Before closing time, the security chief phoned Tom's laboratory. Ames reported that Swift technicians had examined the diner sign at Fernwood and found nothing suspicious. Ames also said that the post office could shed no light at all as to the sender of the letter.

  Tom and Bud had dinner at the Swift home. Mrs. Swift served fried chicken and hot biscuits, followed by strawberry shortcake. She smiled with pleasure at the boys' hearty appetites, but as usually happened before one of Tom's expeditions she was rather quiet.

  "Don't worry, Mom." Tom gave her a hug as they left the table. "Our space hop tomorrow won't amount to much more than a flight to Little Luna." This was a nickname for Nestria, the phantom satellite.

  "I know you and Bud will be safe," Mrs. Swift murmured, "but please get back soon."

  Sandy helped with the dishes, then joined the boys in the living room. "Now that I have you two astronauts well-fed and defenseless," she said, "how about double dating Phyl and me Saturday night?"

  Bud grinned. "Need you ask?"

  "Well, not you, maybe, but I'm not sure my genius brother over there is interested."

  Tom, who had been staring out the window, chuckled apologetically. "Sorry, Sis. I was wrestling with a TV circuit problem. Sure, I guess we can make it. What's on the program?"

  Sandy's blue eyes sparkled teasingly. "Since you're so terribly eager, I think I'll keep it a secret. I will say this much, though - the entertainment we have in mind is practically made to order for a big brain like yours."

  The boys were mystified but Sandy refused to explain.

  At nine o'clock Tom and Bud drove back to Enterprises. A Whirling Duck was waiting on the airfield. As they boarded the helijet and fastened their seat belts, Tom looked at his watch.

  "We'll just miss a blast-off on Fearing."

  "Cargo rocket?" Bud asked.

  "Yes, to Little Luna." The Swifts had set up a permanent base on Nestria. Both it and the space outpost required frequent rocket flights for the transport of supplies and personnel.

  The Duck soared off the airstrip. With rotors folded, the sleek craft whined eastward through the moonlight. Soon the coastline loomed ahead, silhouetted against the brightness of the sea.

  "Looks as though Gus still doesn't have the new name up on his diner sign," Bud remarked.

  The boys could see the partly dismantled figure of the elephant atop the mast. Tom noticed that even though the floodlights were not on, the sign platform was slowly revolving.

  "Silly to waste juice like that," he thought.

  A moment later Bud heard him gasp. Tom veered the helijet in a sudden bank that sent them circling far out over the water. Then he cut speed and extended the rotors for hovering.

  "Hey! What's wrong?" Bud exclaimed.

  "Just a hunch, fly-boy, but I'm going to check it out." Tom called Enterprises on the radio. "Ask Ames to send a tech crew over to Fernwood in a hurry," he told the operator. "Also tell him to call Gus Miller and get permission to dismantle the diner sign. It's for urgent security reasons involving our rocket base."

  Bud waited until the Whirling Duck landed on the grassy cliff. Then he asked with a puzzled grin, "Mind telling me what this is all about?"

  Tom related how the injured workman had been identified as Klaus Sturko. "A couple of techs looked the sign over and found nothing out of line," he went on. "But seeing the platform, revolve just now gave me a hunch."

  "I still don't get it," Bud said.

  "Get a load of those floodlight reflectors on the platform. Don't they seem a bit large?"

  Bud peered upward in the moonlit darkness. "Well, now that you - Roarin' rockets!" Bud's mouth dropped open as he caught on.

  Ames and the crew of technicians soon arrived in a helijet. The men cut power to the sign, then scaled the mast and began disassembling the floodlights.

  "You guessed it, skipper," one reported by walkie-talkie. "These reflectors are dish antennas - there's a separate wiring system for the signal pickup."

  Ames gaped. "You mean those dishes have been tracking our rockets right under our nose, Tom?"

  "Yes - probably eavesdropping on all the space data being telemetered back to Fearing. The revolving sign made a perfect camouflage."

  The legs of the tower were anchored in concrete. The Swift crew traced the antenna wires and found that they passed through the concrete, concealed inside the structural steel members.

  "Think there's a relay transmitter?" Bud said.

  "That's one possibility," Tom replied. "Or they may have installed underground devices to record the telemetered data on tape."

  The concrete foundation appeared solid. Both helicraft soared aloft to illuminate the area. But a careful search revealed no entrance to an underground compartment.

  "What'll we do, skip?" The crew chief asked. "Get some jackhammers and tear up the concrete?"

  Tom thought for a moment, then shook his head. "If there are underground recording devices, someone must come to collect the tapes. Harlan, let's post a twenty-four-hour lookout."

  "Good idea." With a frown Ames added, "We've been assuming Sturko and his partner just heard Gus Miller needed a sign and asked for the job of erecting it. Now I'm not so sure."

  "This setup's too elaborate to have happened that way," Tom agreed. "I'll bet this sign was planned from the very first for space snooping."

  Ames nodded. "Gus Miller's okay, but we know nothing about his partner. I'll check on him."

  Tom and Bud flew on to Fearing and bunked overnight at the base. Morning dawned bright and cool, with a pearly sky and good weather for their take-off. After breakfast in the mess hall, the boys jeeped to the launching area.

  A picked crew of volunteers for the flight was already on hand, including Chow Winkler and Hank Sterling, Enterprises' chief engineer.

  "She's all checked out, skipper," Hank said.

  Tom glanced with pride at the Challenger, looming like a huge, fantastic silver gyroscope. "Okay, Hank - I'm sure she'll get us there."

  Before they boarded the spaceship, a jeep sped up to the launch site. Mr. Swift stepped out and shook hands with the crew. "Good luck, son. I couldn't resist flying over to see you off."

  "Thanks, Dad." Tom grinned and gripped his hand. "This won't be any cinch, but I sure want to see what's under that green atmosphere!"

  The crew entered the airlock and took the elevator to their posts. Tom switched on the atomic generators and the mighty ship came alive. Flashing lights on the element-selector panel showed the proper "mix" for the repulsion rays. Then Tom lined up the isotope indicators, tuning the repelatrons for maximum ground thrust.

  The Challenger zoomed into the sky. With no G-force pinning them to acceleration cots, Tom, Bud, Chow, Hank, and a radarman could fully enjoy the breath-taking sight through the pilots' twin view panes.

  "Brand my bacon!" Chow exclaimed. "I never thought I'd be gazin' down on ole mother earth from this high up when I was jest a Texas chuck-wagon cook!"

  Bud chuckled and winked at Tom. "Well, this is one way to cut Texas down to size!"

  Soon they were above the stratosphere. The dark immensity of space lay all about them, starred with glittering diamond points of light.

  At 22,000 miles aloft, they came abreast of the space outpost. The twelve-spoked wheel bristled with antennas and latticework telescopes. From one of the spokes, polished mirrors gaped open like eyelids to focus sunlight onto the assembly line of Tom's solar-charged batteries.

  The Challenger sped through the void. In a while Nestria could be seen - a tiny cragged and cratered asteroid racing around the earth.

  "How long will our flight take?" Bud asked.

  "Approximately six hours," Tom replied. "That's at constant one-G acceleration."

  A feeling of tension gripped everyone when the Green Orb finally came into view. Its thick, yellowish-green atmosphere gave it the look of a soft ball of cotton batting. Minute by minute, the mysterious object loomed larger.

  "Do we plow through for a landing?" Hank asked.

  Tom shook his head. "We'll orbit first and take some instrument readings."

  As he conned the flight dials and swiveled the steering repelatrons, the ship gave a sudden lurch.

  The Orb lit up with an intense glow. The compartment shone with its greenish brilliance!

  "What in tarnation's goin' on?" Chow gulped.

  "The Orb just reacted to our repelatron beam again," Tom said. "We'll have to steer by some other bodies."

  Tom had kept contact with Fearing throughout the flight. Now he began to radio back a report of the orbital maneuver. Absorbed, Tom failed to notice his crewmates' silence.

  Suddenly Bud slumped forward against the instrument panel. The copilot was unconscious!

  "Help him, Hank!" Tom looked around and gasped in dismay. Chow had sunk to the floor. Hank and the radarman were leaning against the bulkhead, eyes closed, on the verge of collapse.

  Tom checked the rest of the crew by intercom. No answer! "Tom to base! Something's happening to the crew!" He radioed frantically. "D - don't know what's wrong. . . . They. . . They've passed out!"

  Tom's eyes felt heavy. An overpowering drowsiness enveloped him. He fought to stay awake, then suddenly sagged in the pilot's seat!

  CHAPTER VII

  THE FRIGHTENED FROGMAN

  AT the tracking center on Fearing Island, George Billing and his crew waited tensely.

  "Base to Tom! Come in, please!. . . Fearing calling Challenger! Can you read us?" Again and again Billing spoke into his headset mike.

  The tracking technicians sat at their consoles in anxious suspense. "Tom must have blacked out, too!" An aide murmured to Billing.

  Meanwhile, a deathlike silence reigned in the Challenger's flight compartment. The ship circled soundlessly about the Green Orb with no hand at the controls.

  Moments later, Tom stirred in the pilot's seat. He felt as if a whining dentist's drill were at work in his brain, piercing through thick layers of fog. The drill changed to a buzz saw, then to a wildly shrieking banshee as fire trucks raced toward him, sirens wide open. A giant alarm clock exploded and kept on shrilling insanely.

  Tom came awake with a painful effort. "Those crazy noises!" He thought. Then he realized the sounds were coming over the radio - high-pitched squeals, buzzing, and raucous beeps!

  Tom grabbed the mike. "Challenger to base!" He exclaimed. "Can you read me?"

  "We read you - loud and clear," Billing's voice replied. "Are you all right, skipper?"

  "I - I guess so. ... But what was that racket on the radio? Someone jamming our frequency?"

  Tom could hear Billing chuckle with relief. "We were just trying to jam you awake. You must have blacked out. What about the others aboard - are they okay, too?"

  Tom glanced around. His crewmates were moving groggily. They seemed to be fighting to regain consciousness as if they, too, had been roused by the piercing radio noises. But their heavy-lidded eyes looked ready to close again.

  Tom shook himself as he felt the same drowsiness as before dulling his brain. "Over for now, George," he mumbled into the microphone. "We'd b-better clear out of here p-p-pronto!"

  Leaden-fingered, Tom fumbled at the controls, setting a course back to base. Then he sagged against his seat belt as the Challenger veered from the Orb and streaked earthward again.

  Twenty minutes later the astronauts began to revive - Tom and Bud first, then Hank Sterling, the radarman, and finally Chow.

  "What happened?" Bud wanted to know.

  "Something made us pass out," Tom replied. "We were in a state of induced sleep."

  Tom checked the rest of the spaceship's crew by intercom. All had revived. "We're heading back to base," Tom reported to Fearing.

  "Roger!. . . Keep in touch."

  "Any idea what caused us to black out, Tom?" Hank inquired.

  "Just a guess, but I'd say there's something about the Orb's electromagnetic emanations which induces unconsciousness," Tom said. "If that's the answer, there's nothing mysterious about it. Brain researchers have found it's possible to put people to sleep by electrically stimulating the basal forebrain - and doctors have used electrical anesthesia, too."

  The astronauts were glum over the failure of their space expedition. To pass the flight time more quickly, they took turns napping.

  Although it was after dark when the Challenger came down on Fearing Island, Bernt Ahlgren was waiting eagerly in Washington for Tom's report. The young inventor called him long-distance.

  "Bernt, I think the best way to learn more about the Green Orb will be to send up an unmanned probe," Tom said.

  "You mean rely on instrumentation?"

  "Not exactly," Tom replied. "I'll design some robots that can get around as well as human spacemen and equip them with a new type o£ three-dimensional television I'm working on."

  When Tom explained what he had in mind, the government scientist was enthusiastic. "Get going on the project," Ahlgren urged. "You can regard this as official authorization, pending a contract."

  "Okay, Bernt," Tom promised. "Your word is all we need."

  Tom and Bud started back to Enterprises by helijet. As their Whirling Duck neared the mainland, Tom noticed the diner sign. It reminded him of the plan to keep watch for anyone coming to collect the data tapes. "Wonder if our lookout's had any luck?" He muttered.

  Tom switched the radio to Enterprises' local frequency. "Skip to Hawkeye," he spoke into the mike, using the code names he had arranged with Ames for the operation. "Are you receiving?"

  "This is Neil Forman. I read you, skipper," came the lookout's reply.

  "Any action yet?"

  "Nothing at all since last night."

  "Okay. Just checking." Tom's face turned away from the microphone as Bud gripped his arm.

  "Look! Down there!" Bud exclaimed, pointing.

  In the moonlight Tom could see a dark figure crawling up the cliff face overlooking the ocean. He checked speed and hovered down, aiming a powerful spotlight at the cliff.

  The figure had disappeared!

  "Where the dickens did he go?" Bud murmured. "He must be hiding in the brush."

  Tom radioed the information to Neil Forman, then landed quickly. The lookout came running from his hiding place to join them and all three dashed toward the cliff, armed with flashlights.

  They probed their way down through the rocks and brush to the water's edge. Then they spread out and began climbing upward, examining every nook and cranny of the cliff face. But the trio could find no trace of their quarry.

  "We missed him!" Bud exclaimed angrily as they met on the brow of the cliff.

  Tom played his flashlight down the slope. "He couldn't just vanish into thin air. Maybe he -"

  The young inventor broke off with a gasp as a figure suddenly emerged from the shadowy darkness of a clump of shrubbery on the cliffside.

  "There he is!" Tom cried, pinning the figure in the yellow glare from his flashlight.

  It was a masked frogman! The light revealed him in the act of attaching a large pouch to his diver's belt. He gave a startled backward glance, then darted to an overhanging rock and leaped far out into the water!

  Bud would have dived in pursuit, fully clothed, but Tom stopped him.

  "You can't catch him without diving gear!"

  "He'll get away!"

  "Not if I can help it!" Tom sprinted back to the Whirling Duck and radioed Fearing Island. He ordered patrol boats to take off for the mainland at once and make a coastal sweep. Tom also directed that his diving seacopter, the Sea Hound, begin a search with its aquatomic tracker. This device enabled the craft to trail a submerged object by detecting the minute chemical traces left in the water.

  "What now, skipper?" Neil Forman asked.

  "Ten to one that frogman came out of a tunnel," Tom replied. "Let's take a look."

  The trio scrambled down the cliffside. They found that the shrubbery concealed an entrance to a narrow, timbered passageway. Tom took the lead with his flashlight. After following the tunnel for several hundred yards, they came to a small, brick-walled chamber. Bud spotted a light switch and flicked it.

  "Wow! So this is their secret setup!" Neil exclaimed. "Must be right below the sign."

  The chamber was bare except for a console of radio-recording devices. Tom examined the gear. "He must have removed the data tapes and installed new ones," Tom announced. "That's probably what he was carrying in his pouch."

  As they emerged from the tunnel, the Sea Hound came hovering into view in the night sky.

  "Any luck?" Tom called over the walkie-talkie.

  Mel Flagler, one of the Swifts' seacoptermen, reported, "That frogman went ashore down the coast, skipper. A car must have been waiting. We found tire tracks in the dirt road there. Anyhow, he's gone."

  Tom stifled his disappointment. "Okay. Thanks, Mel. Go ahead and secure."

  Bud and Neil Forman were as disgusted as Tom to think that the enemy agent had escaped.

  "Well, it can't be helped," Tom said. "Want a lift back to Shopton, Neil?"

  "No, thanks. I have a car."

  Tom and Bud resumed their flight to Enterprises. Presently a green glow of light could be seen ahead, floating over the highway near the plant.

  "Good grief!" Tom exclaimed. "I rate the dope-of-the-week prize, Bud!"

  "How come?"

  "That green balloon! If the revolving sign was a spy gimmick, this one may be too - I should have had Ames check it last night."

  Bud's eyes widened. "Let's take a look!"

  Tom slowed the helijet and swooped down toward the balloon. With a blinding flash and tremendous roar, the balloon suddenly exploded!

  CHAPTER VIII

  GALLEY SPOOK

  THE blast buffeted the helijet like a sonic boom. Tom and Bud were half blinded by its brilliance. The wave of heat left them gasping.

  Car drivers slowed in panic on the highway below as bits of debris rained down from the sky. Bone-jarring vibrations rattled the Whirling Duck as Tom struggled with the controls.

  "Our rotors must be damaged!" He exclaimed.

  Gunning the main jet, Tom zoomed the heliplane skyward. He radioed the tower operator at Enterprises: "Telephone the Shop ton police and tell them that green sign balloon exploded. Ask them if they can divert traffic from the highway until Ames's men can investigate. This may involve a matter of national security."

 

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