TOM SWIFT

THE THREE were silent for a moment, contemplating the mystery—and the intriguing possibilities. "Afraid I can’t be of much help," said Ed Longstreet apologetically. "I questioned the curio-shop owner, but the only thing he could tell me was that it arrived in a consignment of art objects he’d bought at auction. He says he’d never run across anything like it."

Tom drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the workbench. "Maybe an art expert could help us." Picking up the phone, he put through a long-distance call to Grandyke University, which was located in the next county. He spoke with Professor Feeney, a specialist in the traditional art of the South Pacific cultures, who promised to come out and examine the strange figure. Tom then contacted Dr. Gorde, the curator of the Museum of Historic Sculpture and Carvings in New York City.

"So you called Ward Feeney first, eh?" he grumped humorously. Tom knew the two men were close friends. "Well, when that old quack is done looking at it, swing around my way and I’ll give you the real lowdown."

The next day, Professor Feeney arrived and studied the statue closely, but could offer no clue as to its exact origin. "It might be Asiatic, Polynesian, or Melanesian," said the elderly man. "If you want a professional guess, I’d say Melanesian, mid-eighteenth century. But that culture did not have a general knowledge of metal-working—certainly nothing like this peculiar substance. Gordo may have an idea. It’ll be wrong, but perhaps this is best approached by a process of elimination."

Later in the day Bud flew Tom and Ed to New York City via one of the small commuter jets manufactured by the Swift Construction Company, an Enterprises affiliate. At the Museum of Historic Sculpture and Carvings in Manhattan, Dr. Gorde, a very obese man with carrot-red hair, handled the figure with the raised-pinky delicacy of an artist. "Most unusual example of traditional Pacific sculpture I’ve ever seen!" declared Dr. Gorde. "What did Feeney come up with, Melanese? Predictable."

"What’s your analysis, sir?" Tom asked.

"Javanese, late fourteenth century—the Toonongo period. Many unusual features, though—yes sirree." Now examining the statue under a powerful magnifying glass, Dr. Gorde asked, "Would you permit the figure to be placed on display for a few days? Good for our museum, and a good way to flush out some professional opinions, too."

Ed Longstreet, who had been planning to remain in New York anyway, agreed willingly, so the statue was immediately placed on display in a glass case and given the utmost in dramatic lighting. TV commentators mentioned the news item and the Shopton Evening Bulletin carried a front-page story about the queer pagan idol, the information quickly spreading to the rest of the national media, and to the internet. As a result, crowds stormed the museum the next day, eager to view the mysterious object. Armed guards were posted around the case in which the figure was displayed.

"It certainly caused a stir in Manhattan," Tom said to his blond, blue-eyed sister Sandra that evening at the dinner table. He repeated this later to his slim, pretty mother when he kissed her good night.

Shortly after midnight, he was awakened by the shrill ringing of his bedside phone, a private line. Lifting the receiver sleepily, Tom asked who was calling. "It’s Dr. Gorde, Tom!" gasped a voice that seemed to quiver like a big blubbery bubble escaping a bubble-pipe. "Oh my! My goodness! The animal god has been stolen!"

The news shocked Tom wide awake. "Stolen!" Tom choked. "But—but the guards—how—" He tried to calm himself. "Where are you calling from?"

"The museum," said the curator. "The police are here with me, and so is your cousin Mr. Longstreet. There’s no need for you to fly down immediately, Tom, but perhaps—"

Tom arranged to fly back to the city in late morning. As Bud was on a piloting assignment, he flew himself this time, in a Swift Pigeon Special.

A short time after landing in New York City he braked his rental car to a halt in front of the museum. Shoving past reporters, he strode to the office of the curator. Here he found Dr. Gorde mopping his ample brow, and two night watchmen from the museum being questioned by police detectives while Cousin Ed looked on. "Glad you’re here, Tom," the curator greeted him. "Maybe you can give us some help on this."

"Exactly what happened?" Tom inquired. One of the detectives, a plain-clothes police sergeant, gave him a quick fill-in, with the two night watchmen providing additional detail. The first hint of trouble had come with a sound of shattering glass in the east wing of the museum about 11:35 P.M. One of the watchmen had run to investigate, only to be knocked out by a blow on the head. A livid bruise still showed on his right temple. The other watchman, arriving on the scene a minute or so later, had found the display case smashed and the mysterious figurine missing. "What about the burglar alarm?" Tom asked. "You must have video cameras covering the room—what do they show?"

"We checked that, natch," the plain-clothes man reported. "But there was nothing to see. Turned out someone had introduced an override device into the main system somehow, activated by remote signal. I’d suppose it was put in place earlier in the evening, while the museum was full of people, blocking the lines of sight of the videocams. Then, after the museum was cleared and locked up for the night, he activated the mechanism and broke in through a high rear window."

"Removed a pane of glass very neatly," noted the other detective, whose name was Rusty Hubbel. "He’s a pro."

"Any clues from the M.O.?" Tom asked.

"The M.O.?" put in Dr. Gorde, peering through his gold-rimmed pince-nez with a puzzled expression.

"The crook’s modus operandi, or method of operation," the sergeant explained. "You don’t watch TV, Gorde? Yes, Tom, as a matter of fact, everything points to a well-known second-story man called Jake the Cat. Don’t blame me, I didn’t give him the name. Here—" He leafed open a large rogues gallery album sitting on Gorde’s desk, shoved it toward Tom, and pointed to two "mug shots"—front and side views—of a lean-faced, dark-haired man about thirty years old. "That’s the guy I’m talking about. One of the guards—Wuzzolini here—thinks he remembers seeing him in the crowd yesterday. He’s been in and out of the penitentiary in half a dozen states for similar crimes. He specializes in thefts from public buildings and always kills the alarm first like a good little boy."

During this explanation Dr. Gorde was pacing back and forth nervously. "But why on earth would a criminal of his low type steal such an exotic art object?" he demanded.

"Art objects bring plenty of dough, don’t they?" said Sergeant Camp, the senior detective.

"Surely not in this case," the curator insisted. "Why, the statue must be known throughout the country by now, from all the news stories about it! Where could the thief dispose of it?"

"I agree with Dr. Gorde," Tom said. "No fence will handle stolen goods unless he can resell them at a profit. And I doubt if any private collector would dare to buy such an easily recognized item."

"Ya can’t count on that, kid!" retorted Rusty Hubbel. "I’ve met guys that’d heist the Mona Lisa just for the thrill of havin’ it in their cellar."

"Hmm." Sergeant Camp frowned and stroked his chin. "So what’s your take on it, Tom? Are you saying old Jake bungled this time?"

"Hey!" laughed Rusty. "‘Bungled while he burgled’!"

Tom shook his head. "Not necessarily. We managed to keep it out of the news stories, but that statue is made of a very rare metal. If this Jake melted it down, it could never be recognized, but its industrial research value would still be worth many thousands of dollars!—not too bad for a night’s work."

"Not too bad for his rep, either," remarked Camp.

"His rep?" demanded Gorde in outrage. "Are you telling me this professional hoodlum has an agent?"

"‘Reputation’," whispered Ed Longstreet.

"But the flaw in that theory is—how did Jake the Cat find out about the figure’s composition and its value?" Tom mused. "It almost suggests that he was sent to get the statue, by someone already familiar with it."

The sergeant nodded. "Maybe someone who had stolen it himself, then lost possession somehow. He could have recognized it from the media photos."

Ed looked rueful. "Guess I’ve really stirred up a hornet’s nest by bringing you the statue, Tom! I don’t much care about its monetary value. But I would like to have it back long enough for the big brains to figure out who made it, and where."

"We’ll contact the FBI and put out a dragnet for Jake the Cat," the chief promised. He told Tom, Longstreet, and Dr. Gorde that they would be kept apprised of any progress in the investigation.

That evening, back in Shopton, Tom decided to take Bud and Sandy out for a late snack in town. They stopped in at The Glass Cat, a mildly Bohemian coffee house owned by the brother of their friend Bashalli Prandit, who attended the counter when not attending the DuBrey Art Institute, where she was in her second year.

The pretty raven-haired Pakistani greeted her friends warmly and brought them tea, soft drinks, and a tray of pastries. "Ah, a stolen statue, a second-story man with a colorful name! The mystery mystifies and the intrigue—intriguifies."

"I think Tom and Bud should wear protective helmets 24/7 for the next month or so," Sandy teased.

"Forget it!" retorted Bud. "You know the bad guys have to knock one of us out at least once before they get caught." He rubbed the back of his head. "I was born thick-headed, but lately my skull’s starting to feel like a concrete porch step!"

Tom laughed and said, "I’m just glad that for once all this stuff doesn’t have anything to do with my current project."

"You mean the cycloplane?" asked Sandy.

Tom nodded, and Bashalli repeated the word. "Cyclo-plane. A neat little name, to go with seacopter and terrasphere. What does it do, Thomas? Fly around in cyclones?"

"It makes its own cyclone." Tom grinned in reply. "See, there’s an ultrasonic generator that—"

"Hold it, Tom," Bud interrupted. "You explained it all to me the other day, so let me play Tom Swift and see if I can explain it back to Bash here."

"Bud is very competitive," Sandy remarked jokingly as Tom waved Bud onward.

"Leave nothing out, Budworth," demanded Bashalli.

"Okay." Bud stood up and put his hands on the back of his chair. "Tom Swift and his ultrasonic cycloplane: the scientific explanation. Ladies, no doubt you know of the Magnus effect?"

"Of course!" they said together. Then, together, they shook their heads negatively.

"As I suspected. Well, for the benefit of those few of you present not in the know, the Magnus effect (eye-eee, the ‘Magnus force’) is a term that was coined to explain anomalies in the airflow around a spinning object. On the side where the windstream flows along in the same direction as the rotation of the object’s surface, the airstream velocity is enhanced. On the opposite side, where the motions are opposed, the velocity is decreased."

"And as we all know, the Bernoulli principle states that the pressure of a moving fluid against a surface is lower on the side where the relative velocity is greater," Sandy said with mock pomposity. "And vice-versa!"

"Thus, airplane wings," nodded Bashalli.

Tom added, "It’s also the principle behind throwing a curve ball. It’s why the ball has to spin as it cuts through the air."

"Indeedly." Bud gave a grand gesture of professorial approval. "And consequently there is an unbalanced force acting upon the spinning surface at right angles to the line of airflow. So the ball curves, right or left."

"I’ve seen old pictures of ocean-going craft that made use of the Magnus effect," noted Tom. "They have big vertical cylinders on the tops of masts, which interact with the wind as they spin."

Bashalli looked skeptical as she drank her tea. "Then this new plane is some sort of wind-sailing craft, like a big kite?"

Tom chuckled. "Now there’s an idea! But no, the cycloplane is basically a jet, but instead of wings it uses a pair of horizontal cylinders, called cyclocyls, running the length of the fuselage along either side."

"Hence the name—cycloplane!" declared Bud.

"Right. The cyclocyls are mounted in special frictionless brackets and can be made to spin at a tremendous rate. The resultant Magnus effect creates a region of increased pressure which acts against the underside of the cylinders, pushing the plane upwards."

"Now, ladies," said Bud, "I’m sure it’s occurred to you to wonder where the right-angled airflow comes from—because without the airflow, the cylinders have nothing to interact with."

"It was on the tip of my tongue," said Bashalli dryly.

"That’s where genius boy’s ultrasonic thingamabob comes in. It vibrates the air, and—well, when you have one wave on top of another, see—" Bud looked flummoxed. "Er, why don’t we let Professor Swift himself take it from here!"

With bland smiles the girls turned to look at Tom. "Here’s the deal!" Tom chuckled. "I’ll even use a visual aid."

Tom filled a flat, transparent baking pan with water and carried it back to the table, setting it down carefully. He poked one finger into the water. "Look at the shadows on the bottom as I jiggle my finger up and down—the waves ripple out in all directions in a circular pattern. Now I put a second finger in on the other side of the pan, and jiggle both at the exact same rate."

"The shadows make a stationary pattern," observed Sandy. "A crisscross pattern that jiggles but doesn’t flow outward. It looks like a spiderweb."

"That’s right," confirmed the young inventor. "The ripples from each source cross each other in such a way that a stable pattern of standing waves is created—the basic waves themselves are still moving, but the places where they cross one another, called nodes, stay in fixed positions. The darker shadows are from the nodes, whereas the parts between show where the water is almost undisturbed, because the moving ‘highs’ and ‘lows’ exactly superimpose on top of each other. Now, Bash, drop a little scrap from that soda straw wrapper onto the water."

"You may refer to me as your lovely assistant." Bashalli did as requested. "It landed where the water is agitated and mounded-up," she observed. "But it slid over to a flat area right away, and it’s staying there."

"That makes sense," said Tom’s sister. "It’s like a surfboard sliding along on a water wave." She looked up at Tom. "Is that how you push the air sideways across the cylinders?"

"Basically, sis. There will be a pair of ultrasonic generators attached underneath the plane, one at the front and the other toward the rear. They’ll create a pattern of standing waves—ultrasonic waves—between them. By constantly varying the wave frequencies, sort of playing one generator against the other, a steady lateral airflow is created which crosses the cylclocyls. When the air dragged around by the cyclocyls runs into the lateral stream—there’s our ‘cyclone’."

"But this storm of sound waves will have to be very powerful to lift an entire airplane," said Bash doubtfully. "Does sound have so much strength?"

"You should’ve seen what it did to Tom’s shop apron!" Bud declared wryly.

"Don’t forget, Bash—these nodes get re-created more than a million times a second. Even the tiniest push can be pretty formidable when you multiply it by a million!"

"I dare say," Bashalli nodded. "So it seems you will have a wonderful plane with a wonderful name, and it can go up and down. And why is that so important? Balloons do it already—so do helicopters, and even your Flying Lab with its jet lifters."

"Not to mention pogo sticks," Sandy added mischievously.

"True," Tom agreed. "But my cycloplane will have unparalleled agility and stability in its vertical motions, or while hovering. Plus the wingless, bladeless fuselage will have a much narrower ‘footprint’ than any conventional aircraft—you’d be able to land it in an alley between two buildings."

"Plus, no heat or smoke, like you get from the Sky Queen," observed Sandy, referring to the Flying Lab.

"And so, when do you take us on a flight, Thomas of the Swifts?" demanded Bashalli with a smile.

Tom held up his hands in protest. "Hey, the full-sized model, which I’ve named the SwiftStorm, isn’t even finished yet."

The conversation was interrupted by Moshan, Bashalli’s older brother, who told Tom a telephone call had come in for him. Excusing himself, Tom stepped behind the counter to take the call.

"This is Mother, Tom," said the familiar voice.

"Hi, Mom—is anything wrong?"

"No, Dear, but there’s something I was sure you’d want to know about right away," was the reply. "Captain Rock just called here for you. He had news about that Cat person. I was going to leave a message for you, but then I remembered that you had said you were going to Bashalli’s café."

Tom’s eyebrows rose. "News about Jake the Cat? Has he been captured?"

"He’s in custody now—in the Shopton jail!" exclaimed Mrs. Swift. "And Tom, it’s quite strange—he’s turned himself in!"

AMAZED and excited, Tom hurried back to his friends and related the startling news.

"You mean to tell me this guy just waltzed into Shopton PD and said, ‘Here I am, Lock me up’?" Sandy demanded. "What kind of professional criminal is he, anyway?"

"I’m about to find out!" said Tom. He called the Shopton police station and spoke briefly to Captain Rock, a longtime friend, who told him that Jake the Cat seemed to be in a confessing mood. The Captain invited Tom to come down to the station right away, if he wished.

Bidding Bashalli goodnight, Tom hastily drove Bud and Sandy to the Swift home, where Bud was parked. Then he rushed to the police station in Shopton’s modest downtown area.

Greeting Tom, Captain Rock said, "You know, it gives me a funny feeling in my stomach when hardened criminals decide to turn themselves in. Doesn’t feel right."

As they walked toward the chief’s office, where an armed officer stood watch, Tom asked about the circumstances of Jake’s being apprehended.

"Young man, some forty minutes ago he just came walking through our front door and told Mindy who he was, and to put him away in the cooler! Mindy called me—I was hanging out down the street, enjoying a quiet moment of self-absorption—and I came back on the run. Jake says he’ll tell everything that he can, but—"

"But what?"

"I think he’s lost it, Tom. He keeps talking about how we shouldn’t touch his hands, or we’ll die!"

In the chief’s office, Jake the Cat sat on a hard, straight-backed chair under a bright light. Tom saw that one wrist was cuffed to the top of a chair leg. The swarthy burglar, wearing a high-necked mud-colored jersey, was as lean and agile as a trapeze stunt man.

He looked frightened and agitated, but when Tom entered he gave the young inventor a nod of greeting that was surprisingly cordial. "You Tom Swift?" he asked. "Hopin’ you can help me out, pal."

"Hello, Mr. Cat," Tom responded cautiously. "I hear you’ve confessed to some things."

"Sure—I’ll spill the whole story!" Jake whined. "Just gimme a break at the trial, an’ keep me alive t’ see the trial, that’s all I ask!"

"We’re not making any promises," snapped Captain Rock. "Those fingerprints you forgot to wipe off your alarm-snuffer gadget give us a clear-cut case. But go ahead and talk, and we’ll tell the New York boys you cooperated. You’ve been read your rights, and the tape is running. Understand?"

"Okay, okay. Anything—but first, Swift-boy’s gotta do something about the cesium!"

Rock glanced at Tom. "He keeps babbling about cesium. Is there such a thing?"

"Sure," Tom replied, puzzled. "It’s a soft metal, part of the alkali group."

"And tell him the rest!" shouted Jake. "It’s poison! Get it on your skin, and you’re done for!"

Rock asked Tom, "Is that true?"

Tom nodded. "Sure, more or less. Jake, what makes you think you’ve been exposed to cesium?"

The man scowled bitterly. "You gonna play games? I saw on th’ TV how everybody was wearin’ gloves t’ handle that statue, but I didn’t think nothin’ about it. So I cipe it and make my delivery. Then I get home and get a message from an old associate—a colleague, you know what I mean—and what does he say? He says ever’body’s talkin’ about how that thing’s made of this rare metal stuff called cesium, that’ll kill ya if you touch it! Look at my hands!"

He turned his hands palms-up. They were chapped and red.

"Looks like you need a moisturizer," said Rock sarcastically.

"I been washin’ and washin’ all day long!" Jake cried. "Swift, you gotta give me the cure!"

"I think I’ll have some good news for you," Tom replied carefully. "But I think you said you had some things to confess, didn’t you?"

"Whaddaya want to know?"

"Where’s that statue you stole?"

"I ain’t got it. Like I just said, I turned it over to the guy who hired me to pull the job."

"The guy who hired you!" Captain Rock glowered in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"Just what I’m tellin’ ya," Jake insisted. "This guy gets in touch with me the other night—there are ways if you really want to, and got connections— and offers me a nice little bundle of cash to snatch the statue from the museum. Said he had to have it right away!"

"Who was he?" Tom asked.

"Search me. You think he gave his name? He wired me th’ deposit, rest on delivery o’ the goods. Met me in a parkin’ lot about five this morning."

Growled Captain Rock, "You must have seen him when you turned over the statue.’’

"Sure I did. Little old man, real skinny, kinda stooped-over, you know?"

"Where was the parking lot located?" Tom asked the thief.

"Little burg over in the next county—Walderburg, matter o’ fact. Where that big university is."

"Yeah, Grandyke U.," nodded Rock. "Tom! What is it?"

The young inventor looked startled. "I think I know who put Jake up to the theft—a professor at Grandyke who looked over the figure just the other day! His name’s Ward Feeney."

Jake nodded vigorously. "The dude looked like a professor, ya know? And he never touched the statue himself, just had me drop it into a box!" He shot Tom a look of frantic appeal. "I know I’m a bad guy, Swift, an’ I heard tell what you did to those guys who tried to con you over in Africa. But I’m beggin’ ya here—help me!"

The chief shot a puzzled glance at Tom. There was a brief silence.

"Do you think he’s telling the truth?" the young inventor asked.

Rock shrugged. "Could be. Naturally we’ll search his motel room in Walderburg with a fine-tooth comb. But none of this makes sense if his turning himself in is just a put-on of some kind."

Tom turned back to the prisoner. "I guess I’ll believe you, Jake. The good news is, that statue isn’t made of cesium or anything else that could hurt you. The underworld rumor mill got it wrong. As for the bad news—well, here you are, pal!"

Jake the Cat scowled fiercely. "Tell me about it!"

A female officer had been standing quietly at the door. Now she spoke up. "Captain, maybe this is just a coincidence but—there’s a man named Feeney out in front waiting to see you!"

Captain Rock’s jaw dropped. "Feeney? As in Ward Feeney?"

"That’s the name he gave, yes sir. He says he wants to confess to a crime, just like this guy!"

Captain Rock frowned suspiciously at Tom. "This isn’t some kind of psychological experiment you guys are conducting, is it?"

Tom half-smiled and shook his head.

Professor Feeney stood alone in the station lobby, a forlorn figure. Seeing Tom, he blanched. "Oh no!—well, perhaps it’s just as well. I’d have to face you and your father eventually."

"Professor, what’s going on?"

"Let’s go into a private little room and talk, shall we?" suggested the academic in a trembling voice. Ushered into a small room, he collapsed into a chair as the Captain read him his rights and set up the recording equipment. Feeney then commenced his story.

More than a year prior, he had been contacted, in a surreptitious manner, by a man who identified himself as a Dutch scientist. "He gave me quite a convincing sob story—about how he had been trying to smuggle a unique carved statue out of a far east country where the government forbids any traffic in archeological artifacts. He said he needed to study the figure with various instruments not available in that country, and that’s why he had to resort to smuggling."

"All in the interests of science, eh?" remarked Rock sarcastically.

"So he said. He claimed he had got the statue across the border, but the men he had hired got wind of its true value and disappeared with it. He asked me to keep an eye out for it, and promised that if I returned it to him, he and I would study it together. When you called, Tom, and gave me the description, I was fairly certain I had found what the man was looking for, and then when I examined it in my hand, all doubt vanished."

"So you had it stolen," said Tom grimly.

"I suppose I’ve let my friendly rivalry with Dr. Gorde get a bit out of hand. I couldn’t stand the thought that—well, never mind. I spoke to the Dutchman, who put me in touch with this Jake fellow and asked me to act on his behalf while he flew here."

Captain Rock asked what had happened when he turned the statue over to the Dutchman. The professor winced. "We met for breakfast in a diner, on the main highway outside Shopton, and I handed him the box. He thanked me, and asked how I liked my bran and granola, which I thought was an odd question. When I replied that I had it frequently, he said, ‘Dear Professor, I have in my pocket a small pistol, which I have aimed at you beneath the table. You may continue to enjoy many more such breakfasts if you go your way in peace and forget we ever had this conversation.’ Then he rose and left, sticking me with the bill. I never saw his car."

In response to a question from Tom, Feeney described the man as very slender overall, but with broad, muscular shoulders and a thick neck. His hair was a pale blond, his eyes watery blue, his lips rather thick. "I’d say he was in his early forties, and his accent seemed consistent with his describing himself as Dutch. He pronounced ‘Jake’ as ‘Jhake’."

"Not much of a clue," Tom commented, "but at least it’s something to go on."

"We’ll follow it up," Captain Rock promised. After hammering a few more questions at the sheepish prisoner, who in truth needed little hammering at all, he called in an officer and said, "Okay, take him away! The other one too! But stow ’em at opposite ends." Shaking his head, he added to Tom, "Strangest night I ever had around here." Tom laughed in agreement.

Before Tom retired for the evening, he phoned Ed Longstreet in New York and told him of the astounding developments. "I’ll tell Dr. Gorde," promised Cousin Ed. "Now if we could just get the darn thing back!"

The next morning Bud found Tom hard at work in his main laboratory, which adjoined the huge underground hangar where the Sky Queen was berthed.

Bud perched himself on his customary stool and asked his pal if he were working on the cycloplane. Tom glanced up and shook his head.

"Not at the moment, flyboy. I’m taking one of my head-clearing breaks."

Familiar with Tom’s work habits, Bud nodded in understanding. "Then what are you working on? A long-range stolen statue detector, maybe?"

"Glad to see your ESP is working, chum," Tom answered. "I don’t know how to find where ‘Kangaroo Sue’ has got to. But with a little luck, these calculations I’ve made just might tell us where she came from!"

BUD BARCLAY had seen so many amazing things during these recent years of friendship with Tom Swift that he sometimes had to fake his amazement, so as not to deny his pal the pleasure he derived from seeing it. But on this occasion Bud’s surprise was genuine and obvious. "Genius boy, how are a bunch of numbers going to tell you where the thing came from? Especially since you don’t even have it anymore?"

Tom grinned with enthusiasm. "Granted, we don’t have the object itself, but what we do have is a pile of data stored in the electron-wave spectroscope from our examination of it the other day. It stays on the hard drive until it’s overwritten."

"And that’ll tell you something?"

Tom stood and stretched. "C’mon, let’s see!"

The young inventor led his friend to the materials lab, where he activated the spectroscope control terminal as Bud looked over his shoulder. Consulting his notes and calculations, he began to enter a processing routine into the device’s inbuilt computer.

"What I’m doing," he explained as he manipulated the keyboard, "is telling the computer how to extract and summarize magneto-orientation data from the stored scan of the metal lattices of the holmium."

"Oh," said Bud. "I see."

Tom chuckled at the blank expression on his friend’s face. "As I mentioned, the rare-earth metals have unusual magnetic properties. When the statue was cast and cooled, faint magnetization patterns induced by the earth’s magnetic field were frozen in place."

Bud snapped his fingers. "I’ve heard about something like this, on TV. Scientists used magnetic patterns in rocks to backtrack the drifting movements of the continents."

"Yes, and also to create a history of the changes in Earth’s magnetic poles, which have completely reversed several times." Tom went on to say that the magnetization patterns were like magnetic fingerprints, and could in principle provide good evidence of the general location of the figure when it cooled to its final form. "Since we’re fairly sure it came from the southeast Asia or Pacific islands region, this could help us narrow it down further."

It took a good long time to enter Tom’s commands onto the computer. When he was done, he started the processing routine. Strange patterns of colored triangles, like little pointers, fanned out across the monitor screen. Finally a coordinate code number appeared in the lower right corner. "There it is!" Tom exulted. "Now we look it up on a map!"

In moments Tom had the answer he had been hoping for. "It comes from a region of several thousand square miles smack in the middle of Papua New Guinea, near Lake Kutubu in the Southern Highlands area." He looked up at Bud. "High rugged mountains, silty rivers, dense jungles, and very few towns."

"Sounds inviting," commented the dark-haired pilot with irony in his voice. "New Guinea—that’s near Australia, isn’t it?"

"Just to the north," Tom confirmed. "They almost touch."

"So what do we do, now that we know?" asked Bud.

Tom shrugged. "I’m not sure that we do anything, except tell Ed about it—and Dr. Gorde too, I suppose—if he’ll listen!"

Tom switched off the spectroscope terminal and stood, but Bud could tell he was still mulling over the new data. "You know," Tom said at last, "I think I’ll radio the astronomy team on the space outpost and see if they can run a series of high-resolution polyfrequency photographs of the region. It’ll be at an angle, but that might actually bring out some interesting features." Tom was referring to the Swift Enterprises space station wheeling about the earth in a geosynchronous orbit high above the equator, the famous outpost in space.

"What exactly are you looking for?" Bud inquired.

"It’s not an ‘exactly’ just yet," was the answer. "But I’d sure like to know if some unusual geological features go along with the concentrated holmium deposit—if that’s what it is."

As they left the materials lab and headed down the hall toward the nearest ridewalk, which dipped in and out of the various buildings, a loud voice hailed them from behind. "Lawnge sarveese, you twosome!"

Bud winced. "I think ‘lawnge sarveese’ means—"

"Yep!" Tom nodded. "Lunch service."

"He’s seen us. We can’t get away. Oh man, I’ll be glad when Chow gets back!"

Chow Winkler, a former ranch chuck-wagon cook who had become the personal chef for the Swifts and their senior employees and friends, had been gone for a week on one of his periodic visits home to Texas and New Mexico. His dishes, sometimes better classified as experiments than edible cuisine, were nevertheless usually delicious and as colorful as the reckless western shirts he favored. By contrast, the meals served up by his designated second-in-command, a Russian expatriate named Boris, were always elaborate but not always pleasing to the American palate.

"Do not think to get away, I spy you!" exclaimed the diminutive cook, who was holding a silver tray. "Ah, always joking, you two—American joshing, a sign of affection."

"Of course," said Tom. "But isn’t it a little early for lunch?"

"Pfah! We shall call this the pre-lawnge countdown," laughed the Russian. "Is a pun! You get it?"

"We get it," Bud said in slightly woeful tones. "What do you have today?"

"Today, little crackers with persimmon jelly and peppered caviar, genuinely Black Sea, I swear to you." Boris daintily picked a stuffed cracker from the tray and thrust it toward Bud’s mouth. "Exquisite!"

Bud sampled the cracker and then, under Boris’s stern gaze, swallowed the rest. "It’s actually—it’s very—Tom, you’ve got to try it."

Tom did so. "And did I lie to you?" demanded Boris. "It is exquisite?"

"Almost too exquisite for words," muttered Tom, his face a strange mixture of colors. "I-is there a drink to go with it?"

"A drink? No drink. You need a drink, there is water fountain." Boris turned away stiffly. "But I am glad you like it. I shall add it to my list." He sailed off down the hall.

Tom and Bud looked at each other in silent dismay. Then they made for the hallway drinking fountain as fast as dignity would allow.

When they made their wobbly return to the underground hangar, Tom drew Bud to a corner near the Sky Queen. "Thought you’d like to take a look at the Drumhawk!" Tom said, gesturing.

"Your new cycloplane? I’ll forgo my usual joke about how small it is." The object in front of Bud was a flat silver plank with beveled edges and rounded ends, about the size and shape of a small ironing board. It rested directly on the concrete floor. Two long horizontal cylinders flanked it, attached by ring-shaped brackets which held them up and out, with a gap of perhaps six inches. The cylinders, which Bud correctly assumed were small versions of the cyclocyls, had the diameters of one-gallon paint cans.

"The Drumhawk is the test prototype Arv Hanson put together for me," Tom explained. "I need to wring out any problems in the interaction between the cyclocyls and the ultrasonic generators before finalizing the design for the SwiftStorm."

"Are you planning to have someone ride on this little thing?"

"Someone already has!" declared the blond youth. "I’ve been playing around with it for days, installing one version of the generators after another. So far my altitude record is a whole twelve feet. Watch, pal!"

Tom stepped onto the metal-plastic surface and stood between two vertical safety bars that extended up to waist level. Straps dangled from these bars, which Tom attached to his belt loops. Then he removed a small handheld control box from its holder on one of the bars.

"Should I duck and cover?" called out Bud jokingly.

"You might want to cover your ears!" replied Tom. He flicked a switch on the controller, then depressed a series of buttons in sequence. The two lifting drums began to revolve, one clockwise, the other counterclockwise. Set in frictionless bearings and pushed along by an electromagnetic flux-motor, the cyclocyls were completely silent. Not so the paired ultrasonic generators: they produced a deep, penetrating thrumming sound that rose in intensity until Bud had to fall back several yards.

"I thought ultrasonics were supposed to be silent!" he shouted over the din.

"It’s the interaction!" was the barely-heard response. "The interference effect! But I’m in a null spot—the noise is worse for you!" Tom slowly twisted a dial on the controller, and the sound-tone became higher pitched as the drums revolved so rapidly that their motion was no longer visible. Suddenly, with a slight jerk, the platform began to drift forward. It had lifted off from the floor by two inches!

As Tom increased the power further, the model slowly levitated, foot by foot, finally topping off at one dozen feet. After a moment Tom gently brought it down again and killed the power.

"Wow!" groaned Bud. "You should pass out earplugs, Tom."

"The fuselage design of the real cycloplane will mute-down the noise," Tom assured him. "Want to try it?"

Bud was game, and after some instruction seemed to have mastered the strange contraption. "You just have to get used to keeping your balance," he remarked after his final flight.

"I’ll be taking it out in the open—after our real lunch," said Tom. "I want to see how it handles when there’s a bit of a breeze to contend with."

Bud was quiet for a moment, and Tom didn’t see the slight smile that touched his friend’s lips. "Say, here’s an idea," Bud said with feigned innocence. "Rickman Dunes was opened for the summer Monday, but it’ll still be pretty deserted until the weekend. You could test your cyclo-toy in the breezes from the lake, while your three nearest-and-dearest—Barclay, Prandit, and sister Swift—lounge on the sand. And that was lounge, not lawnge!"

Tom laughed and said, "Well, I guess I do owe the girls some more time together after cutting things short last night."

"And," Bud added, "we can pick up some burgers on the way, thereby avoiding Boris’s noontime sarveeses."

"You talked me into it, flyboy!"

By noon the four were relaxing in the bright sunlight that made Lake Carlopa a study in glittering crystal, sitting on a wide blanket in the sands of the Rickman Dunes recreational area. They had found a secluded section of the Dunes, blocked from the sight of others by a stand of trees.

"Keep having ideas like this, Bud, and I’ll turn the inventing over to you!" Tom declared, finishing his hamburger.

"What a beautiful day!" proclaimed Sandy, pretty in her bathing suit—more often than not, a sun-bathing suit.

"It is like a day in my home town in Pakistan," Bashalli said. "We used to go down to the riverbank after school, to talk about boys and be silly girls, which the teachers did not allow."

"Well," said Bud, "silly-time is over. I’ll go get the Drumhawk from the van." Made mostly of Tomasite plastic under a thin metal shell, the prototype was light enough for one person to carry.

"Bud will always find some excuse to shed clothing and show muscle," commented Bash. "Male vanity! Tom, you are lucky to have so little."

"Vanity, or muscle?" asked Tom.

"Both!" teased Sandy. "I don’t mind Bud’s vanity, though. Until it turns to fat, that is."

Bud seemed to take a long time at the van, which was out of sight behind a dune. When he reappeared presently, balancing the Drumhawk on his head, Tom suddenly frowned. "Hey, what’d you do to it?"

"Just unscrewed and removed those unnecessary and insulting safety bars!" declared the youth. "Plus, added some heroic decoration." He had attached one end of a thin cord to a ring protruding from the top of the platform, wrapping the other end one turn about his waist, just above his swim trunks, and knotting it in place. Rainbow colored plastic pennants hung down from the cord, twitching in the steady breeze.

Sandy and Bashalli clapped appreciatively, but Tom rose to his feet, looking worried. "Bud, we don’t know how stable it’s going to be out here in—"

"Let’s not quibble, Professor Swift," interrupted Bud. "Just watch the demonstration. This is all for science."

Tom sat down again. He knew his pal, a California native, was an excellent surfer who frequently flew to the Atlantic coast to keep up his skills. But he couldn’t help wondering if the test platform would make a suitable sky-surfboard.

Warning the girls about the noise, Bud positioned himself at the middle of the platform and switched on the power. The sand beneath seemed to deaden the sound somewhat. In moments the Drumhawk, cyclocyls gleaming in the sun and pennants fluttering, began a sluggish rise.

"The daring young man on the flying ironing board!" Sandy cheered with a giggle.

Bud waved, shifting his weight to keep balance. "Five feet up!—you guys look like ants."

Suddenly a strange tone wavered through the background noise of the Drumhawk. "Bring ’er down, Bud!" Tom called.

"Getting some vibration," Bud yelled back. "So what do we do? We rise above it!" He poured on the power, which was supplied by a bank of lightweight Swift solar micro-batteries built into the underside of the platform. The Drumhawk bobbed upward—six feet, eight feet, ten feet. Tom shouted with alarm as his pal passed the fifteen-foot mark, blithely heading on toward twenty!

"Come down!" demanded Tom. He could see that the platform was beginning to sway, which Bud evidently took as a challenge to his prowess as a surfer.

"I know what I’m doing, Skipper! Don’t you want a thorough—"

Bud’s boast went unfinished, merging into a yelp of surprise. The flying board abruptly surged upward and forward. To stay on, Bud dropped to his knees and grabbed the edges of the platform. But it was starting to tilt, and began shaking and twisting like a dog whipping water from its fur.

Bud’s hands slipped. In an instant he would be pitched off—and he now was as high as the roof of a three-story building!

"Bud!" Sandy screamed.

BUD TUMBLED off the flying platform, which suddenly began to whirl like a crazed compass needle. The cord around the youth’s waist pulled taut—and snapped. In an instant he had belly-flopped into the shallow lake waters a dozen yards from the shoreline. Afraid that his friend might have been hurt by the wallop, Tom splashed into the gentle waves at top speed.

But Bud Barclay had sustained greater injury to his pride than his athletic body. "Good grief!" he choked, staggering to his feet in water that came up to mid-stomach. "Genius boy, I don’t recommend marketing your prototype as a diving board!"

Seeing that Bud was in good shape after his ungainly fall, Tom broke out laughing. "I’ll have to have ‘use only as directed’ printed on the side! By the way, pal—"

"What?"

"You might want to find your trunks before you come in."

Bud nodded, reddening slightly. "Around my knees." He waved jauntily toward the beach. "Hey there, girls, how ya doin’?" Struck by a sudden thought, his head whipped skyward. "Tom! The Drumhawk is flying around up there out of control!"

"Don’t worry," Tom replied, still chuckling. "When the board sensed that contact had been broken, it started to power down automatically. It’s floating in the lake."

Back on shore the girls had a few gleeful digs to make at Bud’s expense, but the young pilot took it all with sheepish dignity. "This is what science is like, folks," he said. "We learn through failure. Right, Tom?"

"Absolutely!" agreed the young inventor with a broad grin.

"And what exactly did you learn from this episode?" Bashalli asked. "Something about the limitations of drawstring swimwear, perhaps?"

"That, and more," Tom said. "Thanks to Bud, I now know that I have some real problems to overcome in the design of the ultrasonic generators."

Sandy asked if a flaw in the generators had caused the Drumhawk to become unstable.

"In the generators themselves, or at least in their positioning," was the answer. "That funny sound we heard was an interference effect due to sonic resonance in the metal shell of the platform. It may have had to do with the waves being reflected back from the sand dunes all around. I didn’t anticipate it."

"Well, Tomonomo," observed Sandy, "even genius-boys can’t anticipate everything."

Bud rubbed his head. "And even handsome young sky-surfers can get a surprise now and then." He bent over and knocked water from his ears.

Two days later, while Tom was busy in his private lab perfecting new engine mounts for the cycloplane to counteract the wave-buffeting problem, the phone rang. Answering it, he heard the calm, crisp voice of Munford Trent, the two Swifts’ office secretary. "Tom, the communications center is relaying a call from the space outpost—it’s Ken Horton."

"Thanks, Munford—"

"I’d prefer to be called ‘Trent,’ please."

"Sorry. Go ahead and put Horton through."

In a moment Tom was speaking to the young head of the Swift space station facility, their voices conveyed over more than 22,000 miles of cosmic emptiness. "Tom, we’ve finished those polyfrequency photo studies you requested. I’ll be transmitting the data shortly, but I thought I’d give you some advance word."

"You found something?"

"Definitely, Chief!" said Ken excitedly. "Dr. Jespers and the astronomy boys say they’ve identified a big old crater smack in the middle of New Guinea!"

Tom was amazed. "A crater?"

"Yep, an ancient one, so eroded-down and covered by jungle that you can’t recognize it at ground level, or even from a plane. Jespers thinks it’s from a meteor strike several hundred million years back. But it’s mighty big, amigo—the crater walls, what’s left of ’em, circle almost the entire region you wanted us to look at."

"My thanks to everyone," Tom said. "If the holmium was originally carried to earth by the meteor itself, the densest concentration should be near the center of the crater. Someone must have mined it out of the ground there, centuries ago."

"If I know you, you’re going to go take a look!"

Tom chuckled. "Obviously! But first we need to narrow down the range of the search."

Later in the afternoon, Tom discussed the matter with his father in their shared office, Bud sitting in attendance as he often did.

"Finding a source of rare-earth substances is certainly a worthy goal," observed Mr. Swift. "You could fly a search pattern above the region in the Sky Queen, as you did in the Verano uranium project. The improved metal detector and long-range spectronalyzer will allow you to map out the element distribution from an altitude of 30,000 feet or more."

"Great! Let’s go!" Bud cried spiritedly.

Tom rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I don’t want to leave Enterprises right now, not while I’m right in the middle of the cycloplane project. On the other hand, I don’t want to just set it aside for too long."

"Look, guys, why not do it in two phases?" Bud suggested. "Slim Davis told me you were planning to have him fly those asbestalon samples, your new formulation, to Australia overnight, so why not have me tag along with him? On the way back we could fly right over the center of that New Guinea crater, and see what the instruments pick up. Then when you’re ready to fly there in the Queen, you’ll have less ground to cover."

The two Swifts approved Bud’s idea, and arranged for the necessary equipment to be installed on the Swift Construction Company jet that was to be used. By dinner time Bud and Slim, a seasoned company pilot, were airborne and headed for Australia.

Two mornings later, Tom sat in one of his labs talking by satellite relay to Bud, who was now on the return lap of the flight and soaring high above the New Guinea jungle.

"Just crossed over the crater wall," Bud radioed. "Nothing to see, though—just green, green, green."

"What do the instruments say?" Tom asked.

"Oh, no big change, just—wait a sec, Tom." There came a long pause, and Tom could imagine his friend carefully examining the instrument readouts. "Got a spike all of a sudden—holmium! Man, the numbers are going up fast!"

Bud recited the readings, and Tom whistled in surprise. "That counts as an ore strike already." But he cautioned that false positives could not be ruled out yet. More data would be needed to confirm the find.

After Bud had transmitted the position of the jet, the voice of Slim Davis came on the speaker. "Boss, this is quite a place! There’s some kind of tropical storm going on, with lightning flashing back and forth. We’re bouncing around like grease on a griddle, and the instruments are wiggling all over the—"

Bud’s startled voice interrupted Slim’s. "Up! Pull up!"

There was a long, loud burst of static.

"Slim! Bud!" Tom called frantically.

After a moment Bud Barclay’s voice could again be made out through the rush and roar of interference. "…was a close one, Tom. I…"

"Bud, repeat!"

The static rose and fell, aping a concealed voice that could not quite penetrate the noise. Then it broke through again, very faintly. "…like volcanoes, two of ’em…" Another break. "…gap in the clouds, so we’re making another pass, way low down…"

Tom strained to catch the overlapping voice of Slim. "…huts lined up with colored roofs. Bright colors. Looks like the tribesmen are…"

With a crackle of static, the broadcast cut out completely!

Concerned and fearful, Tom punched buttons on the communications control panel, changing the signal route. In seconds he had made audio contact with Ted Elheimer, who ran the California link of the videophone system, the Swifts’ private communications network.

Tom hurriedly explained the situation. "Can you pick up their signal from one of the videophone satellites?"

"I’ll try, Tom!" After a few moments, Elheimer reported that he had acquired the signal from the jet. "Pretty weak, but I can hear them."

"Are they all right?"

"No!" exclaimed Elheimer grimly. "They’ve activated the emergency locator tone!"

Tom went pale. The automatic distress signal!

"I’m hearing Bud—I think," Elheimer continued. "Something about…instruments are haywire, and…"

There was a long, ominous silence over the speaker. "Ted! Do you still have them?" demanded Tom. "Can you hear them?"

"Sorry, Tom," came the slow reply. "The signal is gone—both the vocal and the distress call. It cut out all at once. I—I’m afraid they’ve crashed!"

RIPPING OFF his earphones, Tom darted to the main videophone terminal and flipped on the switch. As the screen lit up, Ted Elheimer’s face came into view.

"What happened to the signal, Ted?" the young inventor cried out. "Any trouble in the relay hookup?"

Elheimer shook his head gloomily. "No, Tom. The transmission just stopped, that’s all."

Tom was numb with shock and fear. "Good night, in country like that, they won’t stand a chance!" Struggling with his emotions, Tom clenched his jaw grimly. "The important thing is, Bud and Slim may have parachuted to safety. They’ll be depending on us!"

Tom hurried back to his office and immediately began organizing a rescue expedition. Issuing orders at high speed, he dictated a number of memos to Trent, then phoned the news to his mother and father at home.

Mrs. Swift was extremely proud of her husband and son. She found it difficult, however, not to be fearful of the dangers they often encountered while pursuing their scientific work.

"Oh dear," she murmured. "Please be careful, son. A rescue flight to uncharted jungle country is…" She interrupted herself with a deep sigh of resignation. "But of course, you have to do it."

"Don’t worry, Mom," Tom soothed her. "I won’t take any unnecessary chances, but I certainly can’t leave Bud in the lurch."

Tom then spoke at length to his father, discussing the details of the rescue flight and receiving the elder scientist’s complete and trusting support.

But the hardest call, which Tom insisted on making himself, was to San Francisco, where Bud’s parents lived. They reacted tearfully, but with bravery and hopefulness.

That night brought Tom only worry, not sleep.

To transport the rescue expedition, Tom had chosen his huge solar-powered aircraft, the Sky Queen. This amazing stratoship, nicknamed the Flying Lab, had been designed by the young inventor to help him carry out scientific research work in any part of the globe.

The following day, descending to the underground hangar where the Queen was berthed, Tom beamed an electronic key to open the door. On the floor below, there was a bustle of activity. Mechanics swarmed over the mighty three-decker craft, which filled the entire underground hangar space with its streamlined silver form.

"Engines all check?" Tom asked the crew chief.

"Not yet, Skipper. Couple of burned out units. We should have her all loaded and ready for takeoff by five o’clock."

"Good work. Buzz me as soon as you’re ready, Hanno." Tom turned to go when a loud, gravelly voice came booming across the hangar:

"Gangway, you cowpokes an’ buckaroos! Gimme lots o’ room now! Here comes the grub!"

Chow Winkler had returned! But for a moment it looked as though a whole supermarket had grown a pair of bowlegs and was clumping across the concrete under its own power. The legs were clad in blue denims, stuffed into high-heeled cowboy boots. Above, the rest of the figure was blocked from view by an enormous carton, loaded high with groceries and canned foods.

"Gangway, all you waddies! Chuck wagon’s comin’ down, so—"

"Chow!" Tom let out a yell as he saw one of the man’s boots miss a step.

The next instant, cans, bottles, blue denims, boots and all came tumbling and clattering headlong in a spreading circle of catastrophe!

There was a moment of stunned silence as the echoes died away and the cans and assorted objects stopped rolling and came to rest. Then a stout, weather-beaten figure emitted a faint groan and raised itself painfully from the debris.

"Chow, are you all right?" Tom gasped as he hurried to assist the middle-aged Westerner.

"Don’t reckon I’ll know till I try standin’ up. Here, gimme a hand, son."

Tom slipped a shoulder under one arm while Hanno Turrosh, the crew chief, supported Chow on the other side. Together, they managed to hoist the bald-headed, roly-poly man to his feet.

Gingerly Chow Winkler tested his limbs. The Texan grinned wanly. "Left eye feels like I might wind up with a shiner. Them soup cans kin pack a mean punch! Mebbe I better slap on a hunk o’ beefsteak jest in case.

"Don’t bother, Chow," a mechanic guffawed. "With that shirt you’re wearing, who’ll notice your eyes?"

Forgetting all about his bruises, Chow turned from side to side to display his purple and flame-orange cowboy shirt. "Ain’t it a jim-dandy?" he beamed. "I picked up this here lil ole number in San Antone on my—" A phone shrilled at the rear of the hangar.

"It’s for you, Skipper!" a mechanic sang out. Tom hurried back to take the call.

"This is George Hedron," said the voice at the other end of the line. As Tom struggled to place the name, the man added: "We haven’t met, Mr. Swift, but I’m an instructor at the DuBrey Institute. Miss Prandit is my student."

"Of course," said Tom. "She’s mentioned you."

"I just heard the news from Bashalli about your rescue expedition to New Guinea, so I decided to call up and volunteer."

"Volunteer?" Tom was puzzled for a moment.

"To go with you. You see, I’ve been down in the New Guinea jungles before, photographing animal and floral specimens, which I use as live models for technical illustration—my specialty and main occupation. I might be able to help you a good bit."

"Oh, I see." Uncertain, Tom stalled. "It’s kind of you to offer, but I’m not sure that we’ll be able to take another person. May I call you back?"

"Sure, you can reach me here all afternoon," Hedron replied, and gave Tom his phone number. "Really, I just want to help in any way I can."

After hanging up, Tom frowned for a moment, then dialed Harlan Ames, the plant security chief at Swift Enterprises. Quickly he told what he knew of Hedron’s background. "Check up on Hedron, will you, Harlan? Bashalli and the school should be able to give you more info. Find out if he’s on the up-and-up, and call me back as soon as possible. If he’s legit, I wouldn’t mind having a New Guinea expert on the team. The government there keeps telling us there’s little that they can do."

"Will do, Tom!"

In less than an hour Ames reported back. "Everything looks all right, Tom. Bash and the Institute hold him in very high regard. I checked Hedron’s university record and he holds a master’s degree in zoology. So far as I can find out on short notice, he has no criminal record."

"No sign of skullduggery? No secret meetings with the Brungarians or the Kranjovians?"

Ames laughed. "Not a trace!"

"Good enough, Harlan. Thanks!"

Tom felt that there was now no reason to turn down Hedron’s offer of assistance, especially in such a life-and-death emergency. So he phoned the zoologist and told him to prepare for immediate departure and report to Enterprises by mid-afternoon.

Soon after five o’clock, the roof of the underground hangar swung open in two halves, rotated by smooth-working gears. The hangar floor was then raised to ground level by hydraulic lifts, and the majestic Sky Queen emerged into the bright Shopton sunlight.

Sandy and Bashalli had driven out to the plant to wish Tom a last-minute farewell. "I’ll be worried every minute you’re gone," Bashalli confessed shyly, "and imagining your shrunken head on a stick. So do be careful!"

"I promise." Tom smiled, then surprised himself by blushing as the raven-haired Pakistani raised herself on tiptoe and gave him a quick kiss.

Sandy was tearful. "Tom, watch out. And you must find Bud—and Slim, too!"

Tom gave his sister a gentle squeeze. "We’ll bring ’em both back safely. That promise is for you, sis."

One by one, the members of the rescue party climbed aboard the giant plane. Besides Chow, Hedron, and Hank Sterling, there was Arvid Hanson, the expert modelmaker of Swift Enterprises who was also a crack pilot, and Doc Simpson, the young plant physician. Several experienced flight crewmen made up the rest of the expedition.

In the ship’s large flight compartment, Tom settled himself in the pilot’s seat and ran through a quick instrument checkoff, now and then giving a sober glance sideways at the copilot’s spot usually occupied by Bud. Then, after clearing with the control tower and waving soberly to the two girls, he gunned the mighty engines. With the roar of a giant the Sky Queen shot straight up on its bank of jet lifters, then soared ahead westward, having been cleared for a cross-continent trans-Pacific route.

Streaking across the United States at over twelve hundred miles an hour, Tom and his companions paid little attention to the tapestry of farmland, cities, plains, and mountains unrolling beneath them. Then came the long flight across the billowing blue-green waters of the Pacific. Occasionally they passed over tiny ships trailing long wisps of smoke, or tropic atolls ringed by coral reefs and breakers of foam.

Finally, almost ten hours after leaving Shopton, the rescue party sighted New Guinea.

"We’ve outrun the sun," Arv Hanson commented from the co-pilot’s chair.

Tom nodded, glancing at his watch. In the local time zone, it was only a few minutes before three o’clock in the afternoon!

Flying inland over the enormous island, they sighted dismal swamps, dense tropical rain forests, and towering mountain ranges. At some points, the ground was cleared in cultivated patches where the natives raised taro, yams, and vegetables. But most of the terrain appeared wild and forbidding.

"And this is the twenty-first century. Imagine what New Guinea was like a few generations back." The voice behind Tom then asked, "Have you pin-pointed the spot where the crash occurred?"

Looking up from his topographic flatscreen, Tom saw George Hedron entering the flight compartment.

"Should be right about here, according to the—the final readings they transmitted." Tom pointed toward a spot on the screen, which they were rapidly approaching.

Hedron frowned doubtfully. "That region is notorious for being poorly mapped. If Bud’s instruments were going haywire, the position he gave was probably way off."

Tom nodded. "We have to start somewhere."

Pointing just ahead out the curving viewport, Hedron called Tom’s attention to the fact that the area was blanketed by clouds. Hedron explained that fearful storms raged over this spot all the time.

"I think a few miles beyond would be a better place to land. The clear valley there will give us a chance to search in all directions. Besides," added the zoologist, "it’s directly in Bud and Slim’s line of flight from their last reliable position."

Tom looked at Hedron coolly. "I want to set down as close to the crash site as possible. I think the Queen can handle a storm."

But soon enough Tom began to wonder if George Hedron weren’t right after all. The cloud deck became thicker and blacker, torn by startling flashes of brilliant lightning that seemed to dance from cloud to cloud. The Flying Lab swerved and vibrated, and Tom ordered all personnel to strap themselves in.

"Never saw a storm like this one," gulped Arv Hanson, seated next to Tom.

"It must be the same one that forced Bud and Slim down," said the young inventor. "I’d hoped it would have dissipated by now."

Suddenly both men gasped as the deck tilted sharply forward. "The instruments!" cried Hanson. All the readout needles were wavering madly, and the radarscope was a flurry of static snow!

Silently, Tom focused his energies on manipulating the controls of the great ship he knew so well. He poured power into the jet lifters. Slowly, almost reluctantly, the Sky Queen rose up out of the hurricane-like turmoil. In minutes it was hovering steadily in the stratosphere, high above the roiling clouds.

"I won’t try that again," said Tom. "I guess George was right."

Inputting the positional data for the spot Hedron had recommended, Tom turned the ship about. Ten minutes later he swooped downward toward a rough clearing. Tom switched on the jet lifters again and allowed the Sky Queen to settle gently onto the floor of a shallow valley. There was no sign of habitation, but the land had definitely been cleared by human hands some time in the past.

The big skyship had hardly touched ground when the hatch opened and the men piled out. All were eager to explore the lush green surroundings.

"Sure didn’t see no sign of any plane wreckage when we ’as comin’ down," Chow reported gloomily.

"It might not be visible among the trees," Tom pointed out. "Remember, they might have ejected. We’ll split up into twos and scout around."

Tom drew Hank as a companion. Together, they struck eastward through the forest. The air was spicy with the scent of tropical flowers, but insects were a constant nuisance. Overhead, the cries of strange birds broke the quiet of the jungle.

"Sure hope we don’t meet up with any cannibals," Hank remarked jokingly. "Hey, what’s—!"

He broke off with a gasp as he stumbled over a grassy hummock—a hummock which came to life! Rearing up on long, ostrichlike legs, it turned into a bird about five feet tall.

"Good grief! What is it?" Hank goggled.

"Cassowary, I think." Tom chuckled, adding, "Look out! They can’t fly, but they’re dangerous if they’ve been wounded!"

Evidently Hank had injured the cassowary. Shaking its wattles like an angry turkey cock, the big bird glared at the man. The creature’s head was crested with a large, black horny helmet, and its unfeathered face and wrinkled neck were of scarlet, yellow, and purplish blue. It looked like a weird feathered dinosaur.

Suddenly the cassowary hurled itself at Hank! With a yelp, the young engineer shinnied up the nearest tree, while Tom, to be on the safe side, climbed another.

Below the treed pair, the bird, beside itself with rage, stalked rapidly back and forth.

"Guess we’d better sit this one out," Tom called to Hank.

"You bet. Lucky thing that species sticks to the ground!"

Finally, with another vigorous shake of its wattles, the cassowary disappeared into the jungle. Tom and Hank sighed in relief and slid down from their perches. They continued the search, and when they reached higher ground, looked around hopefully. Still they detected no trace of the missing fliers.

"If Bud and Hank were nearby," said Tom, "we’d have spotted some sign of them from this point. Guess we’d better head back," he added, discouraged.

When they reached the ship, Tom and Hank found that the other searching teams had returned, with no better luck to report.

"Come on. Let’s take off!" the young inventor decided restlessly. "We’ll fly to the position Bud gave just before the crash. Maybe we can thread our way along under the storm—Bud radioed something about getting through a gap in the clouds."

"Don’t fergit them volcanoes," muttered Chow. "Buddy boy said he saw a couple of ’em!"

With all hands aboard, Tom seated himself at the controls. He switched on the engine and fed power to the jet lifters.

But the huge ship refused to rise off the ground!

AS TOM worked the throttle controls and checked all the instruments, Chow Winkler popped his bald head into the flight cabin.

"What’s wrong?" the Texan queried. "Ain’t we goin’ to take off like you said, Tom?"

"We can’t. For some reason the jet lifters aren’t getting any power." Unhooking his seat belt, Tom added, "I’ll go below and check."

Accompanied by Hank Sterling and armed with a kit of tools, he hurried down a winding steel ladder to the bottom deck. Here the two troubleshooters opened an inspection port and squeezed into the labyrinthine engine compartment.

An hour’s check failed to disclose the cause of the trouble. Next, Tom inspected the jet lifters in the ship’s underbelly. Hank joined him a few minutes later.

"Any luck?" Doc Simpson inquired, as they paused to wipe the dripping sweat off their brows.

Tom shook his head. "The tubes are clear. Must be something we missed in the engine compartment."

By this time, a purple dusk had descended over the trees. Night was coming on fast, and the screams and twitterings of the jungle birds died away to a faint murmur.

Grimly Tom surveyed the prospects ahead. What if the whole rescue expedition should find itself marooned in the wilderness, in need of rescue itself? But he shook off the gloomy thought.

"Come an’ get it, buckaroos!" Chow appeared in the doorway, banging a metal triangle. "How ’bout you an’ Hank knockin’ off fer now, Tom? Soup’s on!"

Dinner proved a dismal meal, in spite of Chow’s tasty cooking. As soon as Tom finished eating, he hurried up to the radio panel and called Shopton on an encrypted transmission via satellite. To his delight, his father’s voice responded to the pre-arranged code signal.

"Have you found any trace of Slim and Bud?"

"Not yet, Dad. I was hoping that they might have got a message through to Shopton somehow."

"No. George Dilling’s group has been monitoring, but they’ve had no further word since the crash. But here’s a slight piece of good news, Tom. The police just called to report that they now have a lead on that Dutchman—the one who had Feeney hire Jake the Cat to steal the statue. Someone matching his description is wanted by the authorities in Singapore for smuggling."

"That’s great, Dad. Glad to hear it." But Tom’s response was listless. He was far more concerned about his close pal than about the mystery of the statue. Bud was like a second son to the Swift family.

In order not to worry his family or the relatives of his men, Tom decided to avoid any mention of engine trouble. After sending his love to his mother and Sandy, and to Bash, the young inventor said good-bye.

Just as he switched off the transmitter, Chow came into the radio room on tiptoe—as much as his ponderous form could manage. From the furtive way he peered into the passageway, it was obvious that he was bringing secret news.

"What’s up, Chow?" Tom asked.

"Tom, d’you reckon someone could have messed up this here airplane so it can’t fly no more?"

"Sabotage? No, I never even considered that, Chow! Why?"

"’Cause when I ’as hikin’ back from the woods this afternoon, I heard some kind o’ hammerin’ noises—metal hammerin’, but real soft an’ low. Sounded to me like they might have come from the Sky Queen."

Tom’s pulse quickened with interest. "Did you see anyone near the ship?"

Chow shook his head. "Nope. When I got back, there warn’t no one around, so I figgered I must have been mistook. But now I’m not so sure!"

Tom gave the roly-poly Texan’s shoulder a pat of approval. "Thanks for telling me, Chow. I’ll check right away!"

Calling the men together, the young inventor questioned each one carefully. But apparently no one had been out of sight of his fellow searcher long enough to do any mischief to the plane.

Tom was baffled. If none of his men was the saboteur, then who had been doing the hammering? Unfriendly natives, perhaps? New Guinea tribesmen who had already captured Bud and Slim and were even now keeping watch on the rescue party?

But untutored locals would have damaged the Flying Lab in some cruder fashion easy to detect, Tom reasoned. It was a mystifying problem.

"Just to be on the safe side, we’d better search the plane for stowaways," he announced. "Arv, you take charge of the search, will you? Hank and I will go back to work on the engine."

Hanson responded with a quick salute, "Righto, Skipper!"

Twenty minutes later he reported, "Tom, we’ve been over every inch of the ship. No one’s hiding on board."

"Okay, Arv. Thanks." Tom laid down a beryllium wrench and wiped a smear of grease off his face with his sleeve. "At any rate, we’ve spotted the trouble." He held up a length of Tomasite plastic tubing. It was part of the servo-control hookup to the jet-lifter throttle. "Someone crimped the insulation line with a pair of pliers," he explained tersely. "The control signals were shorting out before reaching the lifter engines."

Hanson’s eyes widened in dismay. "Then it was sabotage!"

"No doubt about it. Whoever did this had to have planned the whole thing ahead of time." Tom said no more, though he was greatly worried. A highly skilled technician, with detailed knowledge of Tom’s great skyship, was back of the sabotage.

"Somebody must be out there in the underbrush, watching us," murmured one of the crew, Red Jones.

"Like an injun scout," Chow added, "jest waitin’ fer his chance."

Tom nodded. "And he would have had to have known how to defeat our electronic security system, too—and that’s not an easy task." After replacing the length of tubing, Tom took the Sky Queen up for a brief test flight. This time, the mammoth ship checked out perfectly. Since the jungle was now shrouded in darkness, Tom felt that further searching that day would be fruitless. They would continue in the morning. He brought the ship down and arranged for guards during the night. There were no visitors, however.

Mist still drifted among the trees when the Sky Queen soared aloft at dawn. With Hanson as copilot, Tom headed eastward to the spot from which Bud and Slim’s last contact had emanated. For half an hour they cruised back and forth over the area without spotting any wreckage, the continuing storm growling and glowering on the rugged horizon.

Finally Tom said, "I think our best bet is in the storm area." He pointed off to starboard, where the mass of dark clouds blotted out the landscape. A narrow break in the clouds was visible. "That may be the gap Bud mentioned, Arv."

Hanson frowned. "It’s hard to believe that the cloud bank could remain so stable over a period of days like that."

"It may be due to some landscape feature," Tom noted. Banking sharply, he steered straight for the strange opening in the area of heavy weather. As they plowed into the periphery of the turbulent overcast, two towering volcanic peaks, great evil-looking cones of wizened lava-rock, suddenly loomed up ahead!

Chow, who had come forward to the flight compartment with Hedron and two other members of the rescue party, gulped nervously. "Brand my ripcord, I’ll bet m’ bottom dollar that’s them volcanoes the boys saw!"

"Bud and Slim may have crashed between those peaks or just beyond," Tom replied, half to himself. "I want a closer look."

The opening in the clouds was narrow, and quickly grew narrower as the ship roared forward toward the twin volcanoes. The rescuers felt as though the walls were closing in on them like a funnel. As they plunged deeply into the turbulent storm area, the giant ship began to buck and shudder violently. Tom seemed about to lose control of the Sky Queen.

Chow yelled in panic, "We’re goin’ to crash!"

The faces of Tom’s crewmen blanched with alarm. But the young inventor managed to quiet their fears momentarily with his reply: "Relax, Chow! We were in this soup before and pulled out safely. We’re a mighty big bird!"

"That’s j-jest what’s worryin’ me," the cook quavered. "Don’t hardly look like anything bigger’n a hoot owl could fly betwixt those pointy peaks!"

Without warning the storm clouds seemed to slam together, and the plane was now at the very heart of the storm. Rain lashed the cabin windows, and the extinct volcanoes stood out in the leaden darkness like sentinels of doom, gray in the skyship’s forward lights. Tom was forced to jockey the craft like a balky horse to keep it aloft.

Cutting the forward jets, he braked the Sky Queen sharply. Then, as the plane lost momentum against the buffeting winds, Tom eased off on the jet lifter throttle. Slowly he began the dangerous descent into the gorge between the peaks, prey to the wild wind that all too easily could spin the big craft against the jagged sides of the shadowed, brooding volcanos.

"Everyone keep a lookout for signs of wreckage!" he instructed his companions. His own eyes darted from side to side—conning the instrument dials, gauging the distance between the threatening mountain walls to port and starboard as the wingless Queen sideslipped unpredictably in nerve-wracking sweeps. In the misty, lightning-lit gloom, visibility was almost at zero. The mammoth plane was so completely boxed in by the peaks that again and again it seemed as if the buffeting winds would dash it against the rocks!

Beads of sweat glistened on Arv Hanson’s forehead as he watched Tom’s icy-nerved maneuvers. "Only that boy could do it," he muttered softly in George Hedron’s direction. Hedron nodded appreciatively.

Suddenly there was a screech of tortured metal and the whole ship rocked and vibrated under the impact. "The starboard vane tip is scraping!" yelled Red Jones.

Instantly Tom yanked the throttle and poured power to the jet lifters. Like a rocket, the plane shot up from between the volcanoes with a blast of smoke and flame, roaring through the writhing canopy of thunderheads and finally emerging into bright morning sunshine miles above the earth.

Chow had collapsed into the nearest seat, his rotund bulk quivering with nervous shock. "Brand my sagebrush salad," he moaned, mopping his bald head with a red bandanna, "why don’t we try somethin’ safe fer a change?" He grimaced. "Like hirin’ some head-hunters to give us all a good short haircut?"

"Sorry, Chow—" Tom repressed a worried grin. "—but I’m afraid this jungle rescue business is going to be no picnic any way we tackle it!" Turning serious, he added, "Did any of you spot traces of Bud’s plane?"

The others responded with a gloomy negative.

"Pretty tough to see much, though, with all this overcast," commented Sam Barker, one of the flight crew. "We could have missed them easily."

High above the storm area now, Tom stared at the dark cloud masses billowing under powerful winds. The tops of the two volcanoes were totally hidden.

"Guess we muffed our chance that time," he brooded. "With the giant searchlight, we could have picked out ground details clearly." This famous invention was capable of illuminating large areas with a clear, diamondlike brilliance.

"Jumpin’ horned toads!" gulped Chow, turning pale beneath his desert tan. "You don’t mean you’re aimin’ to try that loco stunt again?"

Tom shook his head. "No. Even our supergyros can’t steady the ship well enough for safe hovering. Anyhow, it’s no use trying to fly any lower in the Sky Queen—we’re just too darn big."

"Are you giving up?" George Hedron inquired.

"Not by a long shot!" vowed the young inventor. "Arv, you stand off somewhere on the lifters and I’ll try to get through in the Kub."

The Kangaroo Kub, a midget jet plane with advanced maneuvering capabilities, was carried in the vast hangar-hold of the Flying Lab.

Chow sprang to his feet. "Now wait jest a second there, son! You sure as Cheyenne ain’t headin’ into that mess all alone!"

Tom shook his head impatiently. "I don’t need a copilot. I’ll run the video cameras automatically, on infrared."

"Call me copilot er call me friend," said the cowpoke, "but I’m aimin’ to go along with you."

"But—!" Then Tom relaxed. He realized that Chow was setting aside an enormous burden of fear out of loyalty to Tom. "Okay, pardner. Let’s head for the hangar."

Leaving Hanson at the controls, Tom and Chow scrambled below to the ship’s pressurized hangar space. Slipping into the cockpit of the Kangaroo Kub, a flick of a switch caused the entire rear section of the deck to lower on hydraulic arms like an elevator platform, the sides opening out to the sky. Tom locked the canopy and hastily warmed up the engine.

"All set, Arv," he signaled into his mike. "Steady as she goes!" Tom fired a cartridge to release the special launching-rail mechanism, and the tiny jet shot from the hangar into space.

"Wheee-oooh!" yelped Chow in a cowboy whoop.

Once airborne, the Kub was steered back toward the pass. But almost as soon as Tom penetrated the storm area again, he realized that the odds were hopeless. Seized by the violent crosscurrents, the small craft was tossed and buffeted like a feather in a windstorm. Tom felt a wave of panic as the stubby jet failed to respond to its controls.

"I’d better cut back on the throttle!" Tom muttered to Chow.

"R-reckon ya better!" gasped Chow.

As the jet thrust slackened, the plane teetered perilously on the brink of a stall. Tom waited for the split-second bite as its controls took hold, then hauled up its nose and "poured on the coal." The Kub zoomed upward like a comet!

"Whew!" Tom felt his heart pounding with relief. "Well, there goes that idea!"

Chow reached over and put a hand on his beloved boss’s shoulder. "Don’t you fret, son. You’ll come up with somethin’ better."

Disappointed but far from defeated, the young inventor streaked back to the hovering Queen and set down primly in the hangar at slow-cruising speed, slipping easily into the hold’s arresting mechanism.

"Any luck?" Doc Simpson voiced the question of the whole group as Tom and Chow entered the flight deck cabin.

Tom shook his head glumly. "Not yet. The Kub wouldn’t handle in the storm. But that doesn’t mean we’re licked." His mind whirling, Tom sighed. "But for now, let’s go back to that clearing and set down."

Arv turned toward the master controls. But before he could make a move, Sam Barker, the crewman monitoring the communications setup, suddenly waved a cautioning hand.

"What’s up?" Tom asked. But Sam motioned him to silence, straining to hear something from his headset. Finally he looked up at Tom and the others.

"Bud and Slim are alive!—at least, one of them is!" Sam reported breathlessly as the men clustered around. "I just picked up a faint signal on the ship’s radio!"

"YOU’RE SURE it was Bud or Slim?" Hardly daring to feel hope, Tom grabbed Barker by the shoulders.

"Positive! The signal was pretty feeble, and there was too much static to recognize the voice. But it was one of our boys, all right!"

"What did he say?"

Sam’s face clouded. "At first I couldn’t make anything out, but the last part sounded something like: ‘…rare…like what you…’ That’s all I could understand. Then the signal faded out completely."

"Please try to call them back!" Tom directed eagerly.

The men waited in suspense as Sam made a series of attempts at different frequencies. "No response," he finally reported in discouragement.

"Well, keep trying!" Tom ordered.

As Barker complied, Tom and the others left the control compartment and headed upstairs to the lounge, where the young inventor was pelted with questions about the results of his flight in the Kub.

"I doubt if any type of aircraft could make a landing in that storm area," Tom told them. "I’ve never heard of a weather phenomenon like that. And it doesn’t seem to be going away."

"Kinda makes a feller believe in black magic," Chow said in a worried voice. "I knew I should’ve brought along my lucky horseshoe!"

Hank Sterling spoke up. "Tom, I know it’s already occurred to you—how about using your new cycloplane? It’s compact enough to maneuver between those peaks, and its lift principle could help you resist the buffeting effect."

Tom nodded slowly. "I’ve been thinking the same thing. The cycloplane’s aerodynamic principle offers our only chance of stable flight in such a turbulent sky as this one."

"But the SwiftStorm is back in Shopton," Red pointed out. "And it’s not even ready yet."

"I know." The young inventor brooded silently for a moment.

Doc Simpson spoke up. "Let’s assume an air rescue of Bud and Slim is out. What’re we going to do?"

"Try reaching them overland," Tom decided. "Looks as if it’s our only hope."

George Hedron frowned. "You’re the man in charge, Tom, but do you have any idea how treacherous that dense jungl