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rest of the long day in The Barn, joined by Hank Sterling and, near the end of the day, by assembly chief Art Wiltessa.
    "Any changes to the specs?" asked Art, a laconic engineer.
    "A few," Tom replied, shutting down the prototype. "But nothing requiring any changes to what you’ve already put together for the big Starward engine—if we should even be calling it an ‘engine’!"
    "Cosmotronic power for our Starward express!" smiled Hank. "Tom, could the spacedriver really take us to the stars?"
    Tom’s face assumed a thoughtful look, the look of a dreamer with a dream in mind. "Not this version. For all its magic, the cosmotron doesn’t warp us out of space—it uses the stretchable fabric of the spacetime continuum, and the ultimate rules still apply. Although some of the relativistic effects take on a different form, the speed of light is still the limit. It’d take years to reach the nearest star."
    Hank was undaunted. "But someday you’ll come up with a Super-Cosmotron Express. I know you will. I’m betting before your next birthday!"
    "I hope you win that bet, Hank," laughed Tom.
    "Back to Earth," Art said bluntly. "Dreams are for afterhours. Will this Brungarian business set back the construction schedule?"
    "I won’t let it," the young inventor declared with a hint of defiance. "We’re continuing to blow our big bubbles at the seafloor work site, and by week’s end they’ll be starting the interior construction on Fearing. So far there’s no reason to think the Starward won’t set off on its Grand Tour just as we calendared."
    Sterling shook his head, grinning. "Holy Mo, it seems like just yesterday we were building your rocket engines for the Star Spear —that dinky little space canoe!"
    "No, Hank, not yesterday—a week from last Tuesday." Even Wiltessa joined in the laughter. But it was true enough: things moved swiftly at Swift Enterprises.
    That evening at home, as he readied for bed and, with luck, sleep, Tom received an unexpected phone call from an ambiguous friend. "Howyadoin’, Tom? Time for pillow to meet crewcut?"
    "Hi, Pete," Tom replied. His voice was friendly but not enthusiastic. Peter Langley, publicized as America’s Other Young Inventor, was something of a kindred spirit. The guy was decent enough and had the native intelligence to grasp obcure technical details and blue-sky inventiveness, whether from his own brain or from Tom Swift’s. As the head and genius-in-residence at Wickliffe Laboratories in Thessaly, Langley and Tom had worked to set aside any feelings of rivalry between them. The two young men shared a kind of language unknown to lesser mortals, and—occasionally and inevitably—gave birth to similar scientific visions.
    "Notice that I called you Tom ?"
    "No, but thanks for pointing it out."
    "No more Tomarama, Swiftaneous—that effervescent way of speaking that makes me such a delight. Nope, no more. My signoth doesn’t like it when I do."
    "Signoth?" repeated Tom quizzically.
    "Significant other. Comrade, companion, romantic life-sharer. Can’t say girlfriend . She’s not a ‘girl’. And she’s more than a friend." Whatever classification she fell under, Amelia Foger had been briefly an employee of Swift Enterprises, a disgruntling situation leading to her relocation to Thessaly and the arms of Peter Langley, nominally her boss.
    "How is she?"
    "Don’t get personal." Pete chuckled. "Anyway, she’s great. We’re great."
    "Thanks for the update, Pete," Tom said dryly. "Keep me posted. Bye."
    "I called for another reason, Tom."
    "I was hoping so," the original young inventor replied, eyeing his pillow. It was too late to hope that Langley would not call in the first place.
    "Is that dripping sound I hear sarcasm ? Come on , didn’t I help you get that monorail grant?"
    "Is there something new in the pipeline?"
    "There is on my end." Langley’s voice lost most of its irritating exuberance. "Tom, I can’t discuss it over the phone. Can we get together?"
    "My