At that moment high-heeled cowboy boots clattered on the stairway. A foghorn voice boomed up:
“Brand my prairie dogs, what’s happenin’ up thar? Have the Martians landed?”
The next moment Chow Winkler, Enterprises’ stout, bowlegged ex-ranch cook, hove into view. Wild-eyed, he was waving a pair of six-shooters. Chow wore a gaudy Western shirt, topped off by a white chef’s hat on his bald, weather-beaten head.
“Speak up, son! Where are they?”
Tom collapsed in a chair, weak with laughter. Hank was also grinning as he handed Tom a paper cup of water.
“Relax, Chow,” Tom soothed him. “No saucer men here-just myself and a solar short circuit!” He explained what had happened.
Chow glared at them, hands on his hips. “Tom,
A SOLAR EXPERIMENT 31
sometimes I think you oughta be hog-tied for your own good, to keep you from takin’ so many risks!”
The fat, middle-aged Texan had met the Swifts while they were doing atomic energy work in the Southwest, and he had become so attached to Tom that they had brought him East to Shopton. Now he cooked for Tom and his father at the plant and often went on trips with them as chef.
Still chuckling, Tom got up and gave the roly-poly cook an affectionate hug.
“Okay, Chow. I’ll take it easy on one condition.”
“What’s that?” Chow squinted suspiciously.
“That you rustle us up some lunch pronto!”
Always proud to display his cooking skill, Chow broke into a wide smile.
“Comin’ right up, pod-ner!”
Later, as Tom and Hank enjoyed the tasty meal of vegetable soup and corned-beef hash, the phone rang. Tom answered.
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