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

disgust. "Sandra, to swoon is not the act of a modern woman!"
    "Well, I’m not a modern woman; I’m a modern teenage girl. At least that’s how I feel right now," she pouted. "And look who’s talking, little miss ‘excisely’ !"
    Both girls gave themselves over to the very traditional act of giggling.
    "What’s up, you two?" asked Bud.
    "Ah, very much way up!" Bashalli declared. "The small-toed enemy reclines even now upon the beach!"
    Tom jumped to his feet. "What!"
    "Oh, no, no," objected Sandy hastily. "It was just sort of a mistake. His toe wasn’t all that short, really…you know."
    Bud stood and pounded a fist into his open palm. "I think I wanna meet that guy!"
    "Oh, now, Bud," fretted Sandy. "He’s not a criminal or a spy. He’s very nice—an Army veteran."
    Bud snorted. "Yeah? Of which country?"
    Tom tried to calm the proceedings. "Look, we won’t take a swing at him. But there’s no harm in running whatever we know past Harlan Ames and his various connections." He pulled out his ever-present notebook. "Just tell me what you learned about him. Did you get a name?"
    "Of course we did!" Bashalli pronounced. "It is Kenneth Horton, of the Army Signal Corps."
    "But he goes by Ken," Sandy corrected. "Probably Kenny."
    "Uh-huh. What about his age?"
    Bash looked scornful. "As if we would ask such a question of a total stranger!"
    "About thirty," Sandy blurted out. "A young thirty, very masculine."
    "Be sure to note that down, Tom," Bud quipped.
    "Description?"
    "Blue eyes, maybe with a little violet," said Tom’s sister. "Sort of sparkling, with kind of a come-to-me gleam. White teeth, all there, no bad breath. Well, I think he likes potato chips, but potato chip breath isn’t what I’d call bad, would you, Bashi? Nice rounded muscles, here and here and, er—you know. Flat stomach, totally broad shoulders. One of those—I’d call it a creamy-dreamy tan. Kenny is pretty much your average cute, complete utter babe. Oh, Tom, his voice! Just like Addison Grimes."
    Tom looked thoroughly lost. "Who’s Addison Grimes?"
    "You know, Tom," Bud said wryly. "On the soap opera!"
    Tom sighed, wrinkling his forehead. "Can you tell me any more, Bash?"
    She shook her head. "No, a major cute. I must agree."
    "How about his hair?"
    "Oh, right!" Sandy cried. "Dark, curly, narrow right up the center lane, then going wide at—or did you mean the hair on his head?"
    The young inventor set down his notebook and glanced at Bud. "At least we have a name."
    Bud gave a thoughtful nod. "He does sound cute."
    "Bud!"
    "Well, I can see how the girls might find someone like that, er, that."
    Abandoning for the moment their debriefing of Sandy and Bashalli, the boys promptly raced toward the beach for a look at Horton. He was still in place, and fairly recognizable.
    "So he’s the one who slipped you that bug!" Bud whispered, doubling his fists. "Well, let’s find out how big he talks, face to face—him and his potato-chip breath!"
    But Tom held his friend back by the arm. "Take it easy, pal. We’ve got our look. We’ll notify Ames and let him inform the authorities and run the databases." He paused and added with irony, "He’s probably coded under cute, huh?"
    "Ya think?"
    The next afternoon, Kenneth Horton having made no further appearances, the young people took off for home, landing at Shopton in time for a relaxed mid-evening meal in town. Immediately after dinner Tom emailed an abbreviated report to Harlan Ames, then returned to his lab to plunge into some late-night work on the preliminary design of his buoyancy-lifted rocket idea. It was after eleven when the young inventor finally arrived home for a night’s sleep.
    The next morning was Saturday. Tom, first to be up and dressed, was just heading downstairs to fix himself a quick breakfast when a loud buzzing growl sounded through the house.
    The alarm system! Tom thought anxiously, rushing to switch it off before the others were disturbed. But the family’s dogs, Caesar