Suddenly Bud braked the jeep to a halt on the sandy trail. “Hey, what’s that joker doing up there?” he muttered suspiciously.
On the mesa just above them, a figure was seated at an easel, peering through binoculars.
“Looks like an artist,” said Phyl.
“Then why is he snooping at the Citadel through those glasses?” Bud demanded.
The glasses certainly appeared to be trained toward the atomic research plant. Bud jumped from the jeep and scrambled up the boulder-and-brush-strewn slope. The figure at the easel, a youngish, wiry-looking man with tousled, carrot-red hair, paused long enough to glance at him, then returned to his binoculars.
“What’s the idea of those glasses?” Bud snapped.
“To see better,” the man replied tersely.
“I’ll bet you can,” Bud said. “In case you don’t know it, that’s a top-secret research station!”
“I’m not likely to steal any secrets at this range.”
40 TRIPHIBIAN ATOMICAR
The red-haired man looked Bud up and down with a grin. Then he raised the binoculars to his eyes again.
Enraged by the fellow’s apparent arrogance, Bud snatched the glasses from his hand.
“Give those back, please,” the stranger demanded.
“I’ll give you a poke in the jaw if you don’t explain what you’re doing here!”
Bud stormed, grabbing him by the front of his polo shirt.
The next thing Bud knew, a fist exploded in his face. The husky young pilot staggered back, then dropped the binoculars and waded in with his fists flying.
“Bud! Stop it!” Sandy commanded as she and Phyl came running up the slope. Between them, the girls managed to separate the opponents. “Bud-this is Orton Throme! He’s the famous abstract painter!”