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broke into laughter at the sight, but managed to stifle their mirth. Not so Wilson Hutchcraft, who giggled shrilly until Tom silenced him with a warning glance. The five little Mayas were obviously bursting with pride at their citified apparel.
    "They look very impressive, ahau," said Doc Simpson cautiously. "But what is the occasion?"
    "Have no fear," the ahau replied. "They are merely preparing for the journey."
    "The journey?"
    "Of course, to your far-north, to New York. These are the five of Huratlcuyon who are to accompany you in your great airplane."
    "Oh boy," murmured Simpson. "Chief—Hu-Quetzal—there’s been a—you see—"
    The ahau raised a hand. "I see. Of course. The long ride, in the back of the auto-truck will hurt-like-monkeys the garments they wear. But I will have them take them off and hold them in their laps. That will be well."
    Doc shot a helpless look at Tom, and the young inventor stepped forward with a polite smile. "Chief Quetzal, we must apologize to you and to these good men. We did not explain well what we planned to do. My friend Dr. Simpson must first conduct some tests on many of your people. Then we ask you to allow him to make a selection himself—that is what he agreed to do, with Grandyke University."
    Hu-Quetzal frowned but gave a single nod, slowly. "It is for you to say." He turned to the men and spoke to them in the village dialect. They appeared disappointed but immediately began to strip off their suits where they stood.
    "We will save them carefully until they are needed," stated Quetzal.
    Thanking him, Tom complimented the Indians on their fine appearance, and asked the chief where the clothes had come from. "We sent a runner to the city of Mérida to arrange for them," Hu-Quetzal explained. "We have many, many cousins who choose to live like the huaxixtlen, in cities. They help us."
    Professor Castillez explained that the huaxixtlen were the Mexicans of European descent. "From haciendero, it is supposed. I fear the word is not always used as a compliment," he added wryly.
    Tom glanced at his elaborate wristwatch. "We’d better grab our gear and get going."
    Castillez’s old pickup truck proved to be battered, spattered, rusted—and big. As it rattled along the narrow, winding dirt road, so narrow that it sometimes seemed to merge with the lush jungle on either side, Tom, Bud, and Chow had plenty of room in the cab.
    Yet comfort was lacking. "Brand my steam iron!" Chow grumbled. "I sure do wish we had a air-conditioner in this rattletrap."
    "We do," replied Bud, pointing. "But it doesn’t work."
    "Then that gives me another somethin’ t’ wish fer!"
    It took the remainder of the morning to finally reach the Sky Queen, and by that time the travelers were thoroughly bedraggled and wet with perspiration. Chow’s wrist ached from fanning himself with his ten-gallon hat.
    "Hey, strangers!" greeted Slim Davis, calling down from the belly hatch. "What’d you do, swim all the way?"
    "Feels like it!" snorted Tom.
    They climbed the ladder and immediately began to enjoy the comfort of the climate-controlled Flying Lab. The three took time for a cool shower and a cold lunch, then began to ferry the retroscope equipment into the truck bed, cushioning it with blankets and carefully tying down each component.
    "What’s this thing run off of, Tom?" asked one of the crewmen assisting them, Bill Bennings. "Got a generator?"
    "No," was the response. "The camera doesn’t take much more electricity than a TV set. One solar battery is more than enough for it."
    After loading aboard the special tools and patching materials needed for repairing the grounded paraplane, Tom took a moment to make a quick radio call to his father at Swift Enterprises.
    "Sounds like you’ve had a few adventures, as usual, son," Damon Swift chuckled. "But this business of the carved symbols—astonishing! Are you quite certain of what you saw? Such faint, weathered carvings can be subject to wishful