progressive. She supported unions
for coal miners."
Ned, now a vice president at the life insurance company, sat up tall in his smartly tailored sharkskin suit. He wore his hair
handsomely slicked back and favored colorful ties. "You know I'd love to help," he offered consolingly. "But this sort of
red scare could really hurt the business. Maybe it is best if we just keep this cat in the bag."
My eyes burned as I steadied myself on the davenport.
"Okay," I agreed slowly. "We wait to hear the specific charges." Ned stood and kissed me on the cheek. "Where's the little
guy?" he asked, looking around, a flicker of concern in his eyes. "You weren't playing 'trapped in the old well' again, were
you?"
"No," I answered. "He's upstairs. Reading."
Ned bit his lip. "Maybe I'll go ahead and take him into the office with me for the rest of the day. You seem excitable."
"Fine," I retorted.
I waited for Ned, Ned Junior, and my father to leave the house before I flew to the phone. I dialed the number I had memorized
so many years before.
"Hello?" a voice answered.
My pulse raced as I gripped the receiver to my ear. "It's me," I gulped. "I need you."
"I'll send someone to pick you up," replied Frank Hardy.
I packed only the essentials: lipstick, rouge, foundation, mascara, eye shadow, eye liner, cold cream, curlers, a hairbrush,
a magnifying glass, two pairs of stockings, two pairs of pumps, three pencil-straight skirts (two with elastic waistbands),
four fitted blouses, a cashmere cardigan, two boxy jackets, an assortment of undergarments, and a bottle of Estee Lauder Youth
Dew. Then I waited by the back window.
It was about forty-five minutes later that I saw the light in the sky and watched the three-decker plane soundlessly lower
itself vertically into our backyard. No sooner had the great silver craft come to a stop then a blond, lanky young man leapt
out of the plane and dashed to my back door.
"I'm Tom Swift Junior, ma'am," he exclaimed, extending a hand. "Frank Hardy sent me."
"I'm Nancy Drew," I greeted him. "I knew your father."
Once we were aboard the Sky Queen, Tom introduced me to his adventuring companion, a husky young flier named Bud Barclay.
The two youths set the plane on gyropilot and offered to show me around the flying laboratory. Bud, who had the well-built,
supple body of an athlete, led the way, while Tom explained the various purposes of supersensitive electronic controls and
levers.
"So how do you know Frank?" I asked Tom.
"Well," Tom explained, "I was back at Swift Enterprises—our gleaming four-mile-square compound of modern facilities and airstrips—working
on a method of using an alcohol—liquid oxygen fuel combination designed to absorb the hyper and powerful radiation of the
sun and shoot this solar energy into the liquid oxygen supply, converting it into highly explosive, poisonous rainbow liquid
ozone. I had just juiced up the electromagnets and was in the process of lowering them into the acid vat full of electric
eels, when who should walk through the door but Frank! He said that the government needed my experiment. On the double. So
of course I handed it over, no questions asked. How about you?"
I became very interested in a nearby gadget. "Oh, I helped him find a missing waitress once," I replied, shrugging.
"Hey, watch the thermograph potentiometer!" Tom cried alertly, pulling me away from the instrument I had been fingering.
I hurried to catch up with Bud, who had climbed into the transparent blister above the pilot's compartment.
"This is the astrodome," Bud explained, proudly gesturing to the view.
It was a remarkable vista. Nothing like commercial air travel. I could see for miles in every direction.
"Is that Washington?" I asked, pointing to the skyline we were approaching.
"Yep," answered Bud. "We should be safely on the ground at the naval air strip shortly. I'd better return to the landing instruments.
Tom will want to activate
for coal miners."
Ned, now a vice president at the life insurance company, sat up tall in his smartly tailored sharkskin suit. He wore his hair
handsomely slicked back and favored colorful ties. "You know I'd love to help," he offered consolingly. "But this sort of
red scare could really hurt the business. Maybe it is best if we just keep this cat in the bag."
My eyes burned as I steadied myself on the davenport.
"Okay," I agreed slowly. "We wait to hear the specific charges." Ned stood and kissed me on the cheek. "Where's the little
guy?" he asked, looking around, a flicker of concern in his eyes. "You weren't playing 'trapped in the old well' again, were
you?"
"No," I answered. "He's upstairs. Reading."
Ned bit his lip. "Maybe I'll go ahead and take him into the office with me for the rest of the day. You seem excitable."
"Fine," I retorted.
I waited for Ned, Ned Junior, and my father to leave the house before I flew to the phone. I dialed the number I had memorized
so many years before.
"Hello?" a voice answered.
My pulse raced as I gripped the receiver to my ear. "It's me," I gulped. "I need you."
"I'll send someone to pick you up," replied Frank Hardy.
I packed only the essentials: lipstick, rouge, foundation, mascara, eye shadow, eye liner, cold cream, curlers, a hairbrush,
a magnifying glass, two pairs of stockings, two pairs of pumps, three pencil-straight skirts (two with elastic waistbands),
four fitted blouses, a cashmere cardigan, two boxy jackets, an assortment of undergarments, and a bottle of Estee Lauder Youth
Dew. Then I waited by the back window.
It was about forty-five minutes later that I saw the light in the sky and watched the three-decker plane soundlessly lower
itself vertically into our backyard. No sooner had the great silver craft come to a stop then a blond, lanky young man leapt
out of the plane and dashed to my back door.
"I'm Tom Swift Junior, ma'am," he exclaimed, extending a hand. "Frank Hardy sent me."
"I'm Nancy Drew," I greeted him. "I knew your father."
Once we were aboard the Sky Queen, Tom introduced me to his adventuring companion, a husky young flier named Bud Barclay.
The two youths set the plane on gyropilot and offered to show me around the flying laboratory. Bud, who had the well-built,
supple body of an athlete, led the way, while Tom explained the various purposes of supersensitive electronic controls and
levers.
"So how do you know Frank?" I asked Tom.
"Well," Tom explained, "I was back at Swift Enterprises—our gleaming four-mile-square compound of modern facilities and airstrips—working
on a method of using an alcohol—liquid oxygen fuel combination designed to absorb the hyper and powerful radiation of the
sun and shoot this solar energy into the liquid oxygen supply, converting it into highly explosive, poisonous rainbow liquid
ozone. I had just juiced up the electromagnets and was in the process of lowering them into the acid vat full of electric
eels, when who should walk through the door but Frank! He said that the government needed my experiment. On the double. So
of course I handed it over, no questions asked. How about you?"
I became very interested in a nearby gadget. "Oh, I helped him find a missing waitress once," I replied, shrugging.
"Hey, watch the thermograph potentiometer!" Tom cried alertly, pulling me away from the instrument I had been fingering.
I hurried to catch up with Bud, who had climbed into the transparent blister above the pilot's compartment.
"This is the astrodome," Bud explained, proudly gesturing to the view.
It was a remarkable vista. Nothing like commercial air travel. I could see for miles in every direction.
"Is that Washington?" I asked, pointing to the skyline we were approaching.
"Yep," answered Bud. "We should be safely on the ground at the naval air strip shortly. I'd better return to the landing instruments.
Tom will want to activate
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