thought all that was just in old movies on cable TV!"

"It isn’t. Now, if Hampshire or someone else did capture one of you, he might administer such a drug to force you to reveal whatever it is he’s really after."

"That’s so," agreed Tom. "For all we know, foreign agents could be back of all this. If they learned the details of some of our projects, it could even endanger our national security."

"All the more reason to take no chances," Doc urged. "You’ve allowed me to play scientist here at Enterprises as well as physician, and I’ve been developing a serum to counteract such ‘truth’ drugs. If you like, I could give you all a shot of it right now. I’m violating a few rules, but I’ve tested the stuff thoroughly and it’s perfectly safe."

"An antitruth serum?" Bud repeated. "Tom, I think that’s a good suggestion."

Tom agreed, as did Ted, so all three bared their arms. A nurse swabbed their skin with alcohol, and Doe Simpson then administered the serum by hypodermic needle.

"Boy, we didn’t know what we were getting into," Ted Spring grinned as he rolled down his shirt sleeve. "Next time, I’ll keep my bumps to myself!"

Simpson chuckled. "Blame your boss. I cooked up the serum from some of the rare herbs used by the villagers in Borukundi." He referred to the adventure recorded in Tom Swift in The Caves of Nuclear Fire.

As Bud sat down for his shot, Tom left the infirmary and headed to the plant administration building, stopping in Harlan Ames’s office. Ames had helicoptered back to Shopton the previous night.

"I don’t like any of this," said Ames. "For gosh sake, Tom, watch your step."

"Have you heard anything about that car?" Tom asked the security chief.

"Yes, I talked with Shopton P.D. a while ago. The car was reported stolen off a dealership lot in Hartford two days ago. No usable prints inside. This was all carefully planned."

"Has the legal office been in touch with Hampshire?"

"He’s not returned their calls yet, though his office says he’s been receiving the messages."

Tom shook his head, frustrated. "Maybe we’ll know more after I’ve had a chance to study those digital recordings I made last night. How about that pueblo site and the antenna business?"

"The New Mexico authorities say they want to deal with it—it’s their jurisdiction," Ames replied. "But if we don’t get results soon… well, I’ve been known to cut bureaucratic corners now and then!"

Tom laughed. "Now I feel hopeful!"

In their shared office next door to Harlan Ames, Tom and his father conferred on the technical papers to appear on the new Enterprises website for its debut.

"Looks like a swell first ‘issue’, Dad," Tom remarked enthusiastically.

"Yes indeed, son," said Mr. Swift. "I think we can all be proud of ForeSite. You know, Tom, this has been a dream of mine ever since John Sterling and I founded Swift Enterprises. I look forward to the day when scientists all over the world can exchange their findings freely for the good of mankind."

Tom, too, cherished the same dream. "I’m sure that day will come, Dad," he asserted.

Gathering up the papers, he turned them over to a young secretary to be taken to the plant’s data-entry office. Miss Warner was substituting for the vacationing regular secretary, Munford Trent.

Tom went down to his main personal lab—his "thinkin’ hole"—and phoned Arv Hanson, asking him to join him there. Arv, a six-foot-four Scandinavian, was the Swifts’ chief modelmaking engineer. However much he resembled a lumberjack at first impression, Arv was fine precision craftsman. He turned out the delicately tooled models and working prototypes of all the Swifts’ major inventions.

"What cooks, skipper?" asked Arv as he walked in. "Something new on your matter maker?"

"Special job I’d like you to handle," Tom replied. "Sit down, Arv."

He briefed the engineer on the tests of the solartron, telling of the need for a tremendous supply of energy to operate it. "For the time being, I’ll be continuing my experiments at the space station," Tom went on, "using the solar battery manufacturing setup. Since I’ll be up in space, I’ll be able to test Matty full-throttle. That’s where you come in."

"What do you have in mind?" Arv asked.

"As you know, the machine uses free hydrogen atoms as the raw material out of which it makes oxygen and other substances. At the Citadel I used tanked hydrogen, but I’m anxious to try out my idea for an ‘atom gatherer’ to be used in space." Tom went on to explain that even in the thick of the "solar wind" of hydrogen continuously streaming from the sun’s inferno, the atoms were so widely dispersed that it would take great lengths of time to collect a sufficient number to convert to a usable volume of air for breathing. "The solar wind barely makes a dent in the vacuum of space."

"I see. So what’s your approach?"

Tom picked up a series of sketches to show the modelmaker. They showed a pair of rectangular gratings, or grilles, comprised of a multitude of narrow criss-crossing tubes. "They look like garden trellises," Hanson commented. "How big do you want the first models to run?"

Tom grinned. "Oh, not too big—about four acres ought to be plenty for test purposes."

"Four acres!" Arv gasped. "For the prototypes? How in cosmic space do you expect to load them aboard the ship?"

The young inventor laughed pleasantly at his friend’s reaction. "I have a trick up my sleeve. The tubes that each of the atom-collector lattices is made of will be molded from a new kind of super-malleable metal foil I’ve developed—I’ll give you the formula. It’s really pretty amazing. It’s tough and durable even when milled down to a thickness less than a tenth that of a human hair! You can fold it into a tight bundle and then, by running a weak electrical current through it, the material will completely unfold itself and return to its original shape. Reverse the current and it folds up again. By my calculations each four-acre bundle of transifoil will fold down into a cube just a yard or so across, and so light in weight—"

The two looked up with a start to see a cascade of bottles and equipment tumbling from a big metal shelving unit next to the lab door. At almost the same instant the door, which had been standing half-open, slammed shut.

"Someone was hiding behind those shelves!" Tom cried out in alarm and anger. "And listening to every word we said!"

JUMPING up from their chairs, Tom and Hanson rushed out into the corridor of the laboratory building, leaping across the slow-moving conveyor pathway, the ridewalk, that ran down its middle. But there was no sign of the mysterious eavesdropper in either direction. Checking the other laboratory rooms that fronted the long corridor, they found that no one had seen anything unusual.

"But he could have slipped into a lab not in use and forced open one of the windows," noted Tom. "We have openable windows in some of the labs that have to be isolated from the air conditioning system."

"He must have sneaked into your lab to get the lowdown on the plans for your new invention!" Arv said uneasily.

Tom nodded, his face grim. "Maybe. And he also must be an employee of Swift Enterprises." It was an unpleasant thought that some trusted worker might be a spy. Yet no outsider could have slipped in past the ingenious radar system that monitored all visitors entering the grounds of the experimental station. And in truth, the company had dealt with disloyal employees on more than one occasion.

"I’ll call Security and ask Ames to make a check," said Tom, returning to the lab.

But the resulting security check turned up nothing worthwhile. "As far as I can tell, nobody was out of place anywhere on the grounds," Ames told Tom an hour later. "But tell me this, boss. Is there something about your solartron, or this new atom-collector component, that would make spying or stealing worth the risk of getting caught?"

The young inventor shrugged. "The machine itself has a great potential for use in space colonization," he replied. "But I don’t see much use for it in daily applications here on Earth. It’s not like you can manufacture gold or diamonds with it. Just oxygen and nitrogen is hard enough!"

Yet by the noon hour the purpose of the lab break-in had become all too apparent. "The digital chip has been stolen!" Tom exclaimed over the phone to Ames. "I had left it here in the lab last night, for downloading and analysis today. It’s gone! It looks like somebody riffled through the cabinets until he found it."

"You almost caught him in the act," noted Harlan Ames. "When he heard you approaching in the hall, he ducked out of sight, then made his way behind the shelving and out the door."

"That’s the way it must have been," agreed Tom mournfully. "I was a chump not to lock that chip away securely."

"How do you suppose they knew you’d made the recording?"

"Not a clue, Harlan," said Tom. "You and I talked about it earlier—do you think your office might be bugged?"

"Not this office!" snorted the former Secret Service agent. "My office, and yours next door, are electronically secured from any invasive electronic equipment of that kind." The matter remained a frustrating mystery.

The remainder of the busy week passed quickly for Tom as he worked with Arv to create the prototype atom-collector screens. There were no further incidents—and no explanations, either. Even the cause of the problems on the Sky Queen was unaccounted for, although Hank Sterling pronounced himself satisfied that it had originated in the control computer and had been corrected by completely reprogramming it.

At the back of Tom’s thoughts was a further mystery. Bud seemed to want to discuss something with Tom that was evidently weighing upon his mind. The first few times he had jokingly tried to pull his friend aside, Tom had politely put him off, pleading the special demands of his current work. After a few such attempts, Bud appeared to abandon the effort. When Tom was finally able to give him some time, Bud shrugged off Tom’s queries and engaged in his usual banter.

Reaching home late one night after an especially long day of arduous work, the young inventor forced himself to retire at once. He fell asleep almost as soon as his grateful head accepted the invitation of his pillow.

It seemed only minutes later when Tom was awakened by the muted but piercing chortle of his bedside telephone. He groped sleepily for the instrument and glanced at the luminous clock readout above the keypad.

Twenty past two! he groaned inwardly. "Hello?—Tom speaking."

A man’s muffled voice spoke. "Don’t think you’ve outfoxed us, Swift. We know exactly where you’ve stashed the Spring family. Until we get what we want, the Springs aren’t safe—or you and your family either!"

"Who is this?" Tom snapped, now thoroughly awake. He was trying to figure out if the speaker was one of the men he had overheard in the woods.

The man gave a growling chuckle. "I’ve been listening to that neat little recording you made the other night, Tom. I’ll put your mind at ease—it wouldn’t have helped you. In fact, it would have scared you, hearing our plans.

"Now I’ll let you get back to bed. I’m sure that big brain needs to cool down and rest. Maybe you’ll think over what I’ve said. We don’t want any more accidents, do we?"

The receiver clicked off at the other end of the line, replaced by the dial tone. Realizing there was no way to trace the call, Tom hung up as well. He lay awake for nearly an hour, mulling over the threat. "Accidents"! There was no question now but that he, as much as Ted Spring’s family, had become involved in some mysterious plot that could quickly turn deadly!

But what exactly is the reason? he kept asking himself. What are they after? What do they want from Ted? He recalled that the voices in the woods had mentioned "docs"—documents. What sort of documents? Something concerning Dakin Spring’s jet crash?

The next morning, conferring with his father and the other key personnel trying to unravel the conundrum—Enterprises attorney Willis Rodellin, Ames, and Ames’s assistant Phil Radnor—it became clear that progress, if any, was coming with aching slowness.

"I still haven’t been able to confront Hampshire," said Rodellin angrily. "Now his office says he’s off on vacation and unreachable. By the time this is over with, I’ll see him disbarred!"

"Harlan and I are pursuing an idea as to your mystery lab intruder, Tom," Radnor reported. "Better not get into it just yet, but we may have something to tell you soon."

Two days later, after making final preparations for the trip to the orbiting outpost, Tom, Bud, Ted, and Mr. Swift flew to Fearing Island aboard the Sky Queen for