in wasting time waiting for the computer results," Tom
decided. "Suppose Bud and I fly back to Swift Enterprises and organize a
search party."

"Good idea." As Admiral Walter extended a hand, his weather-beaten face
softened. "And don't feel downhearted, son. You rate a Navy 'E' for the
way you handled this operation. It would have succeeded if it hadn't
been for that confounded enemy missile!"

"Thank you, sir." Tom managed a grateful grin, in spite of his
discouragement.

Minutes later, the two boys embarked in a motor launch that took them to
an aircraft carrier standing by in the vicinity. From the flattop they
took off in a Navy jet for Shopton.

Meanwhile, Mr. Swift remained aboard the _Recoverer_ to supervise the
data processing. Tom, looking back from the soaring jet, could see one
of the helicopters on its way to the missile ship to deliver the first
batch of tapes.

It was late afternoon when the Navy jet touched down on the Enterprises
airfield. The Swifts' sprawling experimental station was a walled,
four-mile-square enclosure with landing strips, work-shops, and
laboratories, near the town of Shopton. Here Tom Jr. and his father
developed their amazing inventions.

Tom and Bud hopped into a jeep at the hangar and sped to the
Administration Building, where Tom shared a double office with his
father. Bud sank down into one of the deep-cushioned leather chairs,
while Tom adjusted the Venetian blinds to let in the afternoon sunshine.

The spacious office was furnished with twin modern desks, conference
table, and drawing boards which swung out from wall slots at the press
of a button. At one end of the room were the video screen and control
board of the Swifts' private TV network. Here and there stood scale
models of their inventions, a huge relief globe of the earth, and a
replica of the planet Mars.

"What are your plans for our search expedition, skipper?" Bud asked.

Tom ran his fingers through his crew cut. "Let's see. We'd better take
the _Sky Queen_, I think, and also--"

Tom broke off as the desk intercom buzzed. Miss Trent, the Swifts'
secretary, was on the wire.

"Your father's calling over the radio, Tom."

"Swell!" Tom flicked a switch to cut in the signal of his private
telephone. "Hi, Dad! We just got back. Any news?"

"Yes, son. We have the computer results," Mr. Swift replied. "Got a
pencil handy?"

Tom copied down the latitude and longitude figures as his father
dictated.