think." Tom chuckled, adding, "Look out! They can’t fly, but they’re dangerous if they’ve been wounded!"
Evidently Hank had injured the cassowary. Shaking its wattles like an angry turkey cock, the big bird glared at the man. The creature’s head was crested with a large, black horny helmet, and its unfeathered face and wrinkled neck were of scarlet, yellow, and purplish blue. It looked like a weird feathered dinosaur.
Suddenly the cassowary hurled itself at Hank! With a yelp, the young engineer shinnied up the nearest tree, while Tom, to be on the safe side, climbed another.
Below the treed pair, the bird, beside itself with rage, stalked rapidly back and forth.
"Guess we’d better sit this one out," Tom called to Hank.
"You bet. Lucky thing that species sticks to the ground!"
Finally, with another vigorous shake of its wattles, the cassowary disappeared into the jungle. Tom and Hank sighed in relief and slid down from their perches. They continued the search, and when they reached higher ground, looked around hopefully. Still they detected no trace of the missing fliers.
"If Bud and Hank were nearby," said Tom, "we’d have spotted some sign of them from this point. Guess we’d better head back," he added, discouraged.
When they reached the ship, Tom and Hank found that the other searching teams had returned, with no better luck to report.
"Come on. Let’s take off!" the young inventor decided restlessly. "We’ll fly to the position Bud gave just before the crash. Maybe we can thread our way along under the storm—Bud radioed something about getting through a gap in the clouds."
"Don’t fergit them volcanoes," muttered Chow. "Buddy boy said he saw a couple of ’em!"
With all hands aboard, Tom seated himself at the controls. He switched on the engine and fed power to the jet lifters.
But the huge ship refused to rise off the ground!
CHAPTER 7
BETWEEN VOLCANOES
AS TOM worked the throttle controls and checked all the instruments, Chow Winkler popped his bald head into the flight cabin.
"What’s wrong?" the Texan queried. "Ain’t we goin’ to take off like you said, Tom?"
"We can’t. For some reason the jet lifters aren’t getting any power." Unhooking his seat belt, Tom added, "I’ll go below and check."
Accompanied by Hank Sterling and armed with a kit of tools, he hurried down a winding steel ladder to the bottom deck. Here the two troubleshooters opened an inspection port and squeezed into the labyrinthine engine compartment.
An hour’s check failed to disclose the cause of the trouble. Next, Tom inspected the jet lifters in the ship’s underbelly. Hank joined him a few minutes later.
"Any luck?" Doc Simpson inquired, as they paused to wipe the dripping sweat off their brows.
Tom shook his head. "The tubes are clear. Must be something we missed in the engine compartment."
By this time, a purple dusk had descended over the trees. Night was coming on fast, and the screams and twitterings of the jungle birds died away to a faint murmur.
Grimly Tom surveyed the prospects ahead. What if the whole rescue expedition should find itself marooned in the wilderness, in need of rescue itself? But he shook off the gloomy thought.
"Come an’ get it, buckaroos!" Chow appeared in the doorway, banging a metal triangle. "How ’bout you an’ Hank knockin’ off fer now, Tom? Soup’s on!"
Dinner proved a dismal meal, in spite of Chow’s tasty cooking. As soon as Tom finished eating, he hurried up to the radio panel and called Shopton on an encrypted transmission via satellite. To his delight, his father’s voice responded to the pre-arranged code signal.
"Have you found any trace of Slim and Bud?"
"Not yet, Dad. I was hoping that they might have got a message through to Shopton somehow."
"No. George Dilling’s group has been monitoring, but they’ve had no further word since the crash. But here’s a slight piece of good news, Tom. The police just called to report that they now have a
Evidently Hank had injured the cassowary. Shaking its wattles like an angry turkey cock, the big bird glared at the man. The creature’s head was crested with a large, black horny helmet, and its unfeathered face and wrinkled neck were of scarlet, yellow, and purplish blue. It looked like a weird feathered dinosaur.
Suddenly the cassowary hurled itself at Hank! With a yelp, the young engineer shinnied up the nearest tree, while Tom, to be on the safe side, climbed another.
Below the treed pair, the bird, beside itself with rage, stalked rapidly back and forth.
"Guess we’d better sit this one out," Tom called to Hank.
"You bet. Lucky thing that species sticks to the ground!"
Finally, with another vigorous shake of its wattles, the cassowary disappeared into the jungle. Tom and Hank sighed in relief and slid down from their perches. They continued the search, and when they reached higher ground, looked around hopefully. Still they detected no trace of the missing fliers.
"If Bud and Hank were nearby," said Tom, "we’d have spotted some sign of them from this point. Guess we’d better head back," he added, discouraged.
When they reached the ship, Tom and Hank found that the other searching teams had returned, with no better luck to report.
"Come on. Let’s take off!" the young inventor decided restlessly. "We’ll fly to the position Bud gave just before the crash. Maybe we can thread our way along under the storm—Bud radioed something about getting through a gap in the clouds."
"Don’t fergit them volcanoes," muttered Chow. "Buddy boy said he saw a couple of ’em!"
With all hands aboard, Tom seated himself at the controls. He switched on the engine and fed power to the jet lifters.
But the huge ship refused to rise off the ground!
CHAPTER 7
BETWEEN VOLCANOES
AS TOM worked the throttle controls and checked all the instruments, Chow Winkler popped his bald head into the flight cabin.
"What’s wrong?" the Texan queried. "Ain’t we goin’ to take off like you said, Tom?"
"We can’t. For some reason the jet lifters aren’t getting any power." Unhooking his seat belt, Tom added, "I’ll go below and check."
Accompanied by Hank Sterling and armed with a kit of tools, he hurried down a winding steel ladder to the bottom deck. Here the two troubleshooters opened an inspection port and squeezed into the labyrinthine engine compartment.
An hour’s check failed to disclose the cause of the trouble. Next, Tom inspected the jet lifters in the ship’s underbelly. Hank joined him a few minutes later.
"Any luck?" Doc Simpson inquired, as they paused to wipe the dripping sweat off their brows.
Tom shook his head. "The tubes are clear. Must be something we missed in the engine compartment."
By this time, a purple dusk had descended over the trees. Night was coming on fast, and the screams and twitterings of the jungle birds died away to a faint murmur.
Grimly Tom surveyed the prospects ahead. What if the whole rescue expedition should find itself marooned in the wilderness, in need of rescue itself? But he shook off the gloomy thought.
"Come an’ get it, buckaroos!" Chow appeared in the doorway, banging a metal triangle. "How ’bout you an’ Hank knockin’ off fer now, Tom? Soup’s on!"
Dinner proved a dismal meal, in spite of Chow’s tasty cooking. As soon as Tom finished eating, he hurried up to the radio panel and called Shopton on an encrypted transmission via satellite. To his delight, his father’s voice responded to the pre-arranged code signal.
"Have you found any trace of Slim and Bud?"
"Not yet, Dad. I was hoping that they might have got a message through to Shopton somehow."
"No. George Dilling’s group has been monitoring, but they’ve had no further word since the crash. But here’s a slight piece of good news, Tom. The police just called to report that they now have a
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