IRATE MISSILE

Tense, excited men gazed spaceward from the ships and planes of the
South Atlantic task force. Other watchers waited breathlessly in the
control room of the ship _Recoverer_. Among these was Tom Swift Jr.

"How close to earth is our Jupiter probe missile?" Bud Barclay asked Tom
excitedly.

The lanky blond youth beside him, in T shirt and slacks, shot a glance
at the dials of the tracking equipment. "Eight thousand miles from this
spot, Bud. It should land here in fifteen minutes!"

Tom Jr., his father, Bud, and a host of scientists, Navy officers, and
newsmen were crowded aboard a U.S. Navy missile launching ship.

"Just think!" Bud exulted. "You'll have data from the planet Jupiter
that no one on earth has yet been able to get!"

"_If_ we recover the missile safely," Mr. Swift spoke up hopefully. The
elder scientist's voice was quiet but taut with the strain of waiting.
The two Swifts resembled each other closely--each had deep-set blue eyes
and clean-cut features--although Tom was somewhat taller and rangier.

"You're right, Dad," Tom agreed. "If we don't snare the missile, our
whole project will be a total loss to America's space program!"

At Tom's words, the watchers and crewmen who were crowded into the
_Recoverer_'s control room stirred restlessly. Its bulkheads were banked
with radar and telemetering devices. Tension had been mounting
throughout the morning aboard the ships and observation planes of the
task force as everyone awaited the return of the planet-circling
missile--scientists' deepest penetration into space so far.

"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