Tom Swift and His Flying Lab Read Free

now."
    Damon Swift chuckled and nodded his agreement. "I didn’t think you’d care to wait, Tom. Yes, Harlan and I have already agreed to ‘turn the dogs loose’ on our mysterious visitor."
    "RobiTec" was the nickname Tom had bestowed on a remote-controlled robot-mobile Swift Enterprises had developed from his concepts and sketches. The compact, agile machine was designed to assist the police or military in examining and containing explosive devices, and could withstand devastating blasts.
    "It’ll take about an hour to get RobiTec up and running," declared a technician after a brief televoc conversation with his department. "We don’t want him going on the blink somewhere inside that crater."
    "Then we’ll have time to visit the Sky Queen." Tom motioned to Bud to join him. "I want to make sure the hangar wasn’t compromised by that shockwave."
    Harlan Ames held up a hand, signaling Tom to wait. "Hold it a sec, Tom. I’m getting a message from the employee gate—someone is trying to get in without proper ID, and he’s demanding to speak to you!"
    A smile slowly broke out on Tom’s face, which spread, in a glance, to Bud. "Oh? Well, I think we can spare a moment to drop by."
    Long before the ridewalk carried them within sight of the gate for employees, Tom and Bud could hear a booming foghorn voice rebounding from the nearby buildings—a voice with a very pronounced Texas drawl.
    "Brand my fuselage! Looks like I jest got home in time—in time fer every dang thing to get turned six ways from Sunday! You let me in there, young feller, an’ mebbe I’ll fergit t’tell the boss you kept Chow Winkler from his kitchenly duties!"
    As the boys came into view, Chow’s face lit up in a big malicious grin, and he waved at them jauntily. "Sorry, pard, too late," he said to the youthful uniformed guard blocking his way. "Might as well stick a iron skillet on yer backside an’ head fer the woodshed."
    "Mr. Swift, do you know this man?" cried the security guard, red in the face. "He says he doesn’t need an amulet, won’t take one, called me a lowdown—"
    Tom tried to look sympathetic, but could barely suppress a laugh. "Yes, I… think I grasp the concept, Mitch. You’re new here and Chow’s been on vacation. He’s a good friend and a trusted employee."
    Chow beamed, adding: "And the best durn cook east of the Pecos’n west of the sun!"
    Chow, whose real name was Charles, had been a chuck-wagon cook, employed for many years by a ranch in New Mexico. He had become acquainted with Tom and his father while they were building Enterprises’ atomic research station, the Citadel, located in an isolated spot in the southwestern desert to which Chow’s ranch was a near neighbor. It had not been long before Tom had become fast friends with the colorful roly-poly westerner, and when the Swifts returned to Shopton in upstate New York, Chow had attached himself to the party. He was now employed as private chef for Tom and Mr. Swift, not only at the plant but when off on their frequent travels around the globe.
    "Say, this here feller at the gate tried t’put this li’l ole good-luck charm on my arm—an electric armpit!"
    "You mean one of our electronic amulets." Tom laughed. "Without that little bracelet, Chow, you’d have our ground-hugging radarscopes working overtime."
    "How come?" Chow asked, eyeing the bracelet.
    "It sounds complicated, but it’s really simple," Tom explained. "That little bracelet ‘traps’—cancels out—radar impulses and keeps them off our scopes. We not only have the big radar dish on top of the main building for everyone to see, but another one set up in the new underground hangar where we’re building the Flying Lab. So," Tom went on, as Chow looked a little perplexed, "anyone who doesn’t wear an amulet causes a little dot of light to show up on one scope or the other. That’s how we can tell if we have an unwanted visitor."
    As Tom concluded, he shot a glance at Bud that seemed to say: