Tom Swift and The Visitor from Planet X | Page 6

his usual spot. The stranger kept his hand in his pocket, still covering Tom
but glancing around cautiously. The sprawling experimental station was a vast
four-mile-square area with a cluster of gleaming modern laboratory buildings and
workshops. In the distance, a tall glassed-in control tower overlooked Enterprises' long
runways for jet planes.
Suddenly the stranger stiffened. A paunchy, bowlegged figure, topped by a white Texas
sombrero, was coming straight toward them.
Tom's heart gave a leap of hope. The man was Chow Winkler, formerly a chuck-wagon
cook and now head chef for the Swifts' expeditions.
"Hi, boss!" Chow bellowed in his foghorn voice. As usual he was wearing a gaudy
cowboy shirt. "Who's the new buckaroo?" the cook added, squinting at the stranger with
open but friendly curiosity.
"Why--actually I don't know his name yet, but he's looking for a job," Tom replied.
Turning to the stranger, he added, "What is your name, mister?"
The stranger glared from Tom to Chow, as if not certain what to answer.
Chow's eyes narrowed. He had detected something strange in the way Tom addressed the
fellow as "mister," and had also noticed how the man kept one hand hidden in his pocket.
Looking to Tom for a lead, Chow suddenly noticed the young inventor make a quick
"thumbs down" gesture.
"My name is..." The man's voice fell to a mumble, obscuring the syllables. "Frankly I am
not yet sure I desire a job here, but being an engineer, I thought perhaps--"
[Illustration (Tom and Chow fight the intruder)]

The man's gaze switched back to Tom, and in that instant Chow jumped the intruder.
With surprising agility for his rotund bulk, the cook bore down on him and let fly a
gnarled fist at the stranger's jaw. Tom followed up like lightning, grabbing the man's
wrist and yanking his hand out of his pocket.
He was clutching a snub-nosed automatic. Tom twisted it from his grasp as the man
landed, writhing on the hard ground. Chow quickly pinned his other arm and drove a
knee into the man's solar plexus.
"Jest lie quiet now, you varmint, or you may git yourself roughed up a bit," Chow warned,
then added, "Who is he, Tom?"
"Search me. He stopped my car on the road and forced me to drive him in through the
private gate. Boy, was I ever glad to see you, old-timer!"
Tom emptied out the clip of shells. Then he searched the stranger while Chow continued
holding him down. The man carried no wallet, papers, or other means of identification.
"Brand my tumbleweed salad," Chow grumbled, "he sure wasn't takin' no chances on
people findin' out who he is! Which proves he's some sort o' crooked cowpoke! Honest
ones ain't afeared o' showin' their own brand!"
The man muttered something angrily in a foreign tongue. Chow merely pressed down
harder with his knee. "What'll we do with him, boss?"
"Let him up, Chow," Tom said. "Security should be here any second."
Even as he spoke, Tom glimpsed a jeep speeding toward them in the distance. The young
inventor knew what had happened. Since the stranger did not have the special electronic
wrist amulet worn by all Swift employees, his presence had automatically shown up on
the master radarscope. A security squad was coming to investigate.
As Chow released the man, he got to his feet slowly. Then, without warning, he suddenly
butted the cook square in the stomach. Chow was knocked sprawling!
Before Tom could counter the surprise attack, the man's fist cracked against his
cheekbone. Tom, though stunned, lashed out. More punches flew back and forth. Tom
landed a stinging blow to his opponent's midriff, then took a punishing one himself.
Suddenly Tom felt the stranger's hand clawing at his pocket for the key to the gate. With
all his wiry strength, Tom locked his arms around the man and wrestled him to the
ground.
The stranger fought like a tiger. But a second later a jeep screeched to a stop. Three
security guards, led by stocky Phil Radnor, leaped out. Within moments they had the man
subdued.
Tom quickly briefed the security men on what had happened.

"All right, mister, start talking!" snapped Radnor, head security police officer.
The man's only reply was a scowl of rage.
"Okay, take him away till he cools off," Tom ordered.
Disheveled and still panting, the man was bundled into the jeep and driven off to the
security building.
Tom arrived there by motor scooter several minutes later. Harlan Ames, the slim,
dark-haired security chief of Enterprises, had taken charge of the case, and the prisoner
was now being fingerprinted and photographed.
"Any leads?" Tom inquired.
Ames shook his head. "He won't talk and we've nothing on him in our files. His clothes
have no tags or