REPORT FROM INTERPOL
Tom, astonished, stared at the stranger.
"Who are you?" the young inventor demanded.
"Never mind who I am. Just do as I say!"
By this time Tom had recovered from his surprise and coolly sized up his
enemy. The man was about thirty years old, with close-cropped black
hair. Steely eyes glinted in a lean, hard-jawed face.
Tom wondered, "_Should I risk a fight? Or is he armed?_"
As if in answer, the stranger growled, "I gave you an order, my friend.
Don't press your luck! Get going!"
As he spoke, the man thrust one hand deep into his coat pocket, and Tom
felt something hard poke against his ribs.
The young inventor drove on, but proceeded slowly. He wanted time to
think. Presently Swift Enterprises, enclosed by a high wall, came into
view.
Tom's brain was working fast. At last he decided on a ruse. He would
head for the main gate, get out, and use his electronic key without
waiting for the guard to admit him. At the same time, he would press a
secret warning bell to alert the Swift security force.
But the stranger seemed to read his thoughts. As Tom started to turn off
toward the main gate, his passenger snapped, "Go to the private gate
which you and your father use!"
"And if I refuse?"
Again the hard object poked into his ribs. "You will be what you call in
this country a dead duck!" the stranger warned. "I will then let myself
in with your key!"
Tight-lipped, Tom drove on another half mile, then turned in at the
private gate. The man got out with him as Tom walked up to the gate and
beamed his electronic key at the hidden mechanism. Instantly the gate
swung open, then closed again automatically after the car passed
through.
Tom parked in his usual spot. The stranger kept his hand in his pocket,
still covering Tom but glancing around cautiously. The sprawling
experimental station was a vast four-mile-square area with a cluster of
gleaming modern laboratory buildings and workshops. In the distance, a
tall glassed-in control tower overlooked Enterprises' long runways for
jet planes.
Suddenly the stranger stiffened. A paunchy, bowlegged figure, topped by
a white Texas sombrero, was coming straight toward them.
Tom's heart gave a leap of hope. The man was Chow Winkler, formerly a
chuck-wagon cook and now head chef for the Swifts' expeditions.
"Hi, boss!" Chow bellowed in his foghorn voice. As usual he was wearing
a gaudy cowboy shirt. "Who's the new buckaroo?" the cook added,
squinting at the stranger with open but friendly curiosity.
"Why--actually I don't know his name yet, but he's looking for a job,"
Tom replied. Turning to the stranger, he added, "What _is_ your name,
mister?"
The stranger glared from Tom to Chow, as if not certain what to answer.
Chow's eyes narrowed. He had detected something strange in the way Tom
addressed the fellow as "mister," and had also noticed how the man kept
one hand hidden in his pocket. Looking to Tom for a lead, Chow suddenly
noticed the young inventor make a quick "thumbs down" gesture.
"My name is..." The man's voice fell to a mumble, obscuring the
syllables. "Frankly I am not yet sure I desire a job here, but being an
engineer, I thought perhaps--"
[Illustration (Tom and Chow fight the intruder)]
The man's gaze switched back to Tom, and in that instant Chow jumped the
intruder. With surprising agility for his rotund bulk, the cook bore
down on him and let fly a gnarled fist at the stranger's jaw. Tom
followed up like lightning, grabbing the man's wrist and yanking his
hand out of his pocket.
He was clutching a snub-nosed automatic. Tom twisted it from his grasp
as the man landed, writhing on the hard ground. Chow quickly pinned his
other arm and drove a knee into the man's solar plexus.
"Jest lie quiet now, you varmint, or you may git yourself roughed up a
bit," Chow warned, then added, "Who is he, Tom?"
"Search me. He stopped my car on the road and forced me to drive him in
through the private gate. Boy, was I ever glad to see you, old-timer!"
Tom emptied out the clip of shells. Then he searched the stranger while
Chow continued holding him down. The man carried no wallet, papers, or
other means of identification.
"Brand my tumbleweed salad," Chow grumbled, "he sure wasn't takin' no
chances on people findin' out who he is! Which proves he's some sort o'
crooked cowpoke! Honest ones ain't afeared o' showin' their own brand!"
The man muttered something angrily in a foreign tongue. Chow merely
pressed down harder with his knee. "What'll we do with him, boss?"
"Let him up, Chow," Tom said. "Security should be here any second."
Even as he spoke, Tom glimpsed a jeep speeding toward them in the
distance. The young inventor knew what had happened. Since the stranger
did not have the special electronic wrist amulet worn by all Swift
employees, his presence had automatically shown up on the master
radarscope. A security squad was coming to investigate.
As Chow released the man, he got to his feet slowly. Then, without
warning, he suddenly butted the cook square in the stomach. Chow was
knocked sprawling!
Before Tom could counter the surprise attack, the man's fist cracked
against his cheekbone. Tom, though stunned, lashed out. More punches
flew back and forth. Tom landed a stinging blow to his opponent's
midriff, then took a punishing one himself.
Suddenly Tom felt the stranger's hand clawing at his pocket for the key
to the gate. With all his wiry strength, Tom locked his arms around the
man and wrestled him to the ground.
The stranger fought like a tiger. But a second later a jeep screeched to
a stop. Three security guards, led by stocky Phil Radnor, leaped out.
Within moments they had the man subdued.
Tom quickly briefed the security men on what had happened.
"All right, mister, start talking!" snapped Radnor, head security police
officer.
The man's only reply was a scowl of rage.
"Okay, take him away till he cools off," Tom ordered.
Disheveled and still panting, the man was bundled into the jeep and
driven off to the security building.
Tom arrived there by motor scooter several minutes later. Harlan Ames,
the slim, dark-haired security chief of Enterprises, had taken charge of
the case, and the prisoner was now being fingerprinted and photographed.
"Any leads?" Tom inquired.
Ames shook his head. "He won't talk and we've nothing on him in our
files. His clothes have no tags or laundry marks, but I'd say they're of
foreign make."
Tom nodded. "He's definitely foreign. He spoke with an accent and he
also muttered something at Chow--I didn't catch it, but it certainly
wasn't in English."
Ames frowned. "I don't like the looks of this, skipper. He may be a
spy."
"Have you notified the police?" Tom asked.
"Right. Also the FBI. They're on the way right now to pick him up. Maybe
they'll be able to worm something out of him."
Tom spent the morning in routine work in the big double office which he
shared with his father in Enterprises' main building. It was equipped
with huge twin modern desks, deep-pile carpeting, and roomy leather
chairs.
Each of the two inventors had his own drawing board, designed to swing
out from the wall at the press of a button. Small scale models of some
of their most famous inventions were also placed about the office,
including a red-and-silver replica of Tom's first rocket ship, the _Star
Spear_; a blue plastic model of the jetmarine in which he had fought a
band of undersea pirates; and also a gleaming silvery model of Tom's
latest, unique space craft, the _Cosmic Sailer_.
Because of his father's absence in Washington, the burden of
administering the vast experimental station now fell on Tom's youthful
shoulders. Telephone calls, letters, and other detailed work occupied
him until noon.
Chow broke in, bringing a lunch tray with milk, a hot chicken sandwich,
and a chocolate eclair. Tom ate hungrily.
"Kind o' peps up the ole supercharger, eh?" said Chow, lingering to
chat.
"Sure does," Tom agreed.
"Wal, jest remember that, an' don't go missin' any meals--or sleep,
either," Chow advised as he gathered up the tray. "A brainy young hombre
like you needs plenty o' rest an' vitamins to keep from burnin' himself
out."
"I'll remember." Tom grinned affectionately as the leathery-faced old
Texan took his leave. The Swifts had first met Chow when they were on an
atomic research expedition in the Southwest. Chow had become so attached
to Tom that he had returned to Shopton with the Swifts as a permanent
employee.
Soon after Chow left the office, the telephone rang. Tom took the call
and had just finished talking with Harlan Ames when Bud came strolling
in.
"Any more news on that nut who jumped you this morning?" the young flier
asked. "Ames told me about it."
"Not yet, but there may be soon," Tom said. "Harlan just phoned and said
he'd had a call from Washington, asking us to stand by the videophone at
one-thirty sharp."
Ames arrived in person shortly before the scheduled time. Moments later,
a red signal flashed on the control board of the Swifts' private TV
network. Tom flicked on the videophone and two men appeared on the
screen.
One was Blake, the Swifts' Washington, D.C., telecaster. He introduced
the other man, a calm-faced, balding individual in a dark suit.
"This is John Thurston of the Central Intelligence Agency, Tom," Blake
said. "He thought it might be better to discuss this with you face to
face."
Tom, Bud, and Ames were also visible to the pair in Washington.
"Glad to know you, sir," Tom said, and introduced his companions.
"We've identified the man you captured this morning," Thurston began.
"He's in the United States on a French passport under the name of
Jacques Renard. But we've just learned from the International Police
Organization that he's actually a Brungarian. His name is Samson Narko."
Tom and Ames exchanged startled glances. In the past, certain Brungarian
factions had been responsible for some of the most fiendish plots ever
perpetrated against the Swifts.
"Unfortunately, that's not all," Thurston went on. "Interpol believes
that Narko is also a member of the same rebel outfit with whom you've
had trouble before."
Tom was dismayed by the news. "I sure thought that group had been
smashed!" he said. Soon after Tom had balked their attempts to seize the
satellite Nestria, the rebel ringleaders had reportedly been arrested
and tried for treason.
"It now appears," Thurston explained, "that only one segment was
quelled. Other members of the antigovernment movement are active again
and are said to be strongly organized."
The CIA man related even more sinister news. It was suspected that a
larger nation--by aiding the rebels--was planning a coup to take over
Brungaria. They had already subverted various government agencies and
were sending their own professors to staff the Brungarian technical
schools. It was all part of their insidious fifth-column pattern.
"Many top Brungarian officials have joined the plotters," Thurston
added, "and it's now becoming very difficult for anyone to enter or
leave the country."
Ames asked for information on any rebel sympathizers known to be in the
United States. Thurston was able to tell him very little.
"We keep strict tabs, of course, on all Brungarians entering this
country," Thurston explained. "But even though we screen them carefully,
a rebel agent like Narko may slip in--usually on a stolen or faked
passport."
When the telecast ended, Tom, Bud, and Ames discussed the news grimly.
"What if Narko has pals working with him?" Bud conjectured.
"If he does," Tom said, "they may try carrying through Narko's mission."
"I'll station extra guards around the outer wall on twenty-four-hour
alert," Ames promised.
Tom approved this measure wholeheartedly, but the purpose of Narko's
secret mission remained a mystery. Why had he tried to force his way
into Enterprises? What was he after? There was little hope of resolving
these questions, since United States Intelligence had learned of the
rebel movement itself only within the past few days. Thurston had asked
Tom and his companions to treat the information as confidential.
"I'd better get back to work," Tom decided after Bud and Ames had left
his office. Tom sat down at his drawing board and began to sketch out
some rough ideas for a vehicle to house the "brain energy" from space.
Tom wondered if the brain would be able to perform actions by itself,
given the proper mechanical output devices. Or would he have to help it
function via an electronic computer to digest incoming information or
stimuli and then to respond through servo controls?
The problem was so baffling and complex that Tom became completely
oblivious to the passage of time. He sketched out plan after plan, only
to crumple and discard each one.
Suddenly a disturbing thought jarred the young inventor out of his
concentration. Perhaps the Brungarian rebel scientists had now figured
out how to decode the radio messages from the Swifts' space friends!
If so, when the brain energy was launched toward earth, they might try
to divert it to their own receiving setup!