The workmen and spectators milled in panic, vainly seeking some way to catch the stout cook when he plunged downward. In the nick of time the graphicopter came swooping to the rescue, dangling its filler hose.
“Grab on!” Tom shouted.
Chow clutched frantically at the hose. The graphicopter rose, tugging him free from the sticky morass. Then it hovered down, clear of the skyway, and deposited him safely on the ground.
Chow stood quaking and trembling, his face gray with fright. Onlookers crowded around him.
“You know what they say, old-timer-‘Fools
CHOW’S SKYWAY MISHAP 111
rush in where angels fear to tread/ ” Bud wisecracked.
“B-b-brand my sagebrush stew,” Chow muttered, “I come doggone near beiri an angel!”
Tom looked somewhat chagrined as he landed. “I must have added too much chemical retardant to the mix,” he explained to his father and Hank Sterling. “It slowed down the setting process too much-that’s why the stuff is still mushy.”
After taking Bud aloft to retrieve Chow’s flying carpet, Tom hurried to his laboratory to prepare a new batch of Durafoam. By this time the highway had hardened. Hank reduced the power output of the transmitters so the span would sink low enough to be removed.
Two hours later Tom was ready for another test. This time, Bud accompanied him in the graphicopter. After laying a half-mile section of the skyway, Tom turned over the controls to his copilot and climbed out onto the floating pavement. The watching crowd held its breath as the young inventor took several tentative steps, then applauded. The Durafoam had hardened perfectly.
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