Tom Swift and His Outpost in Space by Victor Appleton II Page A

couple were there to meet them and drove the young people to their home, which was set back only one hundred yards from the surf. After lunch their hostess smilingly said, "I know you’ll want to be on the beach as much as possible, so go right out there. The water is perfect today."
    It was not long before Tom and the others were sprawled in swim suits on the dazzling white sands of the beach, under the shade of a broad striped umbrella.
    As Bud rolled himself out into the sun, Bashalli remarked, "Now Bud, surely your tan needs no more perfecting. You already look like your were dipped in mahogany stain!"
    "Just think of me as a human solar battery," Bud drawled lazily.
    Other vacationers lolled nearby, having escaped the clutches of winter in the north. Though the conversation was light for a time, it finally turned to more serious matters. "Does anyone have even an idea why this Rah—Ran— the Gorilla would be spying on us?" Sandy asked Tom.
    Answering for Tom, Bud remarked, "Oh, you know, San—what’s a Swift invention without a little intrigue and mystery? Maybe you girls should make one of your lists of suspects."
    "I swear I’m going to kick sand all over your well-oiled skin, Budworth!" returned Bashalli. "Obviously we are victims of some rival battery company—the ones who are launching those balloons."
    "Sure," grinned Tom. "It all adds up. They sent up the first balloon knowing we’d fly close to it to investigate, so that—when it burst—the vibrations would dislodge the glidewing in just such a way that when I went to fix it, I’d be knocked overboard. It’s a plot to make me psychologically unfit to put a rival battery factory in orbit!"
    "Naw, Tom," Bud objected. "It’s one of the other TV networks, the ones that compete with CBN. They’re afraid of losing the ratings war, see?. In fact, I’ll bet that guy Soberstein is really an alien clone who—"
    "Have we heard enough, Bashi?" asked Sandy.
    "Very much enough," replied the young Pakistani.
    The two girls, lovely in their swimsuits, scrambled to their feet. "This is supposed to be a vacation, so let’s forget all that spaced-out chatter for a while and go for a swim," Sandy demanded. Shouting and laughing, the four young people raced across the sand and plunged into the rolling blue-green surf. All were fine swimmers and a moment later they were cavorting like dolphins.
    When they emerged, dripping and refreshed, they lazily strolled back to the spot where they had erected their beach umbrella. Beneath it, Bud had stuck a pop bottle, half full, upright in the sand.
    "Oh well, Bud, you’ll have to get more cola," Bashalli remarked. The bottle had been tipped over and most of the cola had dribbled away into the sand.
    Bud started to make a joking rejoinder but Tom held up his hand and put a finger to his lips, frowning as he looked down at the sand. In the dampened sand next to the bottle was a deep footprint facing away from the water.
    "That’s weird—isn’t it?" said Sandy quietly, glancing right and left up and down the beach. "None of us could have left that footprint!"
    The foursome had carried a wicker picnic hamper out with them, to hold their tops and extra towels. Tom now sunk down to his knees, taking care not to obscure the footprint, and began to examine the inside of the hamper. A minute later he shot Bud a glance and slowly withdrew his hand. Between his fingers was a small, round object, no bigger than a quarter, with a wad of adhesive gum stuck to one side.
    "What is it?" whispered Bashalli.
    "A bug," replied Tom, barely audible. "A listening device. I’m sure of it. And it couldn’t have much of a signal-range."
    Bud’s muscles tensed for action as he slowly scanned the nearby shoreline. "Then our enemies are here— right here on this beach!"

CHAPTER 8
SWAMP STALKERS
    SANDY CLUTCHED her brother’s arm fearfully. "Oh, Tom," she murmured. "I shouldn’t have talked you into coming down here after all! Maybe we should fly