“How are you coming along on your answer to these space beings, son?”
Tom’s father asked.
“Slow, Dad. It’s less difficult to invent a rocket ship than try to talk to mysterious people through mathematics.”
“Yes,” Mr. Swift replied. “I haven’t had any success, either. And after we work out the message, to whom are we going to send it and how? We wouldn’t want to direct a missile aimlessly into space.”
Tom smiled. “It might be easier to try contacting 42 TOM SWIFT AND HIS ROCKET SHIP
our unknown science friends by transmission when Bud and I are up in the rocket.”
The conversation ended when Sandy and Phyl arrived with Bud, and the “evening of fun” began. Three sets of tennis, with Tom and Phyl the victors, preceded a swim. Then came dinner and dancing. Finally it was time for Sandy to pilot her parents and Phyl to Shopton.
“We’ll be back to see you take off in the rocket ship,” Sandy said as she waved good-by.
“Indeed we will,” Phyl called.
At five o’clock the following morning Chow served the boys breakfast, and by six they were in the Sky Queen, ready for the test of the rocket-fuel kicker.
Tom had installed his invention on top of the great plane and also a highly sensitive thermopile to record any effect of solar radiation on the liquid oxygen. A wire led from the instrument to a thermograph in the laboratory. This would show Tom what was taking place up above.
“I guess we’re ready,” he said eagerly over the intercom telephone to Bud who was at the controls, with Hank Sterling beside him.
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