Dawn was breaking when Tom hung up the phone and turned to talk over the situation again with his father and Bud.
Mr. Swift said, “I’m due in Washington this morning for an urgent meeting of the National Research Council. That means I won’t be around to help cope with whatever comes up.”
“Don’t worry, Dad. You have enough to think about, riding herd on all our government projects,” Tom said. “I can always reach you.”
Soon Chow Winkler, the roly-poly, former chuck-wagon cook from Texas who was now the Swifts’ chef at Enterprises, came clumping up with a breakfast tray.
As usual, he was sporting a gaudy Western shirt, high-heeled boots, and a white chef’s hat perched atop his balding head.
“Any news yet from them pore hombres up on Nestria?” the Texan inquired.
Evidently word of the cargo-rocket explosion and the radio blackout had spread like wildfire.
“Not yet,” Tom replied.
“We’re thinking of borrowing one of your shirts for a space signal beacon,”
Bud remarked.
“Why, sure thing, if it’ll do any-” Chow broke off with a snort as he realized he was being teased. “None o’ yore funnin’ now, Buddy boy!”
“Sorry, old-timer,” Bud said contritely. “I was just trying to lighten the gloom a bit.”
16 THE ASTEROID PIRATES
After a hasty breakfast, Mr. Swift hurried off to Washington. The boys waited anxiously in the observatory, with Tom making periodic efforts to sight Nestria through the space prober or contact the crew there. But the blackout continued.
“If only there were some way to contact them!” Tom muttered.
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