“Thanks, Chow.” Tom threw an arm warmly around the chef’s shoulders and in a Texas drawl said, “I know I can always count on you when things go wrong, pardner. How about sashayin’ over to the lab with us?”
“Sure thing, boss,” Chow agreed, his leathery face breaking into a pleased smile.
Bud and Ted had driven to the infirmary in a jeep, but Tom vetoed this form of transportation to the laboratory. “Let’s walk,” he suggested. “I need to stretch my legs.”
“Ought to keep a string o’ saddle horses around here,” Chow grumbled.
“Feller might catch his boot heel in a prairie-dog hole!”
“Well, if you insist upon wearing shoes with heels like a woman’s what do you expect?” Tom chuckled. “Come on. I know a short cut.”
He led the way through a cluster of workshops and laboratory buildings, then headed across a bare expanse of sun-baked sand toward his private lab.
Suddenly his companions were startled by a loud buzz.
“What’s that?” Ted asked.
“My pocket radio,” Tom explained. He pulled
34
SPACE SOLARTRON
out the tiny transistor set and clipped the receiver to his ear. “Tom Swift here.”
The next instant Tom’s face turned pale. “Run!” he yelled to the others.
Following Tom’s command, his three friends broke into a headlong sprint, dashing with him toward the laboratory.
“What in tarnation’s the idea?” Chow panted as he ran. “Walkin’ ain’t bad enough, so we got to race? I ain’t no Texas quarter horse-!”
DANGER ZONE
35
His words were drowned out by a rumbling noise underfoot. Then the ground exploded beneath the group! Tom and his friends were hurtled helter-skelter amid a shower of sand, dirt, and flying rocks!