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could elaborate, a big gravelly bellow filled the room with: " Food’s up an’ waitin’, folks! First course on the table! "
    The bellower, Chow Winkler, master of the dinner, was an old and colorful friend of the Swifts. As executive chef, he was a fixture at Swift Enterprises. In his simple and straightforward way the former chuck wagon cook from Texas had saved the day—and the bacon—more than once while traveling with his beloved young "pardners" Tom and Bud.
    The Swifts, Barclays, and Sterlings, joined by Bashalli Prandit and her brother and sister-in-law, sat at the head table of honor. There was a place there for Chow as well, but the excitable cook spent most of his time up on his pudgy bowlegs dealing with dinner, and keeping a wary eye on his assistant Boris. "Cain’t trust that fancy-pants Russian t’do things right proper," he grumbled to Tom.
    During the dinner Hank showed a video of the sights he and his family had seen, and Tom took the microphone to briefly describe Bud’s planned voyage and the scientific accomplishments it aimed at. When he mentioned the Highroad spacecraft and its builder, there was a low muttering throughout the room.
    There was a break between the end of the main course and Chow’s elaborate dessert. Dancing filled the time. The younger crowd danced to a vibrant altMuze group Tom had brought in from the local high school. The older guests were more strongly motivated by a rock band, the antique sounds of a quarter century past.
    "Listen to that noise !" Sandy murmured to Bashalli. "What is it with that generation?"
    "All a matter of when one grows up, Sandra," Bash commented. "But it is surely hard to take, having to watch all that jerking and wiggling by our elders—it seems to me rather indecent."
    Chow, standing nearby, overheard. "Wa-aal now, that there bangin’ and strummin’ ain’t so bad, and it sure gives your folks some exercize. But I sure couldn’t jump around like that."
    "What ever happened to the foxtrot?" asked Bud.
    After dessert, applause for Chow and Boris, and more dancing, the four friends were about to leave when the Inn’s visitors concierge handed Tom a folded note with his name scribbled on the outside. He opened it and read:
Your helicopter will crash on return flight!
    The warning note was unsigned. Without betraying his reaction, Tom folded the paper again, stuffed it into his pocket, and turned to Bud.
    "Let’s go wash up, flyboy, before we start home. Excuse us, girls?"
    "Yes," Sandy answered. "We young ladies prefer associating with washed-up men."
    Bud had guessed instantly that something was up. In the washroom Tom took out the note and showed it to him. Bud’s face flamed with anger as he read the message. "Those jerkfaces!" he cried. "They must have hid somewhere in the woods watching the Inn and seen us come down on the field."
    Tom gave a grim nod. "I doubt they tried to defeat the alarm system and plant a bomb aboard. More than likely they’re in position to use the freeze-beam on the chopper as we take off."
    "The handheld one, you suppose?"
    "Maybe. But they could have the long-range model, the one they used on the jet, positioned somewhere on higher ground."
    "Yeah, to zap us as we gain altitude. Skipper, I don’t know who sent this, but after what happened to your car I wouldn’t take a chance!"
    Tom did not underrate the danger, but pointed out, "It doesn’t make any sense to plan on downing us—but warn us beforehand. This note may have been written by some crank and might have no connection with that road ambush or the attack on the jet."
    "Could be," conceded Bud. "Tell you one thing, though. I’m looking forward to visiting Venus. But I’d really prefer doing it alive!"
    The two scouted up Harlan Ames, who had attended the event with his daughter Dodie. "What does the event manager say? The fellow who brought you the note?"
    "He said he found the note on the front counter by the entrance after he’d stepped away for a