“Let him up, Chow,” Tom said.  “Security should be here any second.”

Even as he spoke, Tom glimpsed a jeep speeding toward them in the distance.  The young inventor knew what had happened.  Since the stranger did not have the special electronic wrist amulet worn by all Swift employees, his presence had automatically shown up on the master radarscope.  A security squad was coming to investigate.

As Chow released the man, he got to his feet slowly.  Then, without warning, he suddenly butted the cook square in the stomach.  Chow was knocked sprawling!

Before Tom could counter the surprise attack, the man’s fist cracked against his cheekbone.  Tom, though stunned, lashed out.  More punches flew back and forth.  Tom landed a stinging blow to his opponent’s midriff, then took a punishing one himself.

Suddenly Tom felt the stranger’s hand clawing at his pocket for the key to the gate.  With all his wiry strength, Tom locked his arms around the man and wrestled him to the ground.

The stranger fought like a tiger.  But a second later a jeep screeched to a stop.  Three security guards, led by stocky Phil Radnor, leaped out.  Within moments they had the man subdued.

Tom quickly briefed the security men on what had happened.

“All right, mister, start talking!” snapped Radnor, head security police officer.

The man’s only reply was a scowl of rage.

“Okay, take him away till he cools off,” Tom ordered.

Disheveled and still panting, the man was bundled into the jeep and driven off to the security building.

Tom arrived there by motor scooter several minutes later.  Harlan Ames, the slim, dark-haired security chief of Enterprises, had taken charge of the case, and the prisoner was now being fingerprinted and photographed.

“Any leads?” Tom inquired.

Ames shook his head.  “He won’t talk and we’ve nothing on him in our files.  His clothes have no tags or laundry marks, but I’d say they’re of foreign make.”

Tom nodded.  “He’s definitely foreign.  He spoke with an accent and he also muttered something at Chow—­I didn’t catch it, but it certainly wasn’t in English.”

Ames frowned.  “I don’t like the looks of this, skipper.  He may be a spy.”

“Have you notified the police?” Tom asked.

“Right.  Also the FBI.  They’re on the way right now to pick him up.  Maybe they’ll be able to worm something out of him.”

Tom spent the morning in routine work in the big double office which he shared with his father in Enterprises’ main building.  It was equipped with huge twin modern desks, deep-pile carpeting, and roomy leather chairs.

Each of the two inventors had his own drawing board, designed to swing out from the wall at the press of a button.  Small scale models of some of their most famous inventions were also placed about the office, including a red-and-silver replica of Tom’s first rocket ship, the Star Spear; a blue plastic model of the jetmarine in which he had fought a band of undersea pirates; and also a gleaming silvery model of Tom’s latest, unique space craft, the Cosmic Sailer.