“And speaking of instruments,” mused Tom, “she’ll need a gyroscope, too.”
He smiled at the thought of what might happen if the machine ever veered off course. “It might burrow into some other country’s territory and swipe their ore!”
Two hours later, while Tom was busy with his slide rule working out structural details of the new blaster, he became aware of voices outside the laboratory window.
One voice was that of Bud Barclay, the other Tom recognized as Chow Winkler’s. Chow was a former chuck-wagon cook from the Texas Panhandle, whom Tom and his father had first met while they were engaged in atomic research in the Southwest.
36 TOM SWIFT AND HIS ATOMIC BLASTER
Chow had become so attached to the Swifts that he had accompanied them back to Shopton and taken over the job of chef on expeditions.
“What’s young Tom up to now in that lab o’ his?” Chow was asking.
“Why, haven’t you heard?” Bud replied. “He’s inventing a pair of shoes that leave no footprints!”
A moment later Bud and Chow entered the laboratory. The cook was a short, bronzed, roly-poly man, with bowlegs and a round head that was rapidly going bald. Tom grinned when he saw the brand-new sports shirt that Chow was wearing. The chef liked flashy shirts, but this one was even louder and more hideous than usual, with large orange sunbursts on a green-and-purple background.
“Kinda like this little number, do you?” The ex-cowpoke chuckled proudly. “I picked it up fer a song through the latest mail-order catalog.”
Preening himself like a peacock, he turned from side to side to show off the shirt from all angles. Tom squinted his eyes painfully and peered at the shirt through his fingers.