Mr. Swift said, "as I started to tell you, the space receiver picked up a message today from our unknown planetary friends. The message informed us that they are sending a visitor to earth—a visitor consisting of pure energy!"

"Energy?" Tom was startled. "I don't get it, Dad!"

"Frankly, I don't quite understand it myself," Tom Sr. confessed. "The message didn't explain how or in what form the energy would arrive. But, at any rate, they want us to construct some sort of container for it."

The elder scientist paused thoughtfully. "In my opinion, the energy which they speak of must be a sort of invisible brain. The symbols were rather difficult to decode, but apparently our job will be to construct a device through which the energy will be able to receive impressions of what life is like here on earth, and also to communicate its own responses to us."

Tom sat bolt upright. "Dad, this is terrific news!" he exclaimed. "If we're able to make this energy or 'brain' communicate, it may be able to tell us what the space people are like!"

Mr. Swift nodded, his own eyes blazing with as much excitement as Tom's were.

Bud, too, was deeply impressed but could not resist quipping, "What sort of body will you give it? How about a beautiful, superintelligent space girl for me to date?"

"Nothing doing!" Sandy retorted mischievously. "I insist on a handsome young man who'd have time to take two nice earth girls out on dates!"

"Ouch!" Bud pretended to wince. "I really left myself wide open for that one!"

Mrs. Swift put in, "Goodness, mightn't it get out of control and be rather overpowering? Suppose it went berserk!"

"Rather an unpleasant possibility," Mr. Swift agreed, smiling wryly. "But I trust our space friends wouldn't let that happen."

Both he and Tom became thoughtful as they discussed the problem.

"The energy will arrive in two weeks," Mr. Swift added. "Unfortunately that phone call was a request that I go to Washington on urgent government business. So you may have to take over and work out a solution on your own, Tom."

It was a sobering thought to the young inventor. "You were right, Mother. This is a terrific challenge."

Soon afterward, the little gathering broke up. Bud, who had left his own convertible at the Swifts' that morning, offered to drop Phyl at her home.

Tom awoke the next morning, refreshed by a good night's sleep. After a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs, he drove off to Enterprises in his low-slung silver sports car.

"Think I'll listen to the news," Tom thought, and switched on his dashboard radio.

A moment later the announcer's voice came over the loud-speaker. "Casualties from yesterday's disastrous earthquake now total thirty-one injured," the announcer reported. "Most of these are employees of the Faber Electronics plant and four are in critical condition. There is one note of cheer, however. At last report, Mark Faber, the brilliant president of the company, is now expected to recover." Tom gave a thankful sigh of relief.

The announcer continued, "The nearby town of Harkness was only lightly damaged, but the plant itself was almost totally demolished. No estimate of the losses has been released, but will certainly run into millions of dollars, including some highly secret defense items which were being developed at the plant. Scientists are puzzled by the severity of the quake in what had been considered a 'dead' area."

For the first time Tom, too, was struck by this curious aspect of the disaster. So far as he knew, no serious tremors had ever before been reported within hundreds of miles of the region.

He was mulling over the matter as he drove along a lonely wooded area, not far from Lake Carlopa. Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted as a man stepped out from among the trees ahead and gestured with his thumb for a ride.

"Sorry, mister," Tom reflected, "but I've had trouble with hitchhikers before!" He shook his head to let the man know that he did not intend to stop.

To the young inventor's amazement, the pedestrian deliberately stepped onto the road—squarely in the path of Tom's oncoming car!

Tom jammed on the brakes, and the silver sports car screeched to a stop. Only a quick twist of the wheel had prevented an accident!

Somewhat angrily, Tom exclaimed, "What's the big idea, mister? Don't you realize you might have been—"

"Shut up!" the stranger snarled. In an instant the man had yanked open the door and climbed in beside Tom.

"Take me inside the grounds of Swift Enterprises," he commanded in a foreign accent. "And no tricks or you will regret it!"

CHAPTER III

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