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of the metal ladle, in place of the expected steaming mulligan, lay a small figure! It was molded in the shape of a cowboy, with an enormous paunch and ten-gallon hat. The figure was stuck full of pins!
    "B-b-brand my grubsack, it’s me !" Chow wailed as Tom pulled out the tiny voodoo doll. "I know about this! Them p-pins mean I’m marked fer d-d-death!" The roly-poly cook was trembling like an aspen in a high wind.
    "Now, hold it, Chow!" Tom said calmly. "Don’t come all unglued. Maybe someone’s just playing a prank on you."
    "A prank?" said a third voice. Bud Barclay walked into the room wearing an innocent smile. "Hey, who would do such a thing to a fearless space-walking Texan like Chow?"
    The cook stared at Bud, open-mouthed for a moment, then suddenly cried out in alarm and pain! "N-no! It’s all real! Look what them voodoo pins is doin’ to me! "
    He suddenly pulled up his shirt sleeve, and Tom and Bud drew back in shock. A stream of bloody crimson was dribbling down his arm!
    Bud was aghast. "It—how in the― "
    "We’ve got to get you to the infirmary!" urged Tom, grasping the cook’s arm. But then his expression changed. Eyes narrowed, he brought his red-stained fingertips to his nose and sniffed. "This isn’t blood."
    "Naw. Ketchup !" Chow leaned back and broke into a thunder of laughter. "Buddy boy! You’re the varmint what done it!" he howled. "Knowed you ’as up to somethin’ when you came sneakin’ round the galley jest now, afore I left! Figgered I’d improve the joke a smidge!"
    The red was now on Bud’s face. He ducked back sheepishly, half expecting Chow to hurl a plate at him. But the cook quickly recovered his good humor as the boys collapsed with laughter. "From now on, don’t jest take fer granit that I won’t know when my leg’s bein’ pulled," he said to Bud.
    Bud took another step back and looked downward. "Say! You do have legs!"
    "Now watch out. You ever hear o’ Fat Libby-ration?"
    "You mean you’re planning to turn it loose?"
    "Aaa!...Wa-aal, reckon we all got a right to laugh," Chow conceded with a chuckle. "Who’d want to hoodoo a good ole honest trail cook anyhow? No evil eye fer me!"
    "Not with that eagle eye of yours, pal," winked Bud, patting his friend’s shoulder.
    The two boys were just finishing their late lunch when Tom took a call from the attendant at the visitor reception desk. A visitor named Darcy Creel, describing himself as a "professional zoological journalist", was asking to see Tom. "If he wants an interview on the African business, he should speak to George Dilling," directed Tom.
    "He says that’s not why he came, Mr. Swift," was the response. "Says there’s a special matter he’d like to discuss with you in private."
    "All right. When you’ve security-scanned him, please have him escorted up to my office."
    Curious about the unexpected visitor, Tom and Bud left the lab building hastily, taking the moving ridewalk toward the tall administration building.
    Suddenly a tone rang out shrilly from the tiny cellphone hooked to Tom’s belt—followed by a whoop of sirens from all directions.
    "It’s the plant radar alarm!" Bud cried out. The boys’ eyes followed the pointing fingers of stare-struck workers and looked upward. The blue sky was dotted with tiny sparkling gleams, swirling and darting in all directions like drifting sparks!
    "It’s flyin’ saucers!" one panicked employee yelped out. " We’re being invaded! "
    Tom snatched up the telephone and called the security office.
    "What’s happening, Harlan?" he inquired.
    "We don’t know yet, Skipper," Ames replied tensely. "We’ve got ‘snow’ all over the Patrolscope monitors. Some strange metal objects are fluttering down over the plant!"
    "I see ’em."
    The objects had begun to reach the ground. Bud scooped one up and brought it to Tom. Tom examined it closely.
    "What the dickens is it?" Bud asked, mystified.
    "Seems to be made of stiffened aluminum foil. But don’t ask me what