Jackson shifted his eyes from Tom’s icy gaze. His only answer was a stubborn shrug.
BUD’S FRANTIC MESSAGE 157
“Never mind. I’ve already guessed the answer,” Tom said. “You sent copies by scanned-radio pictures on my new type of transmitter and they were reproduced as exact photographs at the receiver. Also, the rough plans for my radio.”
Jackson’s jaw dropped open in stunned amazement. His reaction was all Tom needed to know that his guess was correct. Since Tom’s own machine had been used, rather than an unlicensed transmitter, the Federal Communications Commission had not reported the sending to the FBI.
“All right, Jack,” Tom said, getting up from his chair. “If you’ve told me the truth, I’ll try to see that things don’t go too hard with you. Meantime, if there’s anything more you want to get off your chest, you know how to reach me.”
The locksmith watched shamefacedly as Tom walked out of the cell. Before leaving headquarters, the inventor suggested to Chief Slater that they confront Dunstan with the evidence gleaned from the hunting boot. Slater readily agreed.
Dunstan seemed shaken by the news, but still refused to talk. Tappan, too, remained as tight-mouthed as ever.
“Better think it over,” Chief Slater warned them both before he and Tom left the cellblock. “If you birds think some tricky lawyer can get you out of this rap, you’ve got another think coming!”
As Tom was lunching with his father that
158 MEGASCOPE SPACE PROBER
noon, he received a long-distance call from Florida.
“It’s Bud,” said Miss Trent.
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