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Hank here was lookin’ out the winder and sawr― "
    "Mm-hmm."
    "I s’pose I mebbe oughta jest stay spang on the ground from now on."
    " Mebbe so."
    "Say now! Time t’start on lunch!" Chow beat a hasty retreat toward his kitchen.
    Tom didn’t relent until his friend was out of sight. Then he shook Hank’s hand warmly. "No thanks necessary, boss," stated Hank with a smile. "I mean, hey, I want lunch just as much as any man here!"
    The repelaspan test resumed. One by one, the vehicles, all of different size and shape, floated through space from one building to another as Tom monitored a telemetry feed from the twin beam devices.
    Finally he shut the system down. "Looks like it panned out fine!" Bud exclaimed, clapping his pal on the back.
    Tom nodded in agreement, but his expression was thoughtful. "It works, all right, and in a disaster—a flood, an earthquake, maybe a fire in a highrise building—it could be a lifesaver, getting emergency vehicles or rescue equipment to where they’re needed when conventional aircraft would be too slow or cumbersome, or evacuating people in cars."
    "So?"
    "So my brain’s churning on the Ngombia project. The repelaspan isn’t the answer."
    "Why not, Tom?" challenged Hank. "I can envision a series of repelatron relay stations, passing cars along from one side of that jungle to the other."
    "The system is just too restrictive," his young employer explained. "Too clunky , I guess you could say. Notice how slow those test cars were moving? It’s a limitation built into the technology itself, due to the constant, complex adjustments the computers have to make, and the inherent lag effect in the antenna-radiators. I don’t think a highway in the sky with a five-miles-per-hour speed limit would have much appeal to the Ngombians."
    "Well, you know—back in San Francisco, five MPH would be considered quite an achievement during rush hour," Bud put in. The joke made Tom chuckle, but Bud knew the problem would eat away at his friend’s active scientific mind. Tom’s gonna do a lot of dreaming tonight , he thought wryly, whether he wants to or not!
    The dreaming began early. Tom went to his design lab, and a pair of hours disappeared in the fog of concentration. He was interrupted by the clumping of cowboy boots in the corridor. Chow Winkler wheeled in a lunch tray on a cart. A big covered tureen was the centerpiece.
    "Soup’s on, boss!" came his foghorn voice. It seemed to Tom that the foghorn was a bit higher in pitch than usual.
    "I’m sure ready for it, pardner." Looking up, Tom noticed that despite the "bright-eye" patterned shirt which Chow was sporting—it was a green day, apparently—the cook seemed anything but bright-eyed. "Anything wrong, old-timer?"
    "Jest thinkin’ about them queer Africa goin’s on around here," Chow confided. He didn’t quite meet his young boss’s gaze.
    "Chow, if you’re worried I’m still upset about that stunt― "
    "Oh no, naw, all over’n done with. Er, ain’t it?—But brand my skillet, Tom, I am plumb worried about sumpin ’! What’s behind all them devil-masks ’n people jest disappearin’ and whatnotcha-may-callit?"
    "Wish I knew," Tom said. "Whoever’s responsible, he’s bound to trip himself up sooner or later, and then the police or the FBI will take care of him."
    "Sure hope you’re right." Chow looked relieved as he went on, "I know you’re blame busy thinkin’, boss, but I didn’t want you sendin’ out fer cold sandwiches. So I brought you over some real Texas-style mulligan stew fer some brain nourishment." As he lifted the cover from the tureen and dipped in the ladle, he continued: "Jest wait’ll you― "
    Chow’s voice suddenly trailed off in an eerie screech.
    "Chow! What’s wrong?" Tom asked, jumping up. A strange look seemed to be fighting to rise through the cook’s broad face.
    "Th-there in the pot, boss!" Chow quavered. "T-t-take a look yourself!"
    Tom peered into the stewpot and gasped. Resting in the cup