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emissions, then unsealed the dome and hooked-up the test instruments. Heart pounding, he stepped back to the readout board and closed a switch. Instantly the voltmeter needle swung around to the right—and kept moving further and further around the dial!
    "Good night, look at that!" Bud cried.
    When the needle came to rest, the pair could hardly believe their eyes. Tom himself gave a whistle of amazement. "Hang on to your space hat, Bud! The voltage is almost fifty percent higher than what I’d hoped for!"
    Bud gave a whoop of triumph and threw his arms around his friend in a bear hug. Tom laughed—but then, to Bud’s shock, he seemed to sag in Bud’s arms, as if he were about to fall to the floor.
    "Tom?"
    Tom straightened up, regaining his feet. "Just lost my balance for a sec, pal. That’s all."
    Bud nodded, hoping his doubt and concern didn’t appear on his face, and glanced at his wristwatch. "What say we knock off early? We could round up Sandy and Bash and head out to—"
    "Flyboy, you’ve got to be kidding!" Tom said in a strained voice. "Too much to be done—the figures for the space outpost, the launch schedule problem—I, I can’t—"
    As Tom seemed to be becoming agitated, Bud quickly said, "Oh, it was just an idea, Tom—you know, to celebrate your success."
    "Sure…" murmured Tom. "But now…I’m going to take the battery up in one of the Pigeon Specials."
    "What for?"
    "To see whether it picks up any charge at all under lower atmospheric conditions—but I’ll have to get above the cloud deck, to where the sun’s shining."
    Bud said evenly, "Okay then, meet you out at the hangar in ten minutes."
    Tom gazed at his pal blankly. "At the hangar?"
    "I’m your pilot. Right?"
    "No," Tom responded in a soft voice. "I think I’ll fly her myself this time." He shook his head slightly, as if too clear it. "Look, Bud, I’ll meet you for dinner. Okay?"
    Not waiting for an answer, Tom climbed up the ladder and began to unclamp the battery.
    Forty minutes latter Tom sat in the cockpit of a Pigeon Special, the small commuter prop-plane developed by the Swift Construction Company for mass production. As Bud watched from the control tower, a frown creasing his face, Tom taxied out to his assigned runway and parked, awaiting final clearance for takeoff.
    "Pigeon Special TSE-59, you are cleared for takeoff," Bud heard the traffic control operator say—and then repeat twice.
    Bud glanced back over his shoulder. "Didn’t Tom answer, Fred?"
    Fred shook his head negatively, repeating his call again. Bud looked back out the tower’s high view window. The Pigeon Special was still sitting in place.
    The hairs prickled on the back of Bud’s neck, and he abruptly made for the tower elevator.
    What had happened to Tom?

CHAPTER 6
TOM SWIFT, HUMAN FLY!
    BUD RAN TOWARD the silent, unmoving Pigeon Special at a frantic pace. Through the forward window of the strange, loop-winged craft he could see Tom Swift sitting rigidly, eyes wide open.
    "Tom! What’s wrong?" Bud cried as he ran up to the plane. But Tom neither answered nor moved. In a single athletic motion Bud leapt up to the cabin door, grasped the handle and half-stood for a moment with his feet pressed against the side of the fuselage. "Tom!" he cried again.
    His eyes glazed and glassy, Tom slowly turned in his seat to face his pal, then leaned forward to unseal the door and allow Bud inside.
    "What’s up, Bud?" inquired Tom calmly.
    "What’s up?" returned Bud incredulously. "Tom, don’t you realize—?"
    Tom looked at Bud, his brow furrowed deeply. "I—I couldn’t start up…"
    "You mean something’s wrong with the plane?"
    "No. Something’s wrong with me!"
    Bud sat down quietly next to Tom. His expression told the young inventor that Bud wanted to hear anything and everything his best friend had to say.
    Tom swallowed hard and said, "The other day…the problem with the glidewing in the Flying Lab…something happened, didn’t it."
    "Don’t you