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 cloth