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thin cord to a ring protruding from the top of the platform, wrapping the other end one turn about his waist, just above his swim trunks, and knotting it in place. Rainbow colored plastic pennants hung down from the cord, twitching in the steady breeze.
    Sandy and Bashalli clapped appreciatively, but Tom rose to his feet, looking worried. "Bud, we don’t know how stable it’s going to be out here in—"
    "Let’s not quibble, Professor Swift," interrupted Bud. "Just watch the demonstration. This is all for science."
    Tom sat down again. He knew his pal, a California native, was an excellent surfer who frequently flew to the Atlantic coast to keep up his skills. But he couldn’t help wondering if the test platform would make a suitable sky-surfboard.
    Warning the girls about the noise, Bud positioned himself at the middle of the platform and switched on the power. The sand beneath seemed to deaden the sound somewhat. In moments the Drumhawk, cyclocyls gleaming in the sun and pennants fluttering, began a sluggish rise.
    "The daring young man on the flying ironing board!" Sandy cheered with a giggle.
    Bud waved, shifting his weight to keep balance. "Five feet up!—you guys look like ants."
    Suddenly a strange tone wavered through the background noise of the Drumhawk. "Bring ’er down, Bud!" Tom called.
    "Getting some vibration," Bud yelled back. "So what do we do? We rise above it!" He poured on the power, which was supplied by a bank of lightweight Swift solar micro-batteries built into the underside of the platform. The Drumhawk bobbed upward—six feet, eight feet, ten feet. Tom shouted with alarm as his pal passed the fifteen-foot mark, blithely heading on toward twenty!
    "Come down!" demanded Tom. He could see that the platform was beginning to sway, which Bud evidently took as a challenge to his prowess as a surfer.
    "I know what I’m doing, skipper! Don’t you want a thorough—"
    Bud’s boast went unfinished, merging into a yelp of surprise. The flying board abruptly surged upward and forward. To stay on, Bud dropped to his knees and grabbed the edges of the platform. But it was starting to tilt, and began shaking and twisting like a dog whipping water from its fur.
    Bud’s hands slipped. In an instant he would be pitched off—and he now was as high as the roof of a three-story building!
    "Bud!" Sandy screamed.

CHAPTER 5
DISTRESS SIGNAL
    BUD TUMBLED off the flying platform, which suddenly began to whirl like a crazed compass needle. The cord around the youth’s waist pulled taut—and snapped. In an instant he had belly-flopped into the shallow lake waters a dozen yards from the shoreline. Afraid that his friend might have been hurt by the wallop, Tom splashed into the gentle waves at top speed.
    But Bud Barclay had sustained greater injury to his pride than his athletic body. "Good grief!" he choked, staggering to his feet in water that came up to mid-stomach. "Genius boy, I don’t recommend marketing your prototype as a diving board!"
    Seeing that Bud was in good shape after his ungainly fall, Tom broke out laughing. "I’ll have to have ‘use only as directed’ printed on the side! By the way, pal—"
    "What?"
    "You might want to find your trunks before you come in."
    Bud nodded, reddening slightly. "Around my knees." He waved jauntily toward the beach. "Hey there, girls, how ya doin’?" Struck by a sudden thought, his head whipped skyward. "Tom! The Drumhawk is flying around up there out of control!"
    "Don’t worry," Tom replied, still chuckling. "When the board sensed that contact had been broken, it started to power down automatically. It’s floating in the lake."
    Back on shore the girls had a few gleeful digs to make at Bud’s expense, but the young pilot took it all with sheepish dignity. "This is what science is like, folks," he said. "We learn through failure. Right, Tom?"
    "Absolutely!" agreed the young inventor with a broad grin.
    "And what exactly did you learn from this episode?" Bashalli