"Attempted aerial piracy, eh?" the commandant said when he heard the boys' story. Turning to the prisoners, he snapped, "Who are you, and what's the meaning of all this?" The crew captain, a hard-looking, stockily built man of about forty-five, rasped back, "We have nothing to say." The commandant wasted no words. "Search them," he told the MP's. Their wallets and various other items revealed little. The crew captain was carrying a private pilot's license on which he was identified as "Jack Smith." The names of the others, as shown on identification papers of one kind or another, sounded equally false. "Probably all forged," the commandant muttered, "but we'll check them out." He tried again to glean something from the prisoners, but they replied with sneering evasions. The commandant reddened with anger at their stubbornness. "All right. Take them to the guardhouse," he ordered. As the MP's marched the hijackers off, Tom asked how their case would be handled. "The crime is a federal offense," the commandant explained. "Air Force Intelligence will co-operate on the case, but the prisoners will be turned over to a federal marshal." Tom briefed him on the background of the situation, including the Jupiter-probing missile mystery, then asked, "Could those men be transferred to the Shopton jail for the time being so our own security setup can take a hand in the investigation?" The commandant nodded. "I'll arrange it." As the boys flew back to Enterprises, Bud threw Tom a quizzical glance. "How come you mentioned the Jupiter prober, skipper? Do you think those hijackers were after information?" Tom shrugged. "I'm wondering myself, Bud. If they were, it could mean our enemy hasn't found it yet!" When they arrived at the experimental station, Tom made a full report to Harlan Ames, the slim, dark-haired security chief. Ames listened thoughtfully but was as baffled as Tom. "Are the men Americans?" he asked. "I doubt it," Tom said. "They speak English well enough, but with a faint accent. Somehow, I have a hunch they're Brungarians." Ames whistled. "That could spell trouble, skipper." More than once, Brungarian rebel agents had engaged in brazen plots against America and the Swifts. "Let's hope I'm wrong," Tom said wryly. "Art Wiltessa--and the Navy--called again," Ames added. "Still no luck on the missile search." The gloomy news did nothing to lift Tom's spirits. The next day, hoping to verify or disprove his suspicion, he drove to Shopton Police Headquarters with Harlan Ames. The two talked briefly with Chief Slater, an old friend. Then a turnkey took them to the cell block. The four prisoners had been confined in a single large cell. They seemed tense and angry--as if they had been quarreling among themselves. "Ready to talk yet?" Ames asked. Getting no reply, he repeated the question in Brungarian. Ames's ruse failed. "What language is that?" asked "Captain Smith" mockingly. "Pig Latin?"