“Sure thing!” Bud, a skilled flier and astronaut, usually acted as Tom’s copilot.
Just then a hefty figure in cowboy boots clumped into the office, pushing a food cart.
“Hi, Chow!” Tom smiled. “What’s for lunch?”
“Somethin’ special, buckaroosl”
Bowlegged and balding, with a face like sunburned leather, roly-poly Chow Winkler had been a chuck-wagon cook in Texas. The Swifts had met him while doing some atomic research in the Southwest. Later, they had persuaded the jolly cowpoke to come East as their private chef at Enterprises.
Bud watched suspiciously as the cook ladled out a thick, gooey yellow concoction.
“What’s that gunk?”
“Buddy boy,” said Chow, “jest taste it. This is goin’ to be a specialty o’ the house fer that new diner Gus Miller is openin’ at Fernwood.”
Gus, who already operated one diner in Shopton, was a pal of Chow’s.
“Say,” Tom put in, “is that the place advertised on that big elephant sign-the one at the top of
22 3-D TELEJECTOR
the cliff on the coast-Miller’s Jumbo Diner? I saw it the other day when I was flying back from Fearing.”
Fernwood was on the mainland across from Fearing Island. Base crewmen often ate there.
“Yup, that’s right.” Chow nodded importantly. “Gus has a new partner who’s put up money so they kin branch out. You should see the classy layout! An’ that sign can be seen fer miles by bathers an’ boaters an’ highway drivers. Natcher’ly they wanted somethin’ extra-special on the menu fer openin’ day, so they called on me.”
Bud spooned into the concoction. It contained tasty chunks of meat. “Mm, not bad. What is it?”