any
case," Weiss suggested dryly.

Rick added, "And don't get any haircuts until this is all straightened
out!"

When the meeting broke up, Rick and Scotty walked to the front porch
where the girls were listening to the music of a Newark disk jockey on
Barby's portable radio.

"Lot of puzzled people in this neighborhood," Rick said. "Including
me."

"And me," Scotty agreed. "And I'll bet I know the most curious one of
all."

"Who?"

"Cap'n Mike."

Rick grinned. At least the rest of them had some information. Even
Duke and Jerry had enough to know that national security was somehow
involved. But the captain, who had the liveliest curiosity of all,
knew the least.

As Rick dropped him off in front of the old windmill, Cap'n Mike had
grunted, "When you can trust me a little more, you might tell me what
this was all about."

Actually, Cap'n Mike's visit to the houseboat hadn't been particularly
productive. He had little to add to the Coast Guard inspector's
description, aside from his feeling that the houseboaters had wanted
to get rid of him.

Scotty asked, "Why would anyone want to disrupt the brains of the
project team? Seems to me that's doing it the hard way. Assassination
would be a lot easier."

Rick shook his head. He had wondered about the same thing.

Barby and Jan motioned for silence. They were listening to a vocalist
who happened to be Barby's favorite of the moment.

The boys stood silent for a few minutes; then, by unspoken agreement,
turned and went back into the house.

Hartson Brant came down the stairs, dressed in a suit, with white
shirt and tie. Rick stared at him. "Going somewhere, Dad?"

"Yes. Parnell Winston has disturbed me deeply, with the implications of
his theory. I'm going to pay a call on an old friend in Newark, an
associate of Chavez. I want to explore some of the electrophysiological
background of his hypothesis. I won't be very late. Is there any gas in
the car?"

"Almost full," Scotty said.

The boys went on upstairs into their adjoining rooms. For a few
minutes Rick tinkered with his camera equipment, then he went back
down to the library and searched the shelves for something to read. He
finally settled on W. Grey Walter's _The Living Brain_ and carried it
back up to his room.

He sat down in the old leather armchair and manipulated buttons on one
arm. The light brightened to reading intensity, and the back tilted to
the most comfortable position. He had wire