Tom Sr. nodded. “Let’s hope we can make it in time. I’m afraid we’re in for a long hike.”
Fortunately, Tom carried a small pocket flashlight. Using its slender yellow beam to guide them, they picked their way down through the tangled underbrush of the ridge.
“Let’s head away from our line of flight,” Tom THE FLYING IGLOO 131
said. “Furster’s men may be tracking the lab shell on radar.”
Mr. Swift agreed. They began trudging northeastward, since the highway Tom had noticed from the air lay in that direction.
The night passed slowly as they pushed on through woods and brush. Dawn paled the sky. The sun was just coming up as Tom and his father sighted a farmhouse. A light inside indicated that the occupants were already awake.
Weary and disheveled, the Swifts tramped up to the back door and knocked.
A grizzled farmer in shirt sleeves opened the door.
“What d’ ye want?” he demanded suspiciously.
“We’re lost,” Mr. Swift said. “Would you be kind enough to help us?”
“Lost? Ye mean yer car broke down?”
“Not exactly,” Tom said. “We had a brush with some criminals. They were holding us captive but we got away. We’ve been walking all night.”
He refrained from telling the whole story for fear the farmer would think they were escaped mental patients.
“Mebbe ye’re tellin’ the truth and mebbe ye ain’t,” the farmer said. “But I ain’t takin’ no chances by lettin’ ye inside.”
“Then would you at least call the State Police?” Mr. Swift pleaded.
“Yep. Reckon I can. Jest stay right there.”
132 MEGASCOPE SPACE PROBER
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