Duke waved the boys to chairs. "It will take a little while. Get comfortable. I have to finish this copy."

Rick and Scotty waited as patiently as possible. Scotty, the more relaxed of the pair, borrowed a copy of a style manual and studied it with apparent interest. Rick watched him, envious as always of his pal's ability to let time pass without floor pacing, nail chewing, or other impatient actions.

Duke's analysis of the situation was pretty good, Rick thought, and it was based on very little real information. He supposed that an editor had more experience to draw on than most people. But so did intelligence agents. It wasn't hard to see how a few information leaks could add up to a pretty clear picture in an agent's head.

Jerry was back in a short time. Apparently the interview hadn't taken long. He produced his sheaf of copy paper with a flourish and pounded on a desk for attention. The gesture wasn't necessary. Rick, Scotty, and Duke were waiting eagerly.

"Louis Collins, Journeyman Barber," Jerry read. "Age 43. Originally from St. Louis, most recently from Washington, D.C. Twenty-five years experience. Inventor of the Collins treatment for dry hair, which is the machine he has. Claims to have invented it five years ago, while working at a hotel in Washington. Came to Whiteside because he prefers being near the shore. He's an ardent fisherman. Saw Vince Lardner's ad in The New York Times a few days ago and applied at once by phone."

"What day and what time?" Rick asked quickly.

"Monday. He called about noon."

Scotty asked curiously, "How did you get that information out of him?"

"Nothing to it. I told Vince I'd like to look up his ad in the Times, because he claimed the ad plugged Whiteside as an excellent climate. Then I told this new guy he must have moved fast to get in his application ahead of all the other applicants, and he said he hadn't even seen the Times until he went to lunch. He called right away. Vince nodded, so I guess the time worked out as Collins said it had. Vince said the ad had been running for a week, and no one else had applied."

Rick had been calculating. "Scotty, that means Collins phoned after we left Washington..." He stopped quickly.

Duke Barrows rubbed his hands in fiendish glee. "Ahah! Giving away information. So you've seen this Collins before, in Washington. No wonder you're worried about him. Jerry, I'll bet we can sell this information to some enemy for millions!"

Scotty grinned. "Not unless you have the plans for the death ray. Only death rays bring millions these days. Why, it's getting so a spy can't even sell atom bomb secrets for more than a buck apiece any more."

"Guess you're right," Duke admitted, crestfallen. "Well, Rick, anything else you need?"

"Middle initial or name?" Rick asked.

"M for Mayhew. Anything else?" Jerry asked with a superior air.

"That does it." Rick consulted his watch. "Let's go, Scotty. Time to pick up Barby. I won't thank you two, because you're going to get paid in steak and pie. See you later."

At the home of Barby's friend there was another wait while Rick chafed. He was anxious to get home and phone Steve Ames. However, as it developed, Steve couldn't be reached. It was after dinner before Rick made connections.

He gave Steve the information Jerry had collected, then asked, "Isn't this proof of something?"

Steve chuckled. "It's proof that Whiteside has a new barber. That's all. But it's certainly strongly presumptive, Rick. We knew about Collins moving before you called, and we're continuing the check on him. Meanwhile, I'll alert my boys at Spindrift and tell them to keep on their toes."

"I'll pass the word," Rick offered.

"No need. I'm in touch by radio. Now, I want you to do something for me. Dr. Marks is arriving at Newark by train at six tomorrow morning. Tom Dodd is with him. Can you pick them up?"

"Sure. How?"

"Suppose you fly to Newark and have Scotty drive over. Then you can pick them up at the station by car and take them to the plane. If you fly them to Spindrift no one will know that Marks has even arrived. Tom will try to make sure no one is tailing him, and he'll help you to lose any cars that might try to follow."

"We can do it," Rick assured him. "I can land close to the city. I've done it before with pontoons."

"Good. Ordinarily, I'd have an agent meet them, but my Newark man is in the woods with the Boy Scout group. Call me when Marks is safely with the team."

"Will do," Rick promised.

Rick reported the conversation to his father when the scientist came in from late work in the laboratory. Hartson Brant nodded wearily. "Good. If Marks is on the way, that means he has answers we need badly to some of our mathematical problems."

"What I don't get is why he's coming on an overnight train," Scotty interjected. "That's doing it the hard way, because it's only a few hours from Washington to Newark. Why didn't he get a train at a decent hour? This way, he'll spend most of the night sitting on a siding somewhere."

The scientist smiled. "I gather that Marks has definite ideas of his own. I wouldn't care to be Tom Dodd. I'm sure Marks is giving him considerable trouble. He's convinced this security business is a plot to inconvenience him and the other people on the project."

"He didn't seem to have a very sweet disposition," Rick agreed. "Good night, Dad. Scotty and I are going to bed early, because we'll have to be up at dawn."

It was really the first sound night's sleep Rick had since the invasion of Spindrift by Steve and the Morrisons. Later, he had to smile at himself, because it seemed to be proof of what Scotty had said—that the real reason for his uneasiness was inactivity. He admitted that the problem of the stricken team members intrigued him. He made no claim to being any great shakes as a detective, but trying to solve mysteries, whether scientific or real, was a part of him.

Scotty departed first by boat a few minutes after dawn. Rick warmed the Sky Wagon, then went in for a dish of cereal before taking off. He had plenty of time. Newark was only a few minutes away in the fast little plane.

He timed it perfectly. Scotty was just rolling up to the pier near Newark as Rick taxied in after landing. He got into a rowboat brought by an attendant, and tied the plane to an anchor buoy. In a moment he was in the car with Scotty.

"We'll get some excitement now," Rick predicted.

"Because Marks is arriving?"

"Yes, and because the barber has come to town. If he isn't up to his neck in this business, I'll eat his hair oil on pancakes."

Scotty shuddered. "You might at least wait until I've had more breakfast."

Rick ignored him. "Also, the team is now assembled in one place. That means the enemy has a single target to shoot at."

Scotty laughed out loud. "You should see yourself," he said, chuckling. "Since we found the barber yesterday, you've been a new man. Beaming and happy as can be. Now the enemy has a single target and you're pleased. Didn't it occur to you that the target is us, you simple meathead?"

"It did." Rick had to grin, too. "But who can locate the sharpshooter best? Why, the guy sitting on the bull's-eye."

Scotty parked and they walked into the station. A quick check of the bulletin board told them the train was on time. They walked to the gate just as the train announcer called the arrival.

Tom Dodd was one of the last off. He had two suitcases under one arm, and he was supporting Marks with the other. Rick and Scotty ran to help. Was the scientist ill?

Scotty took the suitcases while Rick grabbed Marks' other arm. The scientist shook him off. "I'm perfectly all right," he said irritably. "Confound it! Rouse a man at the crack of dawn and expect him to respond like a ballet dancer to a cue. Nonsense!"

Marks' appearance belied his words. His face was drawn and pale, and it was obvious that his coordination wasn't very good. Tom Dodd was plainly worried.

"Let go of me," Marks demanded. He drew himself up and glared at the boys. "Which way is the car, please?"

"Straight ahead." Rick glanced at Dodd.

Marks stalked off, but his step was too careful to be convincing. He just wasn't normal.

"He wasn't like this when we got on the train," Dodd said in a low voice. "Let's get going. I'm anxious to get him to Spindrift."

In the parking lot, Rick ran to open the trunk so Scotty could stow the bags. Then he beckoned to Marks, who was staring straight ahead, his eyes glassy. "This is the car, sir."

Marks started for the open door. But instead of bending down to get in, he walked straight ahead, rigid as a robot, and his face slammed into the edge of the low turret top.

Dodd caught him as he fell.

Rick jumped to the scientist's side, afraid he had been knocked out, and afraid, too, that something even more serious was wrong.

Marks was not unconscious, but his stare was fixed. "Are you all right, sir?" the boy asked anxiously.

The reply was unintelligible.

Scotty bent over the scientist, too. "Are you all right, sir?" he repeated urgently.

Marks' fixed stare never wavered. A spate of words poured from him, but they made no sense. Now and then a single word emerged clearly. Once it was "July," then "soup kettle" and "Planck's constant."

"Just like the others," Tom Dodd said helplessly.

Rick listened with horror. He had no doubt, no doubt at all. Steve had described it accurately, and here it was. Marks was a victim of the identical ailment that had stricken the other team members!



CHAPTER IX

Dagger of the Mind

Tom Dodd took command and gave orders crisply. "Help get him into the car. Here, into the back seat."

The agent got in after the scientist while the boys got into the front. "Scotty, start driving. We have to shake off any tail that picks us up. Try to find a stretch where there isn't much traffic."

Scotty swung the sedan into the traffic stream while Rick joined Tom Dodd in watching behind them. A few minutes later Scotty slipped into an alley and stepped on the gas. At the end of the alley he turned the wrong way down a one-way street, found another alley, and slipped into it. He emerged under a railroad trestle and moved into the stream of traffic once more. Watching carefully, he moved with the traffic until he saw an opportunity to cross a main thoroughfare as the light changed from yellow to red.

Theirs was the last car through the intersection, Rick saw, before traffic started through the cross street. Scotty took another turn, doubled back, and went through another alley. As he emerged onto a street where traffic was sparse, he slowed.

"That should do it," Tom Dodd said. "Nice work."

"How is he?" Rick asked anxiously.

"Just like the others," Tom said flatly. "Listen, boys. Our Newark agent is in Whiteside. I don't think it's wise to take Marks to Spindrift in this condition, but I don't want to take him far, either. Have you any contacts here?"

Rick tried to remember. His father had associates in Newark, he was sure, including a doctor or two. But he couldn't remember their names. "I could call home," he suggested. "Dad will have some ideas."

Dodd considered. "You couldn't use the scrambler from here. Could you tip your father off without giving information to anyone who happened to be listening on the wire?"

Rick thought he could.

"Okay." Dodd motioned to a restaurant. "There's a phone in there. I can see the booth through the window. Hop to it."

Rick hurried into the restaurant. The full horror of what had happened to Dr. Marks was just having its effect. He found himself shivering as though with a severe chill. Marks was the victim of something ghastly. He seemed to be trying to make sense, as though there was still a glimmer of intelligence behind the blank stare. But his words were disconnected, completely unintelligible.

Barby answered the phone, caught the urgency in Rick's voice, and yelled for their father. Hartson Brant came hurriedly.

"What is it, Rick?"

"Guarded language," Rick said urgently. "Dad, don't you have a professional friend in Newark? The teletype machine just went haywire for the third time and I need help."

Hartson Brant muttered, "Good Lord! Yes, Rick. I have a mechanic friend who is ideally suited for the purpose. Constantine Chavez. Look him up in the professional part of the phone directory. I'll phone him and say you're bringing the machine."

"Good, Dad. I'll come home as soon as possible. Better phone the man who runs the machines and give him the information."

"All right. Be careful."

Rick disconnected and looked up the name under the listing of physicians. Back in the car, he cast a quick look at Dr. Marks. The scientist was sitting quietly, staring straight ahead. He wasn't talking, and Rick was glad. He didn't know how much of the gibberish he could take. It was weird and horrifying, particularly since Marks had been so crisp and terse—even though sometimes unpleasant—in his speech.

Dr. Chavez was watching for them through his window and hurried out to meet the car. He was a tall, slender man with handsome features that showed his Spanish ancestry.

"You must be Rick," he said, shaking hands. "You look very much like your father. He phoned to say you were bringing a damaged machine, but I also gathered he was merely being cautious about something he didn't care to discuss on the phone."

"That's right, Doctor," Rick said. He introduced Tom Dodd and Scotty, failing to mention that Dodd was a government agent. Then he pointed to Dr. Marks in the back seat.

"There's your patient, sir."

"Bring him into the house," Dr. Chavez directed. "I assume from his appearance that the trouble is mental and not physical?"

"Exactly," Dodd said.

Inside the house they found one room outfitted as a home office. "I have an office downtown," the doctor explained, "but I also use this one a few afternoons a week. Now, who can tell me about this?" His eyes were on Marks, and as he talked, he reached for the scientist's wrist.

Tom Dodd explained carefully, "He was suddenly stricken. We were with him. We don't know what happened, except that he made sense one minute, but talked only garbled words the next."

Chavez took an otoscope, an instrument used to examine eyes, ears, nose, and throat, and switched on the tiny light. He flicked it into Marks' eyes and watched the behavior of the pupils. Then he listened with a stethoscope. A little rubber hammer came out next and was applied to the reflexes of the stricken scientist. The reflexes looked normal to Rick.

Dr. Marks suddenly looked up and began spouting gibberish. Rick winced.

Chavez listened gravely, apparently not at all disturbed. The flow of meaningless words ceased and Rick sighed with relief. He saw that Scotty had been equally affected.

"What is your specialty, Doctor?" Dodd asked.

"I'm a neurologist."

That was good, Rick thought. A neurologist was exactly what Marks seemed to need.

"Do you make anything of this?" Dodd asked.

The doctor shook his head. "Nothing. I've never seen a case like it. I've never even heard of one. In fact, I know of only one analogue, and it's an electronic one. Do you know how computers work? The big electronic brains?"

The three nodded.

"Then you will understand. I have worked with computers, and now and then one of them suddenly starts turning out gibberish for no apparent reason. A check of the circuits may show that everything is functionally normal. Yet, the gibberish continues. Often it clears up, with no more reason than it started. Sometimes this happens when the machine is cold, before it is properly warmed up. At other times, it happens when the machine is tired."

"Tired?" Dodd looked his disbelief. "Machines don't get tired. Not in those terms."

Chavez smiled. "Perhaps not. Yet, to those who work with them, it does sometimes appear that the machine is tired. There is really no other expression for it."

Rick knew something of this through his association with Dr. Parnell Winston of the Spindrift staff. Winston was an expert in the new science of cybernetics, which is defined as the science of communications and control mechanisms in both living beings and machines.

"Parnell Winston would know," Rick said.

"He most certainly would," Chavez agreed. "Are you aware that he and I have worked together? My interest was in the biological portion of the project. His was in the electronic. Of course we worked as a team with other specialists."

"Under whose auspices?" Dodd asked quickly.

"Let us be candid," Chavez invited. "Obviously, this is not an ordinary case. The guarded language Hartson Brant used was indication enough of that. Rick Brant I identify because of his resemblance to my friend, and I think I identify Don Scott, of whom I have heard a great deal from Hartson. But who are you, Mr. Dodd?"

For answer, Tom Dodd took out his identification folder and handed it to the physician.

Chavez studied it. "I know your organization, Mr. Dodd. But what is of greater importance for the moment, your organization knows me. I suspect it was for that reason Hartson Brant selected me for you to consult." He gestured to the phone. "You will want to call your office. My records are in New York."

Dodd's face expressed his relief. "I was a little nervous," he admitted. "It was a choice between possibly risking further damage to Marks or taking a chance on someone based only on a recommendation from Dr. Brant. I'm glad you're in the clear."

He went to the phone and called New York. In a moment he said, "Dodd here. Check on Dr. Constantine Chavez." He held the phone for perhaps half a minute, then said, "Roger. That does it."

He held out his hand to the neurologist. "Glad to know you, Doctor. Can you take over?"

"Not only can I take over, you would have trouble getting rid of me. This man is obviously hurt in a way that is strange to me, and I assure you, my experience with damaged minds is considerable. He may be somewhat under the influence of a drug—I will check more thoroughly—but that is not the cause. If I may make a quick and highly tentative guess, this mind is suffering from some kind of trauma induced from an outside source."

"You mean it's not a disease?" Rick asked quickly.

"Precisely. I know of no disease that would behave like this. I can't even imagine a disease with these symptoms."

"How can you be sure?" Scotty pressed.

"Obviously I can't at this stage of investigation. But you must recognize that a physician develops a rather definite feeling for injury after years of experience. My own experience tells me that mental damage of this scope is almost always accompanied by other symptoms when it is the product of a disease. No, I cannot credit the idea of a pathogenic organism too seriously. It is as though some outside agent pierced the cranium and cut off the control centers of the brain."

"A dagger of the mind," Scotty murmured.

Chavez looked up sharply. "Yes! An ideal phrase for it."

Rick recognized the quotation from his school-work. Macbeth, Act II. Another of Shakespeare's phrases from the same work leaped into his mind. "Macbeth hath murdered sleep." Not Macbeth, but Marks. Rick knew he wouldn't sleep well that night, nor for many nights to come.

Dagger of the mind! Well, it fitted. Watching the blank face of what had been, only hours before, a brilliant scientist, Rick could feel its deadly point himself.



CHAPTER X

Search for Strangers

The good weather turned bad, and dark clouds hung low over the New Jersey coast. It was appropriate weather for the state of mind at Spindrift. With Marks a victim of the mysterious "dagger of the mind," only Dr. Morrison remained of the original team.

The question, of course, was "Who next?"

At Hartson Brant's urgent request, Steve Ames visited the island and a meeting of all staff was called in the big library.

Rick and Scotty sat on a library table, while the scientists occupied the few library chairs. Steve Ames sat on Hartson Brant's desk and acted as chairman for the informal session.

By mutual agreement, the girls had been excluded. Jan was nearly in a state of shock over what had happened to Marks. Not only was she fond of the crusty scientist, but she was fearful that the mysterious ailment would strike her father next. And Barby was rapidly catching the same fear. After all, new team members probably were not immune, and Hartson Brant, Julius Weiss, and Parnell Winston were deeply involved in the project.

Steve called the meeting to order. "Hartson, you suggested that I come, which I was glad to do. Suppose you start by telling us what you had in mind."

"Very well, Steve." The scientist's glance embraced his colleagues and the boys.

"We have a problem that must be solved before we can continue with calm and objective minds on the project that faces us. The problem is simply, what is the ailment that has stricken three of us, and what is its cause?"

Hartson Brant tamped tobacco into his pipe thoughtfully. "Let us see what we know. First of all, two team members were stricken in Washington, within a short time of each other. They were examined by competent specialists who arrived at no conclusion. They admitted they were unable to diagnose the ailment. The possibility of an unknown disease was considered briefly, but not seriously. The possibility of a chemical agent—a drug, if you like—also was considered. This possibility has not been entirely rejected. However, a detailed laboratory investigation disclosed no trace of chemicals in the patients, apart from chemicals that were expected, of course."

"Could there be chemicals that left no trace?" Scotty asked.

Hartson Brant shook his head. "No one can claim total knowledge of body chemistry, obviously. Just the same, the elements to be found in the body, and the proportions in which they occur, are well known. I said the possibility has not been entirely eliminated, but it seems unlikely that chemical interference caused the disruption."

"What does that leave?" Steve inquired.

The scientist shrugged. "I can't even guess. Physical interference, perhaps. There is also a possibility, which is very difficult to explore, that the ailment was caused within the minds of the scientists by some catalytic agent, or by some psychic trauma that we can't even imagine."

Rick and Scotty exchanged glances. They had seen the ailment at work, and even its effects were almost beyond description. Its cause was hard to imagine.

"But, to continue. Steve recognized the possibility that the ailment was caused by some outside source. Call it an enemy source, if you prefer. He acted to get the remaining team members beyond reach of the enemy by smuggling them to Spindrift. He succeeded with Dr. Miller—excuse me, Dr. Morrison. He did not succeed with Dr. Marks. What does this suggest?"

"That hiding Dr. Morrison was an effective preventative," Steve Ames concluded.

"If he is hidden." Rick said the words before he even thought.

"What do you mean, Rick? No one outside the family or the project knows of his presence!" Julius Weiss exclaimed.

Steve held up his hand. "Hold it a minute. We'll get to that point in its proper turn."

Hartson Brant picked up the threads again. "We will assume for the moment that Steve's statement is correct, and that hiding Dr. Morrison was a preventative. I know Steve doesn't accept this fully, but we must use assumptions since we have no facts of consequence. If the assumption is correct, then we have to accept the fact that enemy agents are interested in the project. And we must also accept that they have some means of creating a mental block by remote control."

Rick stole a glance at Parnell Winston. The cyberneticist was sitting quietly, his bushy eyebrows knitted thoughtfully. Winston hadn't said a word.

Hartson Brant paced the floor as he went on. "We now have one slight bit of additional information that supports the theory of enemy interference. You are all aware of what happened to Dr. Marks this morning. He is in the hands of Constantine Chavez, who is in touch with the physicians in charge of the other team members. Dr. Chavez is of the opinion that Dr. Marks' mental injury was caused by physical means, although he cannot say how. He also states, although there seems to be no connection with the mental injury, that Marks was drugged."

Parnell Winston spoke for the first time. "Steve, if Chavez says Marks was drugged, we can accept it. How could it have happened?"

Steve spread his hands in a gesture that seemed to Rick to indicate embarrassment. "I have gone over every step of the journey with Tom Dodd. The answer is yes. Thanks to Marks' bullheadedness, and a clerical error, there was an opportunity for an enemy to get at him on the train."

The scientists waited, obviously wanting to know more. Steve elaborated. "Marks was covered by one of our men at every moment, even while he was working at the Bureau of Standards, and while he was at his apartment. The agents ate and drank the same things. Nothing has happened to them. However, when the reservations were made for the train trip, Marks specified that he wanted a bedroom. He got one, and Tom Dodd got the one next door."

"Why did Marks want to travel by train overnight, anyway?" Scotty demanded. "That's getting from Washington to Newark the hard way."

"I told you he was stubborn," Steve reminded. "Tom tried to talk him out of it but failed. After all, the project team members aren't prisoners. We can't use force, and we can't order them to do anything. Marks wanted to go overnight by train because he always traveled that way, he said. He insisted."

Dr. Morrison said sadly, "I assure you that he is not an easy man to get along with sometimes. But we must remember that he is—or was—an extremely competent scientist. Competence like his can be forgiven many eccentricities."

"Thanks to his eccentricities, we've also lost his competence," Julius Weiss pointed out. "Go on, Steve."

"Right. Well, Tom specified bedrooms A and B, and by the time he got the reservations and found that he had actually received bedrooms B and C, it was too late to change because the train was sold out."

"I can't see what difference that made," Rick objected.

"You will. People often buy connecting bedrooms on a train, and that's what Tom had done. He planned to keep the connecting door open and remain awake all night with an eye on Marks. However, while A and B connect, B and C do not. Do I make myself clear?"

"I think so," Rick agreed. "The connecting bedrooms come in pairs, A-B, C-D, and so on."

"That's it. Well, Tom ran a fast check on the person who had received bedroom D, and found it was a Baltimore businessman who often traveled on the same train, going overnight to New York. So Tom didn't worry about it. Instead, he kept his bedroom door open so he could watch the corridor. He says he didn't sleep at all, and I believe him. He's one of my best agents. The occupant of Bedroom D came on the train at Baltimore and went right to bed. The night passed quietly, until it was time to get Marks up. Tom had great trouble waking him up, and he was groggy until this strange effect hit him. Rick and Scotty know. They were there."

The boys shuddered, remembering Marks' condition.

"But where did the opportunity to drug him come in?" Weiss asked.

"We've done some fast checking on every possible angle," Steve said quietly, "and we've found a couple of interesting things. First of all, the man who reserved Bedroom D is in a Baltimore hospital. He was struck by a hit-and-run car as he walked from his office to the railroad station. Obviously, he was struck deliberately. He's in critical condition."

"Then the man on the train..." Rick gasped.

"Yes. Who was the man on the train? We don't know. We've had our Boston office go over the room, and they've turned up no fingerprints except those of the porter who cleaned up after the train left New York. The room was wiped clean. But our Boston men also found an interesting spot on the rug. They had a sample analyzed, and so far as we can determine, it's a kind of water-soluble salt paste often used by doctors when they take electrocardiograms."

The group leaned forward, interested. Rick knew the kind of stuff Steve meant, because he had once watched Zircon getting an electrocardiogram. The big scientist had fainted from sheer overwork, and possible heart complications were suspected. The technician squeezed the paste from a tube and applied it to wrists, ankles, and chest, under the metal terminals of the machine. Its purpose was to allow a better electrical contact.

Julius Weiss demanded excitedly, "Steve, do you imply that this unknown person took an electrocardiogram of Marks' heart responses?"

The JANIG agent shrugged. "I imply nothing. I'm merely reporting."

Again Parnell Winston spoke. "Perhaps I can shed some light on this. It's true that such an electropaste is used to make better connections for electrocardiograms. But perhaps of greater importance for this discussion, it is also used in making electroencephalograms."

Rick and Scotty spoke in unison. "What?"

Winston turned to them. "It's a long word, but not a difficult one. Electro for electrical. Encephalo is simply a Greek form meaning 'the brain.' Gram, also from the Greek, means something drawn or written. A record, if you like. So an electroencephalogram is simply an electrical recording of the brain."

"That may be significant," Hartson Brant said thoughtfully. "But, assuming an enemy could get an EEG—which is the handy way of saying electroencephalogram, Rick and Scotty—what would he do with it?"

Parnell Winston rose. "Hartson, I think you can conduct the rest of this without me. I have an extraordinary notion whirling around in my head that I'd like to discuss with Chavez. I'll pick up the car at the pier and drive over, if you don't mind. And by the way, Steve, can JANIG get some information for me?"

"We can try."

"Good. I want to know if the two team scientists who were stricken first had EEG's made after the attack. I would also like to check their medical history, as completely as possible, to find out if EEG's were ever taken while they were normal."

"I'll give the orders right away," Steve agreed. "I don't know what we can turn up on their early medical history, but we can try."

Parnell Winston departed. Rick almost wished he had asked permission to accompany Winston, but there was more to be said here, too.

"The evidence is not conclusive," Hartson Brant summed up, "but it is certainly strong enough to warrant a clear assumption: we have an enemy who, by unknown means, can inflict brain damage."

"All right. Now for some loose ends." Steve looked at the boys. "Rick and Scotty turned up a barber in Whiteside. It happened they had first seen him in the project office building in Washington, so they got his name and called. We were already checking on the barber, and knew he was in Whiteside. We'll dig deeper until we know more about him than he does. But for now, our information indicates he is just what he claims to be. He got the job in Whiteside legitimately. He had planned to take a new job for a long time. So far as we can tell, he's as innocent as a woolly little lamb."

"Just the same," Rick said stoutly, "I'm not satisfied. I'd like to get some more dope on that massage machine of his. Especially after what Dr. Winston said."

Steve grinned. "Why don't you?"

Rick and Scotty looked at each other, and rose to the challenge. "We will," they stated flatly.

Steve nodded. "All right. You're known in Whiteside and my men are not. An influx of strangers, or even one inquisitive stranger, would attract attention. But that's not all. I have another job for you, too."

They waited eagerly.

"I want a survey of the area. My Boy Scout team can help somewhat, but they're strangers, too, even though they have an explanation for their presence. Scan the area for anything suspicious. Get your newspaper pals on the job and have them sniff around for evidence of any strange folks in the area. They can do it easily."

"We'll do it," Rick agreed. There was nothing hard about looking for strangers in their own territory. He knew exactly how to go about it.

"All right. Search for strangers. Get your pals on the job, but do it without tipping anything off. That State Police captain you've worked with will be a big help, too. You can tell him national security is involved, but that's all."

"At least we're not working entirely in the dark any more," Dr. Morrison said wearily. "Even if the assumption of an enemy is wrong, it's something to go on."

Rick stood up. The conference apparently was at an end.

"Tonight we'll plan," he announced. "And tomorrow we'll start. If there are any strangers in the area, you'll have full particulars by tomorrow night."

"That," said Steve Ames, "is a promise I'll hold you to."



CHAPTER XI

The Dangerous Resemblance

Rick stirred, and whatever he had been dreaming faded into vagueness. He couldn't have said what he had been dreaming about. He was neither asleep nor awake, but in the shadowland somewhere between. Something as yet undefined had brought him halfway toward awakening, but the influence was not powerful enough to bring his senses alert.

And then, suddenly, he was wide awake, ears straining to listen. He sensed a presence in the room, and even as he tried to recognize it, a form landed on his chest and steel spikes drove into his ribs. He leaped up with a yell as another form landed on the bed. Both forms were making fantastic noises.

His eyes opened wide as he suddenly realized that a rousing cat-dog fight was taking place on his stomach!

Scotty ran in and leaped for the battlers. He grabbed the spitting, snarling cat and held it high. Dismal let out a wail of anguish as he realized his hated enemy was out of reach.

Rick shouted, "Down, boy!"

Dismal leaped high and landed again with four feet bunched on Rick's stomach.

Rick's shout died into a gurgle. Not that the pup was heavy, but he had landed while his master was in the midst of a breath, with muscles relaxed.

Scotty put the cat into the hall and closed the door, trapping Dismal in the room. Then he turned and laughed at Rick's discomfort.

"Next time you arrange a fight for your personal entertainment, you'd better have a referee on hand."

"It was a draw," Rick said ruefully, "except that the innocent bystander lost. Whatever got into Dismal?"

Scotty was dressed. Apparently he had already been downstairs. "The cat went too far. Dismal found him drinking from his water dish."

Rick grinned. That was adding insult to injury, all right. He stripped off the blankets and examined his stomach. Shah's claws had dug right through blanket, sheet, and pajamas, but had not drawn blood.

"It was time to get up, anyway," he said philosophically. "Gangway, Scotty. I'm going to shower and dress. We've got work to do."

"Uhuh. The passengers are waiting downstairs," Scotty said.

Rick blinked. "What passengers?"

"Jan and Barby. They want to go."

The boys had decided the evening before that they would start the search with a flight in the Sky Wagon. After a quick inspection of the area, which probably wouldn't disclose much, they planned to go into Whiteside for a talk with Jerry and Duke at the newspaper office, and with Captain Douglas of the State Police.

Rick considered. He didn't mind taking the girls around on pleasure junkets, but this was business. "Why do they have to go?" he demanded.

Scotty shrugged. "They don't. But Jan is plenty upset over Dr. Marks, and Barby is starting to worry about Dad and the others. If we leave them here, they'll just stew. If they go, it may take their minds off things."

"I suppose that's right. Anyway, they can't get in the way much. We'll stick 'em in the back seat."

"Come on, then. Let's eat and get going."

Rick showered and dressed hurriedly, and got downstairs just in time to take his seat at the breakfast table. After bidding the family good morning, he turned to Jan. "Shah and Dismal had a fight this morning."

Jan put a hand to her mouth. "Oh! Shah didn't hurt him, did he?"

That nettled Rick a little. The idea of assuming that a mere cat, even a champion Persian, could win a fight with Dismal! Then common sense got the better of him. The unhappy truth was, Shah could lick Dismal with no strain at all.

"No damage," he replied. "Except to me. The war took place on my stomach."

Jan was supposed to look sorry, but she didn't. She giggled. Barby giggled, too.

"I guess they thought you'd be a fair witness if anyone asked who won," Jan explained.

Rick saw he was getting no sympathy. After all, what could anyone do? Dogs and cats were just natural enemies. Besides, if he was fair about it, he had to admit that Shah teased the pup but didn't start serious fights.

After breakfast the four young people went down to the beach where the Sky Wagon was hauled up. In a few moments they were air-borne. Rick headed for Seaford, the fishing town down the coast. It didn't make much sense to go farther south than that. Beside him, Scotty polished the binocular lenses with a piece of lens tissue from the camera kit, and started sweeping the area below.

Apparently all was normal along the seacoast and in Seaford, but that meant nothing. The area could be loaded with strangers and they'd never know it from the air.

Rick had a sudden idea. "Let's call Cap'n Mike and get him on the job. If there are any strangers in Seaford, he'll know it."

"I think that's a wonderful idea," Barby called from the back seat.

Jan asked, "Who is Cap'n Mike?"

Barby immediately related the adventure of Smugglers' Reef, and the part the retired fishing skipper had played.

Cap'n Mike knew everything worth while about the town of Seaford. He would be a good check point not only for the town, but also for the summer colonies between Whiteside and Seaford. He often acted as a fishing guide for the summer tourists.

Rick checked the summer colonies from the air, although he had little expectation of seeing anything unusual.

Barby pointed down as they passed over one. "Look! Scotty, let me have the glasses."

Both boys turned quickly. "What do you see?" Scotty asked. He handed her the glasses.

"The gaudiest houseboat!" Barby exclaimed. "Jan, it's painted orange!"

The boys snorted.

After inspecting the coast from Seaford past Spindrift to the more populated areas on the north, Rick swung inland to inspect the woods near Whiteside. He didn't know exactly what to look for, except possibly unexplained campfires that could be investigated later.

He landed at Spindrift and went at once to the house. Cap'n Mike didn't have a phone, but Rick knew how to get a message to him. Scotty, listening, said, "He won't be in. The fleet is still out fishing this time of day."

Rick grinned. "It's Sunday. Lost track of time?"

Scotty had. But suddenly he snapped his fingers. "Hey! Duke and Jerry are coming over for dinner."

His message to Cap'n Mike en route through a mutual friend, Rick motioned to Scotty. "Let's go."

They took both of the island boats, planning to leave one for Duke and Jerry to use later in the day. Then, after tying up the boats at the main pier and getting the car, they called first on Captain Douglas of the State Police.

The officer knew the boys well, and knew in addition of their connection with JANIG. He promised readily to assist.

"Probably my own officers won't be too much help," he said, "but they can ask the local police to keep their eyes open up and down the coast. We won't say anything about the federal government being interested. To everyone but me, this will be a routine State Police matter."

Rick hesitated for a moment, but he was sure of Captain Douglas' discretion. "We're interested in the new barber, too," he added. "Steve Ames is already checking him, but you might keep your eyes open."

"I'll do that," Captain Douglas assured him. "And how about the Boy Scout leaders camped behind Spindrift?"

Rick was about to say casually that he didn't suspect any Boy Scout leaders, then he caught the twinkle in the captain's eye.

"He's hep," Scotty said.

Captain Douglas nodded. "One of my officers paid them a call. He's a sharp one, and he made some kind of excuse for getting into their tent. He came back and reported they were apparently on a hunting expedition of some kind—with riot guns. I took a car full of armed troopers and we dropped in. One of the Scout leaders turned out to be a man who was in the same FBI class that I attended. He showed me his identification card, so I gave him my phone number in case he needed help. And that was that."

Scotty said thoughtfully, "I guess the hardest thing in the world is keeping a secret."

"That's the second hardest," Douglas corrected. "The hardest usually is finding out how the secret became public in the first place."

The boys went from the State Police barracks to the Whiteside Morning Record and found Jerry on the job. "The press never sleeps," he greeted them. "What brings you two to town on a peaceful Sunday?"

"We brought you a boat," Rick explained. "In exchange for a favor."

Jerry eyed them suspiciously. "What kind of a favor?"

It took only a moment to explain. "Sure," Jerry agreed. "Duke won't object to keeping you posted. We'll keep an eye open for you. And we'll collect for the favor with an extra helping of pie tonight."

"It's a deal," Rick agreed.

As it turned out, Jerry's bargain of an extra helping of pie was conservative. He had three for dessert that night.

Rick noticed that both Jerry and Duke eyed Dr. Morrison curiously, and he knew they were trying to recall if they had ever seen a picture that would help place him in their minds. Not that they would use the information. It was just that newspapermen developed a high order of frustration in the face of a mystery.

But Jan noticed something else. She came over to where Rick was pouring fresh coffee for his friends. "Rick, those friends of yours are nice. Have you noticed how much Mr. Barrows looks like Dad?"

Rick looked. The two were deep in conversation, and it was the first time he had seen them together. They looked very much alike, particularly in the gathering darkness. They were about the same height, give or take a fraction of an inch, and both had the same shock of unruly hair. They probably weighed within five pounds of each other. Actually, however, the resemblance was superficial. They might have been cousins, but not brothers.

"They do look alike," Rick agreed.

Later, he saw Jan deep in conversation with Jerry and wandered by, to eavesdrop a little. He knew that Jerry was entirely trustworthy, but his friend was also a nosy reporter who would try to pump the girl. Rick intended to step in and break it up if that were the case.

"The Virgin Islands sound wonderful," Jerry was saying. "How long did Rick and the others stay with your family?"

"They never actually stayed with us," Jan replied. "Of course we invited them to, but they were so anxious to get to Clipper Cay, they only stayed one night in town. We met them that night, at Dr. Ernst's. He's a mutual friend. I was excited about the treasure, and I begged Dad to take Mother and me to Clipper Cay, so I could dive with the boys. He was going to take us, too, only everyone was back in Charlotte Amalie with the treasure before we had a chance."

Rick grinned and went on his way. Jan was talking with great assurance. He didn't have to worry about Jerry breaking down the cover story.

It was late when the party broke up. Rick and Scotty took their guests to Whiteside Pier, where Duke had left his car. As they roared up to the pier Rick had to swerve to avoid a pram, a blunt-ended rowboat, that had been tied carelessly in the place where he usually tied up. He wondered who owned it. Prams were not usual along the coast.

Jerry and Duke climbed out after thanking the boys again for a fine dinner. The two walked off into the darkness toward the parking lot.

Rick started to back out and head for home, then paused. He was curious about the pram.

"Hand me the boat hook," he told Scotty.

His pal obliged. "What's up?"

"I'm curious. Who around here has a pram?"

"No one I know. That looks like a new one, too."

Rick pulled the little rowboat closer with the boat hook and turned the speedboat's searchlight on it, hoping to find a name.

Suddenly both boys froze.

"Was that a yell?" Rick asked.

Scotty was already on his way up the pier. "Yes, from the parking lot. Come on!"

Rick hurriedly threw a rope around a piling and secured it with a couple of fast half-hitches, then he hurried after Scotty.

It was pitch dark in the parking lot, but they could hear sounds of a scuffle plainly now, and once there was a muffled grunt.

It suddenly occurred to Rick that he hadn't heard Duke's car start. He sprinted, calling to Scotty to look for a weapon. Once, some time ago, they had fought a battle with rocks against guns in this very spot. He scooped up a couple of rocks, hoping no guns were waiting this time.

"Hold 'em!" Scotty yelled. "We're coming!"

There was a yell in reply. Jerry Webster called, "Watch it! They're running away!"

Car headlights switched on, and in their glare Rick saw Jerry pointing. For a moment he considered following his friends' assailants, then abandoned the idea. They could escape easily in the woods.

"What happened?" Scotty demanded.



Duke Barrows got out of the car, nursing his head.

"Two men jumped us when we started to get into the car," he answered shakily. "One smacked me on the head with something hard and almost knocked me out. If Jerry hadn't put up a good fight, they'd have had us—although I don't know what for."

"Were they holdup men?" Rick asked quickly.

"They didn't wear signs," Duke answered grumpily. "But holdup men usually say something, don't they? 'This is a stickup.' Or something like that."

Jerry Webster examined bruised knuckles in the glare of the car head lamps. "They didn't say anything," he added. "Not a word. When you yelled, they broke off and ran into the woods."

Scotty scratched his head. "Mighty funny," he mused. "What could they have wanted?"

Duke Barrows brushed dirt off his jacket. "They probably were reporters from a Newark paper," he said caustically, "trying to find out about the mysterious visitors on Spindrift."

It hit Rick then. "Duke," he exclaimed, "you look like Dr. Morrison! I'll bet it was a case of mistaken identity!"

The editor looked at him keenly. "Could be," he agreed. "That means you have reason to believe someone would be interested in harming Dr. Morrison."

"I'm just assuming," Rick said hurriedly.

"Uh-hum." The editor grunted his disbelief. "And what should we do about it?"

Rick looked at Scotty, who shrugged. The shrug said that probably nothing could be done now, so far as Duke and Jerry were concerned, but that the case was far from closed.

"Better notify Captain Douglas," Rick suggested. "I can't think of anything else."

Jerry Webster flexed an arm that appeared to be aching. "Sure that won't conflict with your security people?" he asked.

Rick assumed an air of wide-eyed innocence. "Now, Jerry! Who said anything about security people? I just suggested you notify the State Police. Who else would you notify when someone attacks you?"

Duke climbed into the car. "Come on, Jerry. We'll get no satisfaction out of these two. Let's go rub liniment on our wounds, and then we'll make a report to the State Police. Good night, lads. And I hope your mystery bites you. Let me know if it does, so I can say 'I told you so' in print."

The boys waved as Duke drove off, leaving them in darkness. As they made their way back to the speedboat, Rick spoke his thoughts aloud.

"I guess the enemy uses muscles, too, huh?"

Scotty answered thoughtfully, "Looks like it. Unless they really were holdup men."

Rick shook his head, even though Scotty couldn't see the reaction. "Pretty unlikely. But suppose the enemy kept a watch on movements in and out of Spindrift? From a distance they might assume that Duke was Morrison. So it would make sense for them to keep a watch at the pier in case he came back—which he did."

"And when he came back, they'd either murder him or kidnap him?" Scotty sounded disbelieving. "I doubt it. Nothing the enemy has done so far points to that kind of tactic. Why should they start using muscle methods now?"

Rick had no good answer. "Let's step on it," he said. "We have to report this. I have a hunch the Boy Scout team is going to be scouring the woods around here tonight."



CHAPTER XII

The Coast Guard Draws a Blank

Rick said quietly, "And so the wolf ate Little Red Riding Hood, and when the grandmother heard about it she said—"

Barby's voice erupted in the tiny earphone plug in Rick's ear. "I don't think that's very funny, Rick Brant!"

Scotty spoke up. "Barby doesn't like realism in her fairy tales."

Barby answered, "I don't think you're very funny either, Donald Scott!" Her voice faded on the last word.

Rick asked quickly, "Barby, did you move then?"

"No, Rick. Why?"

"You faded. Scotty, did you notice a fade?"

"Negative. I did not."

Rick asked, "Barby, please recite something."

"Recite what?"

"Anything."

Barby began, "She walks in beauty like the night..."

Rick turned slowly, listening for differences in strength of signal received.

Scotty interrupted. "Hey, what's that?"

"Lord Byron," Barby said loftily. "I wouldn't expect you to know."

Rick had it now. "Okay," he called. "Come on in."

He had been standing on the front porch of the Brant home. Scotty was inside the laboratory building, while Barby and Jan were at Pirate's Field. Presently Scotty joined him and grinned. "Work good?"

"Perfect."

Barby and Jan came through the orchard and up on the porch. Barby was wearing an ornamental plastic head band, not too gaudy for daytime wear, but not too simple for anything dressy. She had arranged her hair so the gadget was hardly noticeable. A wave of smooth blond hair hid the little bump made by the battery.

"Technically," Barby stated, "it worked fine. But the program material was terrible."

The boys chuckled. "How do you know it was technically fine?" Scotty teased.

Barby looked at him coolly. "Because I heard Rick perfectly."

"And I heard you and Scotty," Rick agreed. "All three units work fine. Have you switched them off?"

Barby reached up and seemed to pat her hair slightly. "I forgot," she admitted. "Now it's off."

Rick looked at Jan. "Could you hear me through Barby's phone while I was talking?"

Jan shook her head. "No, I couldn't. I was listening, too. These are wonderful, Rick."

He smiled his thanks. "One interesting thing, though. I should have known, but it didn't occur to me. The receivers are directional."

"What's that?" Barby asked.

"Directional. The antenna is a tiny coil. When it's broadside to the incoming signal, the volume is loudest, but when it's end on, the volume is much less. So, if you can't hear well, just turn sideways. Turn until the signal is loudest."

Scotty took his transceiver from his pocket and examined it with pride. It was no larger than a pack of playing cards, and its sensitive microphone was incorporated right into the case. The tiny antenna was a piece of stiff steel wire only two inches long. The whole gadget fitted easily into an inside coat pocket without a noticeable bulge.

Barby's rig was slightly different. The antenna ran along one edge of the plastic strip. At one end the microphone was in contact with her head just above the ear, allowing for transmission of voice by bone conduction, a new method developed by the United States Air Force. At the other end of the band a tiny speaker made similar contact. Rick had worried about the effectiveness of both mike and phone, since he had never used the types before, but the design had turned out very well.

"Pretty neat if we do say so," Scotty admitted modestly.

"For once I agree with you," Barby said generously. "Now what, Rick? There isn't anything more to do, is there?"

"Not on these." But there was more to do along other lines. He was waiting for word from JANIG. Barby and Jan disappeared and returned in a few moments with iced drinks. The boys accepted them gratefully. It was a warm day.

"How about a swim?" Scotty suggested.

Rick was about to point out that they might have work to do when Joe Blake, the JANIG agent in charge at the laboratory, hailed him. Rick ran to meet the agent.

"The boys on the mainland didn't turn up a thing," Blake reported. "They searched from a half mile south of the pier to a half mile north. No pram anywhere."

Rick snapped his fingers. "I had a hunch they wouldn't! Okay. I'm going to take off right now and search the coast. If that pram wasn't connected with the attack on Duke and Jerry, I'll eat it."

"Good luck," Blake said. "Let me know if you need any help."

Rick hurried back to the porch. The JANIG scout team had reported early in the morning that the pram was gone from the pier. They had been covering the Whiteside area most of the night, searching for some sign of the pair that had attacked Rick's friends, but had turned up nothing suspicious.

Then, at Rick's suggestion, they had undertaken a search for the pram. His point was simply that he had never seen a pram in the Whiteside area—something that strangers would not have known. They might have figured that tying up in plain sight was the best way of hiding their boat. It would have been, if prams had been more common.

He motioned to Scotty. "Let's go. No sign of the pram."

Barby rose instantly. "Can we go with you?"

Rick considered, then nodded. He could see no objection to taking them on what could only be a short plane trip.

As they hurried to the plane, Scotty said, "What bothers me is, why didn't the JANIG team have someone at the landing?"

"They did," Rick replied. "I asked the same question. Their roving patrol had been by there a short time earlier, but saw nothing suspicious. After all, they can't post men everywhere. So two of them take turns keeping watch on the tidal flats, in case anyone tries to cross from the mainland directly to here. The other two keep moving."

"But it's funny anyone would attack Duke and Jerry," Barby objected. "It isn't ... well, logical."

Rick grinned. Logic and his sister had never become well acquainted. He answered, "Suppose the enemy had been keeping track of movements by water to Spindrift? That isn't farfetched. They could do it easily without being noticed. Then, late yesterday, they saw two men get in a boat and come to the island. They were probably watching from cover. And what did they see?"

Jan answered excitedly, "Jerry, and a man who looked like my father!"

"That's it, Jan. So, if I guess correctly, they waited, hoping the man they thought was Dr. Morrison would come back. And he did, and they were waiting."

"Sounds reasonable," Scotty agreed. "Except for one small thing. Why attack Dr. Morrison when all they have to do is turn on a gadget and his mind goes blank?"

Jan shuddered visibly. Scotty added hurriedly, "Sorry, Jan."

"Maybe it's not that simple," Rick said thoughtfully. "If they only have to turn on a gadget, why did they need to drug Dr. Marks?"

There was no answer to that. As soon as they were air-borne, Rick headed north, searching the coastline, swinging low now and then to examine marinas where numbers of boats were tied up. Scotty kept the binoculars working, but there was no sign of a pram.

"Do you suppose it's under cover somewhere?" Barby asked.

Rick shrugged. "Maybe. They might cover it if they thought anyone would come looking for it."

"They'll surely think of that, won't they?" Barby asked.

"Not necessarily. After all, they tied up at the pier in plain sight. I think they assumed no one would worry about a small rowboat. They just didn't know prams are uncommon."

Scotty put the glasses down for a moment and rubbed his eyes. "How far could they have come, anyway? We're miles above Spindrift, and no one would row that far."

He was right, of course. Rick admitted, "I've been racking my brains, and I can't remember whether or not the pram had an outboard motor. Just as I was about to take a close look, Jerry yelled. Do you remember, Scotty?"

Scotty shook his head. "But even with an outboard, they probably wouldn't have come this far."

"Check." Rick swung the Sky Wagon around and headed south on a straight course to Spindrift. As the fast little plane passed over the Brant house he throttled back and dropped lower. "Let's start the search again."

Every cove was investigated, and anything that might have been a boat was inspected carefully. Then, as they reached the summer colony north of Seaford, Barby exclaimed, "Look! There's that fancy houseboat again!"

The houseboat was putting out from land, swinging on a northerly course. Rick saw that it was powered by twin outboards and that it cruised at about fifteen knots.

Scotty yelled, "Hey! Behind the houseboat! Look at the dory they're towing!"

Rick swung low and craned his neck to see. It was! The houseboat used a pram as a tender, and the pram had its own low-power outboard motor.

"That's enough," he said with satisfaction. He kept the Sky Wagon on a southerly course until Seaford passed below, to keep the houseboaters from thinking the plane's sole interest had been in them. Beyond Seaford, he picked up Cap'n Mike's shack across the road from the old windmill.

"Let's see if Mike's home," he said, and stood the wagon up on a wing. He leveled off in time to buzz low over the old shack, which was not as shabby as it looked, and neat as a ship's cabin inside, then he pulled up into a screaming Immelman and looked out.

Cap'n Mike emerged from the shack waving what seemed to be a shirt. Rick waggled his wings in greeting, then did a wing over that brought him back low and fast over the old seaman's head. Cap'n Mike was grinning broadly as he waved.

Rick set a course north and slightly inland. In a short time he was back on the water again, taxiing to the Spindrift beach.

While the others went to the house, he stopped at the lab and reported to Joe Blake that he had found a pram. The agent got what details Rick had, and passed the word to the shore team on the mainland with instructions to follow the houseboat's movements from shore. Then he went to the phone and called Steve Ames.

Finally Joe hung up. "Steve says to keep an eye on the houseboat, but to take no action. He's going to do a little investigating."

"How?"

"He didn't say. But he expects to have something by tonight."

With that, Rick had to be satisfied.

Apparently Steve wasted no time, because Barby answered the phone just before dinner, then called:

"It's Steve Ames, Rick!"

Rick ran to the telephone.

"Thought I'd let you know," Steve reported. "I had the Coast Guard pay a visit to your houseboat this afternoon."

"You did?" Rick was incredulous. "But that means they're tipped off now that we're watching them!"

Steve sounded hurt. "Fine thing," he said, wounded. "No faith, huh? Ever hear of the Coast Guard's courtesy inspection service?"

"Sure. They'll inspect your boat for safety."

"That's it. And that's the gag we used. We sent a brand-new ensign, a real boyish type. He checked half a dozen boats before he got to the houseboat. When he pulled alongside and offered a courtesy investigation, they invited him aboard like an old friend."

"What did he find?" Rick asked excitedly.

"Nothing. All was in order, and the boat had plenty of extinguishers, life jackets, and other safety items, so he gave it a clean bill of health. They fed him iced tea and cookies, and waved good-by as if he was their long-lost son."

"What kind of people were they?"

"Two middle-aged couples. Business partners, from Trenton, and their wives. We got the names from him and checked. They really are partners, in a used-car business. Sorry, Rick. Looks like another dead end. The Coast Guard drew a blank this time."

"But there isn't another pram within miles of Spindrift," Rick objected.

"All right. We'll be keeping an eye on these people, but we have no grounds for any action. Any luck with the barber?"

"We haven't tried yet," Rick told him. "Tomorrow's the day. We've been getting the Megabuck network completed in case we need to communicate."

"Okay. Good luck, and keep me informed."

"I will, Steve."

Rick hung up and returned to the porch, deep in thought. To the waiting trio he said, "A blank. Nothing. Looks like the barber is still our best lead."

"That houseboat is in it, too," Barby stated positively.

"How do you know?" Scotty asked.

"It's too flashy," Barby explained. "Too bright. Really nice people wouldn't have a boat that color. You wait and see, they're in this somehow!"

Rick shook his head, more in sorrow than in anger. "Good thing the boat isn't bright red," he said wearily. "That would really be proof they're criminals!"



CHAPTER XIII

The Megabuck Mob Acts

Barby Brant flew up the stairs and ran down the hall, skidding to a stop in front of Rick's door. Then, conscious that her burst of speed was less than dignified, she drew herself up and tapped on the door gently.

Rick had just finished dressing. He opened the door, and his eyebrows went up at Barby's poorly concealed excitement.

"What's up?" he demanded. "Atom bomb ticking in the library or something?"

Barby made a heroic effort to be casual. "I just thought you might be interested. The houseboat is anchored in North Cove."

Rick was very much interested! North Cove was between Spindrift and Whiteside pier. He felt a tingle of excitement. Was the enemy closing in?

"Did you see it?" he asked.

"No, but Dad did. He went over to pick up the morning papers, and there it was. It must have gone by during the night."

"Thanks, Barby," Rick said absently. His mind was already exploring the possibilities. The houseboat had taken up the ideal position for watching comings and goings from Spindrift. The cove was even close enough so the sound of the Sky Wagon's engine could be heard clearly.

Yet, according to Steve, the people on it were ordinary enough. There was nothing suspicious about them, except that they had the only pram in the area. He wondered if perhaps the pram had nothing to do with the attack on Duke and Jerry. After all, people on houseboats had to land once in a while, for shopping.

In the same moment, he realized that Whiteside was closed tight on Sunday evenings. There was nothing to be bought. That was when the attack had taken place.

He ate breakfast with minimum conversation, only vaguely conscious that the others were watching him with interest, aware that he was chewing over the problem in his own fashion.

After breakfast, Scotty broke in. "Well, what's all the high-brain activity leading up to?"

Rick was just about ready. "Couple of things," he said. "First, we have only two possibilities for enemy contacts in the area. The houseboaters, and the barber. There may be others, but we don't know about them."

"All right. What do we do about it?"

"Well, suppose both are involved. Is that a reasonable assumption?"

Scotty nodded thoughtfully. "I think so. The barber ties in because he came from Washington, and he has the machine. The houseboaters tie in because of the pram."

"Okay. Then if both are involved, they have to contact each other sometime. They have to exchange information, at the very least."

Scotty was with him. "And it would be easier for the houseboaters to contact the barber than vice versa. Because everyone has to get a haircut sooner or later. Right?"

"One hundred percent. So we keep a watch on both. I'll work it out with Joe Blake. We could keep watch by day, when possibility of contact is greatest because the barbershop is open. The JANIG team on the mainland can keep watch by night, because if the houseboaters and the barber meet at night it will have to be in the woods. Anywhere in town would be too obvious—except for the barbershop."

Barby and Jan had listened in silence, but Barby could contain herself no longer. "And we're going to help!"

To Barby's astonishment, Rick nodded. She had expected opposition. "You and Jan can keep watch of the houseboat. Scotty and I will take the mainland. If the houseboaters start for Whiteside pier, you'll tell us. We'll pick them up as they land and trail 'em."

Barby nodded, pleased. "The Megabuck Mob goes into action! We'll use the radio network. Right?"

"Yes. First thing is, where do you take up a position? If I remember correctly, you can see North Cove from the attic. It will be kind of hot up there, but maybe we can rig a fan."

"We won't mind," Jan said swiftly. "When do we start?"

"Right now."

Scotty spoke up. "You said you had a couple of things. What's the other one?"

"We have to get a look at the barber's machine. I don't know how we'll do it. But we can figure out something."

In the back of Rick's mind was the thought that the houseboaters might have moved nearer Whiteside for the purpose of contacting the barber, as well as to get a better look at traffic between Spindrift and the mainland. If that were true, they had better hurry.

He had another thought, too. "What time is it?"

Barby consulted her watch. "Five before eight. Why?"

"The barbershop doesn't open until nine. I think it might be useful to have someone call on the houseboaters and try to pump them a little. It might be interesting to hear why they chose to anchor in North Cove."

Barby's eyes got round. "Would you do it?"

Rick shook his head. "It can't be anyone from Spindrift, or from the police. It has to be someone plausible. I'm thinking of Cap'n Mike."

"Hey, that's just the ticket!" Scotty shook Rick's hand solemnly. "Cap'n Mike can pretend to be fishing, the way he used to when he was keeping an eye on Creek House. He could drift over to the houseboat and ask for a drink of water, or something, and strike up a conversation. They'd think he was just a typical salty character."

"Then that's how we'll do it. Scotty, suppose you get the binoculars for Barby, then rig up a fan. I'll go get Cap'n Mike. It won't take long, and we can have something set before the barbershop opens."

Scotty helped Rick push the plane out from the beach, then collected the binoculars. Rick warmed the plane and checked the gas. He could use a few minutes to gas up, too. There was a pier in Seaford where he could land and get the proper grade of fuel.

He taxied out, headed into the wind, and took off. Then, to confuse watchers, he headed straight for Whiteside. As he passed over the cove he saw the houseboat, anchored in the best position for watching the Spindrift-Whiteside boat course. His mouth was set in a straight line. Maybe there was no proof, but how much circumstantial evidence was needed to paint a picture? He was sure the houseboat was a part of the plot against the project.

Far inland, out of sight of the coast, he swung south, picked up Salt Creek and followed it to Smugglers' Reef. He turned down the coast past the town, buzzed Cap'n Mike's shack, and landed.

Captain Michael Aloysius Kevin O'Shannon was at the pier when he docked. Rick cut the engine and climbed out on the pontoon. He heaved a line to the old seaman, who hauled him to the pier.

Cap'n Mike was nearly seventy years old, but as Rick well knew, he had the vigor and keen mind of a man twenty years his junior. Under the battered master's cap was a thatch of white hair and a strong, weather-beaten face.

"About time you paid a friendly call," Cap'n Mike greeted him. "Sorry I found no strangers for you. Was goin' to call today. Where's Scotty?"

Rick felt a twinge of conscience. He had intended to pay a visit to his friend so many times, but something always seemed to get in the way. It had been many weeks since his last call.

"It isn't exactly a social call," he said apologetically. "We need your help, Cap'n Mike."

The old man looked at him quizzically. "What for? Fishin' or detectin'?"

"Detectin'," Rick answered.

"Accepted! Now I see why you were lookin' for strangers. When and where do I start?"

"Right now, at Spindrift. Can you come?"

"Wait'll I turn off my coffeepot. Anything I'll need?"

"We'll want you to do a little fishing, too."

Cap'n Mike nodded and hurried up the pier to his shack. In a few minutes he was back, rod case and tackle box in hand. He cast off and climbed into the plane. "Let's go, boy! Time's awastin'. Who we after this time?"

Rick started the engine and was air-borne before he answered. Then, almost immediately, he had to land again to take on gas. By the time he was in the air en route to Spindrift, Cap'n Mike was squirming so impatiently that the whole plane seemed to vibrate.

"Well, get on with it," he said irritably.

Rick smiled. "All right. We don't know who we're after."

Cap'n Mike grunted.

"Seriously, we don't. Some folks in a houseboat are anchored in North Cove. We want to find out why."

Cap'n Mike nodded sagely. "For no reason. They just might be dangerous criminals, so you want to investigate. All right, go ask 'em."

"We can't. We want you to go fishing, and work your way to the houseboat. Ask for a drink of water or something, then find out if you can what they're doing."



"Got it all worked out, have ye?" The old captain snorted. "Where's the fun in that? Like to do things my own way."

Rick hurriedly backtracked. "All right, do it anyway you like. We just want the information."

"What for?"

Rick sighed. "Can't tell you, Cap'n."

"Must be I got untrustworthy since I saw you last."

"It isn't that. It's a—well, it's a government matter."

Cap'n Mike smacked his thigh with a calloused hand. "I should 'a' known! All right, Rick. I'll do it. Then maybe I can get my congressman to tell me what I've done."

Rick made a great swing around Whiteside, pointing out the houseboat to Cap'n Mike as he passed North Cove, and landed off Pirate's Field. Scotty was waiting.

After greeting the old seaman, Scotty said, "The girls are watching from the attic. When do we get started?"

"As soon as Cap'n Mike is fixed up."

Cap'n Mike was pretty self-sufficient and required little attention. A cup of hot coffee, a jug of fresh water, a little bait and a rowboat, and he was on his way. Fortunately, the Spindrift boat landing was not in sight of North Cove. Cap'n Mike sculled slowly along the shore. He would emerge at the cove, surprising the houseboaters.

Rick checked on the girls. They were engaged in making themselves comfortable on an old bed they had dragged in front of the window from which North Cove could be seen. He borrowed the glasses and looked at the houseboat, then handed them back, satisfied. They could see everything that went on.

Barby had her plastic set in place. Rick checked, and found that she had forgotten to turn it on. He grinned at her embarrassment.

"I'll call you from downstairs, and again when we get set on the mainland. Good luck."

The girls echoed the wish.

Cap'n Mike was fishing, allowing the rowboat to drift slowly in the direction of the cove. Rick watched awhile, and was satisfied. If anyone could put it over, Cap'n Mike could.

"Now," he asked Scotty, "how do we get to Whiteside without attracting attention?"

Scotty scratched his head. "I don't know. Unless you want to walk. We could cross the tidal flats and hike to town."

Rick vetoed that. "Too far and too slow. The barber would have time to cut twenty heads of hair before we got there."

"How about asking Jerry to come for us?"

"You've got it! He could come down the wood road and pick us up right behind the island. He knows the way." Rick went into the library and called the Morning Record number. Duke Barrows answered. Rick explained that they had to get to Whiteside by the back way, without volunteering why. Duke hesitated, then agreed to send Jerry.

Rick smiled as he hung up. "Duke will get a story out of this somehow," he said. "He's so curious he could burst a seam. Come on. Jerry will get started right away."

Just before nine o'clock the boys and Jerry arrived at the newspaper office. Jerry was about to burst with curiosity, but he wasn't going to let it get the better of him. He hadn't asked a single question all the way from the wood road back of Whiteside into town.

Duke Barrows was apparently taking the same tack. He looked up as the boys entered, grunted, then continued working on the following day's editorial.

"Something just occurred to me," Rick said, after greeting the editor. "Isn't this pretty early for you and Jerry to be at work? I thought a morning paper didn't open for business until afternoon."

"We never sleep," Duke said, without interrupting his work. "What do you think this is, The New York Times?"

"Never occurred to me," Rick said politely. "Although the quality of the paper is about the same."

The editor looked at Jerry. "When he talks like that, he wants something. What is it?"

"Search me. I don't know what these two want, and I don't know when they got deaf. Notice they're both wearing hearing aids?"

Duke hadn't. The boys grinned at his look of astonishment.

"What we'd like," Scotty said, "if you care to co-operate, is to have someone take a look at the barbershop. We want to know if the new barber is on the job."

Duke sharpened his pencil with loving care, using a penknife. "I won't ask why you can't take a look yourselves," he said finally. "It's pretty obvious."

"Not to me," Jerry objected.

"It should be. They don't want the barber to get a look at them, because he saw them in Washington. They don't want him to know they're interested, or that they know he's in town."

Rick started to ask how Duke had known that much, then realized that the editor had simply drawn the correct conclusion from the few words that had been said before. Again Rick gained a clear insight into how a little information can be built up into a lot. No wonder Steve and his people had so much trouble protecting official secrets.

Duke put his pencil down and rose. "It happens that I need a haircut. Stand by." At the door he paused. "Anything else you want to know?"

"We want to know about his massage machine," Rick said urgently. "Find out all you can, Duke. Please? Particularly if it has any electrical connections besides the wall plug."

Duke studied them thoughtfully for a long moment, then turned and left.

Jerry watched his boss leave. "He's kinder to you two than I would be," he stated. "He didn't ask a single question, even about the hearing aids."

Rick considered. There was nothing secret about the Megabuck network, except that he and Barby would use it for a mind-reading act. Jerry was trustworthy; he wouldn't give the act away.

"Promise you'll keep it to yourself," Rick asked, and at ferry's excited nod he took the tiny receiver from his ear and handed it to Jerry.

The reporter held it to his own ear, moving closer to Rick because the cord was just long enough to reach from ear to inner pocket.

Rick said, "Barby, say hello to Jerry."

Apparently Barby did, because Jerry gave a surprised start.

"Can I talk to her?" Jerry asked.

Barby answered the question herself. The microphone, built right into the little unit, was very sensitive and Rick's thin jacket did not muffle it very much.

"I'm fine," Jerry said.

Rick grinned.

Scotty could hear both sides of the conversation through his own set. Now he broke in. "Any sign of activity yet?"

"Cap'n Mike is fishing right near the houseboat. I can see the people on the houseboat, but they're just having breakfast on the rear deck. Where are you?"

"In the newspaper office. Duke has gone to check on the barber."

Rick held out his hand and Jerry gave him the earpiece, grinning. "What a rig!" the reporter marveled. "Where did you get it?"

"Built it."

During the next half hour, while they waited for Duke to return, Rick told Jerry the story of the Megabuck Mob, omitting only what followed when Steve Ames arrived.

Then Duke returned, freshly barbered, trying to scratch his back. "One thing about this new barber," he greeted them. "He's no better at keeping hair out of your shirt than Vince is. Why is it that barbers can't cut hair without getting it into places where it itches?"

Rick smiled sympathetically. He knew how it was. No matter how careful a barber tried to be, it seemed impossible to get a haircut without a shower of hair clippings down the back. Usually they lodged where it was impossible to scratch.

Duke rubbed against the doorframe. "It's Vince Lardner's day off," he began.

Rick tensed. If the houseboaters were going to contact the barber, they would naturally try to choose a time when they could see him alone. Maybe there had been an earlier contact, and the barber had told them he would be alone today. That might account for the houseboat's moving closer to Whiteside.

"Vince had gone fishing." The editor grinned. "I suspect that's the only reason he got a helper, anyway, so he could go fishing more often. There isn't really enough work in town for more than one barber."

"Did you look at the massage machine?" Rick asked anxiously.

The editor nodded. "It's nothing but a hood, with three ordinary massage gadgets inside. Vibrator heads, I think they're called."

That tallied with the description Steve's agent had given. "Did you examine it closely?" Rick pursued.

"Yes. There's only one cord attached—the power cord. But I did notice an interesting thing. Set around the edges are little disks, like round covers. I started to lift one up, but the barber asked me to stop. He said the machine is adjusted very carefully and I might upset the adjustment."

"Tough luck," Scotty said, disappointed.

"Oh, I don't know." Duke's eyes twinkled. "I got enough of a look to see two tiny holes in the piece of stuff the disk covered. The stuff was black, probably plastic. Like telephones are made of."

"In other words," Rick said slowly, "you saw holes for electrical plugs?"

"I think so. I don't know what else they could be."

Rick and Scotty exchanged glances.

"What does it mean?" Jerry asked.

Rick answered. "We don't know. And I'm not kidding. We really don't know."

"I believe you," Duke said briefly. "Okay. I've done my bit, including getting my hair cut. Anything else?"

"We'd like to stick around," Rick replied. "Jerry already knows about this, but Barby is watching a houseboat anchored in North Cove. If anyone leaves the houseboat for the Whiteside pier, she'll call us. We'll take over at the pier. It just might happen that the houseboater will pay a call on the barber."

Duke didn't comment, but Rick knew the editor's mind was at work. "Make yourself at home," Duke said, and went back to his editorial writing.

Now and then Barby called, wanting to chat, but Rick discouraged her. He was reasonably sure the enemy wouldn't be listening in on the extremely short wave length on which the Megabuck network operated, but there was no use taking any chances. After each conversation he identified the sets with his own amateur call letters, even though it was unlikely anyone could hear the conversation. The little sets operated essentially on a line of sight because of the short wave length used. They couldn't be heard beyond the horizon, if they were heard that far.

After an hour of waiting, Barby called in high excitement. Cap'n Mike was aboard the houseboat! The boys waited anxiously for some further report, but Barby was only able to say that the old seaman had departed after a ten-minute visit and was now fishing again.

At noon Jerry and Scotty slipped out for a sandwich. When they returned, Rick and Duke went to eat. According to Barby, all was quiet.

Around one o'clock Cap'n Mike returned to Spindrift and reported a friendly conversation with the houseboaters. They had anchored in North Cove because someone down the coast had told them fishing was good around there, which was a true statement.

The retired skipper had only one additional comment, which Barby relayed. The folks had been friendly, but he thought they were a little nervous, and anxious to get rid of him. He had no other information of value.

At midafternoon Jerry went on a brief sortie, came back, and reported business was slow in the barbershop, which was not unusual for a Tuesday. The barber was reading a magazine.

Rick and Scotty were restless. The chairs in the newspaper office were hard, and they had exhausted the reference materials on the bookshelf.

Duke Barrows looked up from a story he was editing and grinned. "Espionage isn't as adventurous as some folks would like you to believe. It's generally nothing but sitting. And waiting. Just as you're doing now."

Rick grinned back. Duke was telling him nothing he didn't know. He had waited like this before.

Barby called urgently, "Rick! The pram is leaving. One man in it, and he's just starting the outboard motor!"

"All right," he said swiftly. "Let us know which way he goes."

In a moment Barby answered. "He's going to the pier!"

"Roger. We're moving!"



CHAPTER XIV

Surveillance—with Cereal

The plan of action had been set in advance. Scotty hurried out, while Rick settled down to wait. Scotty, using Jerry's car, would locate the houseboater at the pier. Rick would stand by, ready to take over as necessary.

A short time later Scotty called on the Megabuck network. "I'm in the pier parking lot. He's tying the pram up."

"Can he see you?"

"Not unless he comes over and inspects the cars."

"Okay."

After a few minutes, Scotty reported again. "He's hiking in the direction of Whiteside. Thumb out. He wants a ride."

"Don't give him one," Barby interjected urgently. "He might recognize you."

"He's hitchhiking," Scotty explained. "He doesn't even know I exist."

"What are his chances?" Rick asked.

"Good. There's a fair amount of traffic."

Rick waited, alert for Scotty's next report. It came almost immediately. "I'm moving. A truck picked him up. Stand by."

Then soon afterward, "We're coming into the outskirts of town."

Rick walked from the newspaper office to the sidewalk and leaned casually against the building, eyes on the direction from which the quarry and Scotty would come. He felt just fine. The little network was taking all the strain out of shadowing. He thought of the many times when such communications would have come in very handy indeed.

"Moving down Main Street," Scotty reported. "Watch it!"

Rick saw a truck come into sight and slow as it neared the barbershop. A man got out, thanked the driver, then stood looking around. He spotted the barbershop, but instead of going in, he went to the window of the Sports Center and stood quietly, ostensibly inspecting equipment. Rick decided he was just looking the street over before making contact.

"I'm on him," he said quietly for Scotty's benefit. "He's casing the street. He'll probably go into the barbershop any minute now."

Scotty drove down the main street, and as he passed the barbershop, he reported, "There's a man in the chair. Maybe our friend is waiting for him to leave."

"We'll see."

Rick's plans had not gone beyond this point. The objective had been to see whether the houseboaters made contact with the barber. But now he realized that a simple contact wasn't proof of anything. Who was to say that the houseboater hadn't really wanted a haircut?

If only there were some way of overhearing the conversation....

Jerry Webster came out and stood beside him. "See your man?"

Rick gestured. "In front of the Sports Center."

"What are you going to do now?"

"I was just wondering the same thing."

Jerry grinned. "Don't tell me you don't have a complete plan! Why, I thought by now you'd have the barbershop wired for sound."

Rick stared at him. Wired! Why not? And it wasn't too late, if Jerry would help.

"Will you do something more for me?"

Jerry looked martyred. "Might as well. I'm in this up to my neck, anyway."

Scotty joined them. He had parked the car around the corner. "What's happening?"

"Just had a brain storm," Rick told him. He explained rapidly, and the two started to chuckle.

"It should work," Scotty agreed. "Go ahead. I'll take over the watch. Hey! There he goes."

The houseboater had just walked into the barbershop.

Rick ran to the next corner and into the grocery store. He hesitated briefly, then picked out two boxes of cereal, and added a box of sugar. He had them put into a bag, paid for them, and hurried back.

Inside the newspaper office, he took out his scout knife and carefully slit the top of one cereal box. He removed the little radio from his pocket, unplugged the earphone, and put the radio on top of the cereal. He borrowed cellophane tape and taped the box shut, then he put both boxes of cereal back in the bag with the sugar on top.

He handed the bag to Jerry. "Do your stuff."

Jerry took it and hurried out the door. Rick and Scotty watched as he went up the street and turned in at the barbershop.

Scotty shook his head. "All I can hear in the earphone is a crackling noise."

"Probably the paper bag," Rick said. "It would crackle as he walks."

They waited impatiently. Presently Jerry emerged without the bag and walked down the street to join them.

"The man in the chair is about done," he reported. "The one you're after is reading a magazine. I said I'd be back in a few minutes, left the bag, and walked out."

"There's the other customer now," Rick said. A man had just emerged from the barbershop and was going up the street in the opposite direction. "Good! They'll talk fast now, because they'll be afraid you'll come back."

"I still hear the crackling noise," Scotty objected. "Someone's talking in the background, but I can't hear it because of the snapping and popping."

Rick swallowed hard. Was something wrong? "Let's see." He borrowed Scotty's earpiece and held it to his own ear. For a second he listened, horrified. It sounded like the Battle of Bull Run!

Barby broke in faintly through the noise. "Rick! I've been listening. What's that noise?"

He explained quickly. "We planted one unit in a box of cereal and Jerry put it in the barbershop."

Barby gasped. "In a box of cereal? What kind?"

"Crummies. Your favorite."

"Oh, Rick!" The girl's voice rose to a wail. "Don't you remember the commercial? Crisp, crackly Crummies! The cereal that sings for your breakfast!"

He got it, then. "Okay, Barby." To the others, he said unhappily, "Well, it was a great idea. Only I forgot one thing. I didn't pick a quiet breakfast food. That noise is the radio settling through the Crummies—the loudest cereal on the market."

The three looked at each other helplessly. There wasn't a thing that could be done about it.

"Noisy breakfast food," Scotty said unbelievingly.

Jerry promised, "I'll never eat it again!" The reporter straightened his coat and tie and gave his hatbrim a jaunty flick. "Well, here I go for my haircut. Might as well do something constructive."

The crackling, popping, snapping continued unabated. "Listen to it," Rick said hopelessly.

Three quarters of an hour later, when Jerry brought the bag back, the Crummies were still crackling happily. Not a word of conversation had been overheard.



CHAPTER XV

A Matter of Brain Waves

Barby, Jan, and Scotty were kind to Rick, which annoyed him considerably. If they had scolded him for bad judgment, called him a chucklehead, or even ignored him, it would have been all right. But they all had to reassure him and tell him it could have happened to anyone, and so on, and on. All of which made it unbearable.

He was more sure than ever that the houseboaters and barber were connected, but he still had no clear evidence. Of course he had made a report of the day's activities to Steve, who at least hadn't tried to be nice about it.

"An agent can't always think of everything," was Steve's comment. "But he can try. Sometimes, when he fails to take a factor into consideration, he gets away with it. Sometimes he fails. Sometimes he ends up dead, because of his poor judgment. Be glad your lives weren't hanging in the balance."

Rick took the lesson to heart. He wouldn't make the same mistake twice.

On the evening of the cereal fiasco, Parnell Winston returned to Spindrift after another visit to Dr. Chavez. He called Steve Ames and spent a long time talking to the JANIG agent. Then he called the project team and the boys into the library.

"We're on the track of something," he reported. "At least we think we are. It's so incredible that I simply can't believe it. If true, it means some unfriendly nation is so far ahead of us scientifically that we should all be trembling in our boots."

Rick had realized that only agents of a hostile country could be involved in the actions against the project team. Everyone present had known as much, without a word being spoken. Only another country could gain from disruption of the project.

"Chavez and I have run a series of EEG's on Marks. We now have the records of EEG's on the other two team members, and Steve has managed to turn up a pre-project EEG on one which gives us a basis of comparison. Now, to comprehend our tentative hypothesis, you must understand something of what is known about the brain."

Rick prepared to listen without much understanding. The field in which Parnell Winston worked was new and strange to him, and while he understood some of the basic theories, he got lost when Winston got highly technical.

"Our understanding of the human brain is fairly recent," Winston began, "and we're still only on the threshold of knowledge. In a way, we've just discovered the tools of research. The principal tool, of course, is electricity. Through it we can explore the electrochemical nature of brain processes."

Rick was with him so far. He concentrated hard, not wanting to miss a word.

"There's no point in reviewing the entire history of brain physiology. You all know of Pavlov's work on conditioned reflexes. And you all know that Fritsch and Hitzig demonstrated that, when electrically stimulated, certain portions of the brain show a response. You also know that Caton discovered many years ago that the brain itself produces electric currents."

Rick didn't know, but he intended to find out. There must be some works on brain physiology in the library.

"However, the important modern work started with Berger in the late 1920's. He found that the brain emits a definite pulse of activity, which was then known as the 'Berger rhythm.'

"Since then, Berger's work has been very much refined. We now know that the brain actually produces a number of clearly defined electrical rhythms. These rhythms have been used in medical diagnosis of brain injury. Walter, in England, has even developed a machine that will show whether or not people will get along with each other, by analysis of their wave patterns."

This was interesting, and Rick intended to find out more about it. But he began to wish Winston would come to the point.

"I might add that the rhythmic brain patterns seem to be highly individual. No two are alike, even in identical twins. However, each person shows a pattern that remains fairly constant, even over a period of years.

"With this background, you will understand when I report that the EEG's taken of our colleagues brains are completely abnormal. The EEG's were taken while they were awake. Yet, the most prominent pattern is the delta rhythm that is universally associated with sleep and some types of damage to the brain."

"Are there any other signs of physical damage?" Hartson Brant asked.

"No. All tests are negative. Spinal taps show no concussion, and there is no evidence of trauma of any kind other than psychic. Yet, the delta rhythms persist. In the one case where we have an EEG taken before the—incidents, let's call them—the pattern is entirely different. The scientist had a pattern of a well-known type which bears no resemblance to the EEG taken after the incident."

Dr. Morrison leaned forward. "What is your conclusion?"

"That our mysterious enemy has somehow caused damage of an unknown kind, by remote means. And that can mean only one thing: The damage was caused electronically, probably by transmission through the air."

"Incredible," Weiss muttered, and the sentiment was reflected in the astonished gasps of the others.

"Let's consider the implications of Parnell's statement," Hartson Brant said slowly. "If he is correct, then the enemy has devised a means for causing brain disruption in an individual. A transmitted signal would inevitably strike countless others; there can be no such thing as a beam of radiation that strikes one person at a distance while missing all others. Therefore, this beam must affect only one person among many."

"But how can a beam be tuned to one person?" Rick asked.

"I don't know, Rick." Hartson Brant turned to Winston. "Do you?"

"No. I have only a hypothesis, and one so far afield from what we know of the brain today that I even hesitate to suggest it. Let me ask a question. If the enemy could have access to the brain pattern of an individual—and remember such patterns are no more similar than fingerprints—could the enemy then transmit a signal that would affect only that pattern?"

Julius Weiss objected. "The supposition is based on scientific knowledge that does not exist."

"So far as we know," Dr. Morrison added.

Parnell Winston held up his hands. "I'm as aware as any of you that the hypothesis assumes a knowledge of the brain that is incredibly far advanced. But let us consider the evidence. The three scientists who have fallen victim show the same signs of brain damage. Investigation indicates that they were different types who probably had dissimilar patterns. We also have the special case of Dr. Marks, who was drugged while on the train. The person who drugged him dropped soluble salt paste on the rug of his room. Can we accept the fact that the salt paste was used for EEG electrodes, and a recording made while Marks was under the influence of the drug? We can't prove it, but what other explanation can there be?"

Dr. Morrison shook his head. "Suppose we accept that theory. How does that account for the other two? They were under guard, and there is no evidence that they ever were drugged. If we accept your hypothesis, we must also accept the theory that the other two men somehow were given an EEG examination and their patterns recorded."

An idea was growing in Rick's mind. Suddenly he blurted, "That's where the barber comes in!"

"The barber's machine was examined by Steve's men and found harmless," Hartson Brant pointed out.

Scotty spoke up quickly. "Yes, but when Duke looked at it this morning, he found electrical connections! Why couldn't an EEG be taken with such a gadget?"

Parnell Winston considered. "It could," he said finally. "I would need to examine the machine, but in theory any gadget that fits over the head could be adapted for proper placement of electrodes. The recorder would be difficult to hide, however, unless it was in another room."

Rick sank back and looked at Scotty. No wonder the barber had wanted to give a treatment to Hartson Brant. The elevator operator's wink had told him that the scientist had been on the fourth floor, where the project team was located.

"Didn't you ever have your hair cut in the arcade shop, Dr. Morrison?" Rick asked.

"No, Rick. I used a barber in a hotel nearby, one I've patronized for years."

"But the other two did use the shop in the building," Scotty finished, "and Dr. Marks had no need for a barber, so they had to get at him some other way!"

"It seems reasonable," Hartson Brant admitted. "The pieces fall into place nicely. But we must first accept Parnell's theory that some kind of pattern can be transmitted that will interfere with normal brain activity. If we believe it, we must also believe that the enemy is so far ahead of us in brain physiology that we are hopelessly outdistanced. I can't believe so much progress could have taken place without some word of it leaking out."

Parnell Winston shrugged. "It seems incredible, Hartson. But we haven't another theory, much less a better one."

"We had better make sure no one takes EEG's of the rest of us, in any case," Weiss suggested dryly.

Rick added, "And don't get any haircuts until this is all straightened out!"

When the meeting broke up, Rick and Scotty walked to the front porch where the girls were listening to the music of a Newark disk jockey on Barby's portable radio.

"Lot of puzzled people in this neighborhood," Rick said. "Including me."

"And me," Scotty agreed. "And I'll bet I know the most curious one of all."

"Who?"

"Cap'n Mike."

Rick grinned. At least the rest of them had some information. Even Duke and Jerry had enough to know that national security was somehow involved. But the captain, who had the liveliest curiosity of all, knew the least.

As Rick dropped him off in front of the old windmill, Cap'n Mike had grunted, "When you can trust me a little more, you might tell me what this was all about."

Actually, Cap'n Mike's visit to the houseboat hadn't been particularly productive. He had little to add to the Coast Guard inspector's description, aside from his feeling that the houseboaters had wanted to get rid of him.

Scotty asked, "Why would anyone want to disrupt the brains of the project team? Seems to me that's doing it the hard way. Assassination would be a lot easier."

Rick shook his head. He had wondered about the same thing.

Barby and Jan motioned for silence. They were listening to a vocalist who happened to be Barby's favorite of the moment.

The boys stood silent for a few minutes; then, by unspoken agreement, turned and went back into the house.

Hartson Brant came down the stairs, dressed in a suit, with white shirt and tie. Rick stared at him. "Going somewhere, Dad?"

"Yes. Parnell Winston has disturbed me deeply, with the implications of his theory. I'm going to pay a call on an old friend in Newark, an associate of Chavez. I want to explore some of the electrophysiological background of his hypothesis. I won't be very late. Is there any gas in the car?"