“There are six or seven such problems,” he said. “First, we must have a radio receiver which will provide super-selectivity—a receiver which will enable the Operator to select any station he wants to hear, whether or not local stations are operating. Such selectivity must go to the theoretical limits of the science. Here”—pointing to a litter on a work bench which was only a meaningless jumble to the flyer—“is a pretty close approach, or it soon will be,” he corrected himself, “to what I want. It will be a super-sensitive receiver, giving volume from distant stations as well as selectivity.”
Here and there he went about the shack, taking up or lying down pieces of apparatus, and keeping up a running fire of comment which made the flyer’s head swim.
He was working, he said, on the problem of achieving a “non-radiating” receiver—one, which, no matter how handled, wouldn’t interfere with a neighbor’s enjoyment. He was trying to improve the complicated Super-Heterodyne in sensitiveness and selectivity, so that anybody could have access to its wonders, regardless of whether he possessed any engineering skill.
And at that point, Captain Cornell groaning humorously clapped his hand to his head and staggered toward the door.
“Great Scott, Mr. Hampton,” he appealed, “call him off, will you? I didn’t know there was so much to radio. I’m willing to believe your son’s the greatest radio engineer in the world, but tell him to have a heart. Understanding about airplanes is as far as my feeble intelligence will carry me. I can’t cram radio into it, too.”
The Hamptons both laughed, and followed him outside. There, with a look at the sky, Captain Cornell gave a sudden startled exclamation.
“I’ll have to be getting along,” he said. “Just enough daylight going to be left for me to get to Laredo. Besides, I don’t like that look in the South. One of these desert siroccos playing away off there somewhere. And who knows when it may take a notion to come wandering up here? Will you folks help me get away?”
CHAPTER III.
DON FERDINAND DISAPPEARS.
Tom Bodine had seen them start across the field, and by the time they reached the side of the big De Haviland used by the Border Patrol flyer, the motors were gently idling. Tom, clambering out of the cockpit announced proudly that everything was ship-shape.
Captain Cornell’s face beamed as he took his place in the front cockpit. This was real service. He liked Tom, good man. He liked these Hamptons, too. His practiced eye ran over the dials in front of him, noting that air pressure, temperature, and oil pressure were correct. The big bomber breathing fire from its exhaust pipes as it strained against the wheel blocks was like a great bird eager to take the air.