"What do you mean, a total loss?" Bud argued. "Even if the recovery
operation's a flop, the shot will still pay off in valuable information,
won't it?"
Tom shook his head grimly. "The purpose of this unmanned, exploratory
flight around Jupiter was to take and record all kinds of data. But none
of the info is being radioed back to us."
"How come?"
"If we had put in radio gear strong enough to relay signals back, it
would have cut down the amount of information-gathering equipment
aboard," Tom explained. "We had to make every ounce count."
Outwardly calm, Tom was seething with inner excitement. Although only
eighteen--the same age as his husky, dark-haired pal and copilot, Bud
Barclay--Tom had been given the job of directing the recovery phase of
the United States government's Project Jupiter survey. The Swifts and
their rocket research staff had built the missile and engineered the
space probe for the government.
"Whew!" Bud gave a nervous whistle. "I see what you mean, pal. With all
our eggs in one basket, we sure can't afford to get butter-fingered with
the Jupiter prober."
Admiral Walter, a tall, distinguished man, graying at the temples,
smiled. "It's what we call in warfare a calculated risk, Bud," he said.
"But with Tom in charge, I believe we have nothing to worry about.
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