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Hartson Brant's hair had needed only trimming, not complete cutting, so he was finished in a short time. The barber shook out his cloth, then put it back on for the finishing touches. Rick glanced up as the barber spoke. "Your hair's pretty dry, sir, and I have an excellent treatment here. I'd like to give you one. It would make your hair look better, and make it easier to handle."
"Of course not," Hartson Brant said. "I think it's a sensible precaution, especially with one member of the team remaining in Washington." "What's a scrambler?" Barby asked. "A special device that turns phone conversations into jumbled gibberish so no one can understand them. You talk normally, and sound normal to the person listening.
But what is of greater importance for the moment, your organization knows me. I suspect it was for that reason Hartson Brant selected me for you to consult." He gestured to the phone. "You will want to call your office. My records are in New York." Dodd's face expressed his relief. "I was a little nervous," he admitted.
The problem is simply, what is the ailment that has stricken three of us, and what is its cause?" Hartson Brant tamped tobacco into his pipe thoughtfully. "Let us see what we know. First of all, two team members were stricken in Washington, within a short time of each other. They were examined by competent specialists who arrived at no conclusion.
However, a detailed laboratory investigation disclosed no trace of chemicals in the patients, apart from chemicals that were expected, of course." "Could there be chemicals that left no trace?" Scotty asked. Hartson Brant shook his head. "No one can claim total knowledge of body chemistry, obviously.
Rick almost wished he had asked permission to accompany Winston, but there was more to be said here, too. "The evidence is not conclusive," Hartson Brant summed up, "but it is certainly strong enough to warrant a clear assumption: we have an enemy who, by unknown means, can inflict brain damage." "All right. Now for some loose ends." Steve looked at the boys.
He had seen his father face great physical danger without losing a bit of his composure. But the insidious weapon that could read all reason out of minds was far more horrible to a man like Hartson Brant than any physical danger could be. Bullets, knives, and clubs may leave bad wounds, or they may kill. But what chance is there for anyone with a damaged brain?
Now, some twenty miles south of Annapolis, the boys were nearing Steve's summer cottage. Rick's parents, with Barby and Jan, were now on their way to Wallops Island rocket range operated by the National Aeronautics and Space Administration. Hartson Brant had business there in connection with instruments the Spindrift group of scientists had designed for measuring solar X rays.
"Dad, don't you have a professional friend in Newark? The teletype machine just went haywire for the third time and I need help." Hartson Brant muttered, "Good Lord! Yes, Rick. I have a mechanic friend who is ideally suited for the purpose. Constantine Chavez. Look him up in the professional part of the phone directory. I'll phone him and say you're bringing the machine." "Good, Dad.
"But isn't a million bucks worth a few weeks of effort?" Rick's famous father, Hartson Brant, walked into the library in time to hear the last comment. His eyebrows went up. "What's all this megabuck talk?" That was a new word to Barby. "What talk?" "In the metric system, 'meg' means million. So a megabuck is a million bucks, if you'll pardon the slang." "Oh well Rick is going to win a megabuck."
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