had set up the robot defense on this Atlantic coastal island after entering the world-wide rocket building race. He hoped to be the first person to pilot a rocket into space and circle the earth in a two-hour orbital flight.
The International Rocket Society had formalized the contest by offering a one-hundred-thousand-dollar prize. When rocket research teams in several countries signified their intention to participate, the Defense Department had cooperated by declaring the thumb-shaped island to be a restricted area.
“Some of you comb the ground a few yards inshore,” Tom suggested. “That pilot could be hiding behind one of the low dunes.”
“You’re right,” Hank replied. “Some of those spots provide real foxholes.”
Tom’s search party fanned out and extended the hunt westward. Bud was cruising a short distance offshore, beaming a giant searchlight downward from the helicopter.
Suddenly Tom’s walkie-talkie crackled and Bud’s voice came excitedly from the helicopter. “I’ve just spotted him! He’s almost at the shore. Looks all in.”
Rushing to the beach, the searchers followed the beam from the helicopter and spotted the swimmer. The man was trying to combat a heavy surf and was obviously tiring fast. As the stranger’s strength failed, Tom kicked off his shoes, made a long dive into the waves, and with strong strokes soon reached the helpless swimmer.
Holding the stranger’s head above water, he
A VANISHED PILOT 7
brought him to shore. The man, wearing only shorts and shirt, gave a great sigh, then collapsed on the sand. All efforts to revive him were unsuccessful.