Tom worked throughout the morning on the light-image circuitry for his telejector. At noon Chow brought in a tray of lunch. As Tom ate hungrily, the stout Texan produced a postmarked envelope from the pocket of his gaudy red cowboy shirt.
“Got a letter here I’d like you to read, boss. It’s from a sheepherdin’ friend o’
mine over in west Texas, name o’ Pedro Uzcudun.”
“Uzcudun? Is that a Basque name?” Tom said.
“Yup, that’s right.” Chow explained that the Basques were so skillful at tending sheep that many came to the United States from their homeland in the Pyrenees Mountains between Spain and France to take jobs as sheepherders in the Western states.
Tom skimmed through the opening of the letter. His forehead wrinkled with interest as he read:
The reason I am writing to you, amigo, is because you are now working at Swift Enterprises. Something most strange has been happening to me. You know I spend many lonely nights with my flock up in the hills. Well, lately, I have begun to get messages and visions in my mind about Tom Swift. It is almost as if they are coming from the stars.
88 3-D TELEJECTOR
/ am sure I am not crazy, but people will think so if I tell them and I am worried. Maybe it has something to do with radio. Please ask Tom Swift if he can explain.
Your friend, Pedro Uzcudun
Chow looked somewhat embarrassed. “Mebbe it’s jest plumb foolishness,”
the cook said, “but I figgered I ought to show it to you.”
Tom rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “What sort of a guy is this Uzcudun, Chow?
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